Chapter 2- Questions or Humiliatons?

Maya’s POV

“Who the fuck turned on the light?” I squinted trying to adjust to the now bright living room.

“Someone who has a life to live.”

Of course it’s her.

I’m far from a morning person and I might actually bitch on her if she gets on my nerves this morning.

My eyes finally adjust to the lighting and I see that she’s fully dressed. Her shirt is ironed crisp, her hair is put up in a very sleek bun and her make-up highlights her blue eyes.

“Why are you dressed this early?”

“Why are you speaking so casually to me?” She walks up to my makeshift sleeping space.

I roll my eyes, trying to adjust myself back to sleep.

“Don’t be late to my class Sloane.” My eyes shot open before I could register what she just said her heels were already clacking away.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I throw myself off the couch and reach for my phone.

“8:00am” I run a hand through my hair and rush to the bathroom.

I had exactly 30mins before her class and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t making it.

Brush, bath, hair, chapstick…

“Clothes! Clothes!” At this point I’m a total mess.

I threw on some baggy jeans, a tank top and my backpack was pre packed so I just hung it and sprinted out of the apartment.

“Shit I forgot to arrange the living room!” I looked at my phone…

“Fucking hell my phone!” I ran back to the apartment, grabbed it and ran as fast as I could to the uni block which is quite the distance . Waiting for the bus wasn't an option, not today.

8:27am.

I should be getting an award for this. Where is the Guinness book of records when I need them?

I had 3 minutes spare and I could finally catch a breath.

I walked into my class, it was surprisingly empty. They’ve probably forgotten the tyrant we have for a lecturer this semester or they just don’t know she’s taking us.

I took the corner and reserved one beside me for my best friend Kaya.

Funny right? Maya and Kaya.

You’d think that we’re twins.

“You look like you went through a washing machine.”

“Good morning to you Kaya.”

I was about to start briefing her about my dilemma when a vanilla perfume hit my nose accompanied with the sound of clicking heels.

And collectively the class groaned.

“I do not know what that was for but as you all know my name is Ms Diana Thorne and under no circumstance should you address me by my first name. It’s Ms Thorne to everyone.”

You could hear a pin drop with how silent the class was.

“And I presume some of you are actually smarter than expected.” She shoots me a quick glare.

“This semester we’d be doing creative writing and when we say creative writing we aren’t talking about those low grade stuff you kids read nowadays.”

“Is she calling us kids? Some of us are older than her.” Kaya whispers.

“Do you know her real age?” I ask because I was curious, she actually doesn’t seem that old.

“You have something to share with the class Miss Sloane?”

Oh fuck me.

“No ma’am.”

“Good now tell me, what do you think is creative writing and how the uprising of low grade reading apps is actively killing creativity.”

I paused was this bitch fucking with me right now?

“Stand up when answering me.”

I slowly stood up , still trying to process what the hell was happening. Kaya was practically vibrating beside me, trying not to laugh after getting me into this mess.

I folded my arms.

"I think creative writing is about telling stories that make people feel something. Whether it's in a classic novel or on one of those reading apps you clearly don't like."

A few heads turned toward me.

"I don't think apps are killing creativity. They're just making stories more accessible. Sure, there are badly written books, but there are badly written books in print too. Readers decide what's worth reading."

The room fell silent.

Ms. Thorne regarded me for a long moment, expression unreadable.

Then she smiled.

It wasn't a kind smile.

"Finished?"

"...Yes."

"Marvelous."

She clasped her hands behind her back and began pacing slowly across the front of the room.

"Miss Sloane has just demonstrated something fascinating."

"You answered a question I never asked."

A few students shifted uncomfortably.

"I did not ask whether digital platforms have benefits. I asked what creative writing is, and how the rise of low-grade reading applications is affecting creativity."

She stopped directly in front of my desk.

"Instead of defining your terms, you substituted an opinion. Instead of presenting an argument, you defended a platform. And instead of supporting your position with evidence, you relied on vague generalizations like 'stories that make people feel something.'"

Heat crept up my neck and she wasn’t done

"By your definition, a sentimental advertisement qualifies as creative writing."

A couple of students snorted.

"And saying, 'Readers decide what's worth reading,' is not an argument. It is an observation so painfully obvious that it contributes absolutely nothing to the discussion."

More laughter.

My jaw tightened and Ms. Thorne continued as if she hadn't noticed.

"You also committed the wonderfully common mistake of assuming criticism of a medium is criticism of everyone who consumes it."

She tilted her head.

"Did I say every novel on those platforms lacks merit?"

I stayed quiet.

"No. You inferred it because it was easier to argue against an exaggerated version of my statement than the statement itself."

She turned away from me, addressing the class.

"This, ladies and gentlemen, is called a straw man argument."

She looked back at me.

"University students should know better."

The words landed like a slap.

"You seem articulate, Miss Sloane. Unfortunately, articulation without precision is little more than confidence dressed in expensive clothing."

The classroom had gone deathly silent.

"I expect better than recycled internet opinions in my classroom."

She picked up a piece of chalk.

"Sit down."

I did.

"And for your sake," she added without looking at me, "I sincerely hope your writing demonstrates more discipline than your thinking."

The lecture resumed.

I stared at the back of her head.

God.

I already hated this woman.

2 painstaking hours later the bell rang and I was so ready to get out of here.

“Miss Sloane wait behind.”

What a way to ruin my break.

“See you later girl! I’d be with Ryan at the library.” Kaya skipped out of the class.

“Since we’re here, I’d like to say what you did to me wasn’t fair.” Embarrassing me like she had the right to.

“You know you’re here on a scholarship and I know it’s not like your parents can’t afford it but you chose to work for the scholarship” she readjusted her glasses “but I promise you any more disrespect from you in the slightest would make you lose it and get to the administration office get them to see how they can get you out of my space.”

I stood there lost for words.

“You may leave.”

Before a single word could leave my lips, the heavy wooden doors of the lecture hall swung open.

The sharp, arrogant echo of dress shoes clicked against the marble floor.

"There you are, babe," a smooth, sickeningly familiar voice called out.

Blood drained from my face as I turned toward the doorway.

Ethan.

He strolled down the empty aisle, a smirk on his face, completely ignoring the fact that he had just interrupted a private meeting. His eyes slid over to Diana with a look of casual dismissiveness, before he reached out and firmly gripped my waist, pulling me hard against his side.

"Your mom said you weren't answering your phone," Ethan said, his grip tightening as he looked down at me, entirely oblivious to the lethal, dangerous freeze that had just taken over the room. "Come on. We're having lunch with the Dean."

I didn't move. I couldn't.

My gaze flicked back to Diana. The cold lecturer looked away and that was odd.

Any other student wouldn’t have gotten away with it but Ethan just did.