Bias Campus の短編小説 & 小説

On the day of the SAT exam, my girlfriend’s childhood friend, Benedict Casper, forgot his admission ticket at home. She insisted on retrieving it for him, but I begged her not to go. In the end, Benedict missed his final chance for taking the exam and, overwhelmed by despair, he jumped to his death. Years later, my girlfriend, Ella Simpson, and I graduated from Whitmore Institute of Technology, landed high-paying jobs, and built a picture-perfect marriage. But on the anniversary of Benedict’s death, she stabbed me repeatedly, her voice trembling with rage, “You killed him. If I’d gotten his admission ticket, he would’ve never jumped.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of the exams. Ella’s frantic voice rang in my ears, “I have to go back, Dominic. I need to get Benedict’s ticket!” This time, I smiled and said, “Go ahead. Be careful on the way.”

My boyfriend Noah Carter and I had a plan: turn our college's fourteen-day outdoor orientation into a fourteen-episode documentary series about us. For the eleventh time, Noah left me alone on the training field. His childhood friend Claire Moore had called him in tears, saying she'd been vomiting and was lying in the camp clinic alone and scared. Waiting for him to come back, I missed the camp's only sunset team drill and the closing long take I'd spent two weeks preparing. That evening, he sent me a photo. Claire sat in a dessert shop outside camp, a smoothie and a slice of strawberry cake in front of her, cheeks pink and looking happier than anyone else in the place. Noah texted back: "The nurse said it's just stomach cramps. Relaxing will help her recover faster. I took her out for some air. Don't overthink it." Before, I would have asked when he was coming back. This time, I crossed "Couples Finale" off the Day Fourteen script and replaced it with two words. "Just me." The next day, he came rushing over to tell me Claire had a fever. I set up the camera for a solo shot without even looking up. "Noah, you don't have to report to me every time. From now on, where you go and who you choose to be with have nothing to do with me." He finally panicked. What he didn't know was that that night, I hadn't just canceled our orientation series. I'd scrapped every plan I'd ever made for a life with him.

During freshman boot camp, my roommate covered herself from head to toe in her homemade sunscreen every day. It made her skin fair and soft, and made her smell so sweet that she drew the attention of countless young men. Even my rich boyfriend led the campaign to crown her campus beauty queen. But only I knew the fragrance she added to her sunscreen was toxic. It would make her skin rot if she used it for a long time. I said nothing. Instead, I quietly applied to switch dorms. In my last life, I had warned her out of kindness. She cried in front of everyone and said I was trying to isolate her. All the young men called me jealous. My boyfriend broke up with me in anger, then pursued her instead. It didn't take long for my roommate's skin to really start rotting, and I rushed to apply the salve made from an old family recipe. The wounds healed, but her skin turned dark and rough. She went from campus beauty queen to campus joke overnight. My boyfriend dumped her, and the other young men avoided her like the plague. She blamed everything on my jealousy. On the day she was forced to withdraw from university, she tied me up on the top floor of a university building. Then she poured a bucket of sulfuric acid over my head. "It's all because of your accursed salve that everyone's laughing at me! You ruined my chance to marry into a rich family!" I died from the torment. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the first day of my university's freshman boot camp.

Every student and teacher at my school called me the dumb blonde. I touched up my makeup at morning assembly, refused to wear a wrinkled skirt, and never carried a textbook in my bag. I even brought a compact to the Academic Champions Invitational. Minerva Blake, the captain of our academic team, couldn't stand me. She called me a blonde with a great body and nothing upstairs. "Out of everyone in this school, why did it have to be you?" I shrugged off the laughter from Minerva and the competitors from the elite private school, Rockford Academy. I watched myself in the mirror as I tied up my long curls. I already had a plan. If our high school lost to Rockford again, we'd lose the foundation's funding. The school would go bankrupt and shut down, leaving us all without a school. In the final round, Rockford answered the first four questions before we could. My three teammates were getting crushed. Even Minerva, our supposed genius, couldn't keep up with the other team. With 50 seconds left, our principal was on his feet pacing, and the teachers were praying for a miracle. Rockford's headmaster laughed out loud. "They picked someone who's just a pretty face. Is she going to do a cheer routine for us when this is over?" I ignored the laughter, picked up the response pad, and started answering. Six questions in 20 seconds. Six chimes rang out, one for each correct answer, and the scoreboard went wild. I had answered every remaining question. Six green lights. I didn't leave a single one for anyone else.

I'm reincarnated a week before the college entrance exam. Despite being the soon-to-be top scorer, I stab my eye with a syringe. In my past life, Marianne Quentin, my boyfriend Lance Russell's childhood friend, reported me for cheating off her during the final mock exam. The teacher compared our papers and found that my essay was identical to hers. He harshly criticized me and warned me not to repeat my mistake. However, Marianne reported me for copying her answers again during the math exam. Once again, my answers were found to be identical to hers. The teacher scolded me for being incorrigible and sent me home to reflect on my actions. I couldn't understand what had happened. Clearly, I'd never cheated, but my answers were nearly identical to Marianne's, whether in writing and language or in math. As the SAT exam loomed over me, I could only suppress my doubts as I stepped into the exam hall. I finished the writing paper and thought I was safe. However, Marianne stepped out and accused me of cheating again. I tried to defend myself, yet the answers on my paper were identical to hers. In the end, I was disqualified, kicked out of the exam hall, and banned from taking any exams in the next two years—just because I "cheated". I succumbed to despair and leaped from the rooftop. When I open my eyes again, I'm back to one week before the SAT.

During my senior year of college, I started dating Leo Whitman online. He was the hottest guy on campus. All through winter break, he texted me every day. He kept me company while I took my grandmother to her pre-op appointments. One night, at two in the morning, he even promised that when we got back to Boston, he'd make up for all the hugs we'd missed. Then the new semester started, and we finally met at the student center. The moment Leo saw me, his face fell. He pulled out his phone, showed me a photo, and said there had been a mix-up. He'd added the wrong girl on Instagram. The girl he had a crush on was my roommate, Vivian Blake. Back in December, Leo had spotted Vivian at the school's winter charity gala and snapped a photo of her from the side. He posted it in his fraternity group chat and offered $10,000 to whoever could introduce them. Except his roommate had sent him my Instagram handle by mistake. And just like that, I understood how I'd spent two months in a relationship that had never really been mine. Leo sat by the window without saying a word. After a long silence, he slid a signed check across the table. "We're done here. But I need you to help me win Vivian over. Write in whatever amount you want."

Timothy Holt was someone my family sponsored. He was extraordinarily gifted in mathematics, winning an international gold medal at just 17. Yet for the prom queen's sake, he was willing to give up his chance to further his studies abroad I couldn't bear to watch someone with such a brilliant future ruin his own prospects, so I handed the girl a check and sent her overseas. Later, Timothy achieved both fame and fortune. However, when my family fell into hardship, he kicked us while we were down. An accident followed, and we both died. Before his death, he said to me: if he could start over, he hoped I would show mercy and stop interfering in his life. Thus, just as he wished, in this lifetime, I chose to stay out of his business.

After the SAT scores were released, Sean White threw a lavish graduation party. He was the most popular guy at school and had been on financial aid. That night, I got a text saying my credit card had been maxed out. I went to confront Sean. Instead, I found him standing next to my girlfriend, Janine Slater, looking like he was about to cry. "Just because I'm on financial aid, does that mean I can't hold a graduation party?" he asked. Janine rushed to comfort him, then turned on me. "Your family has plenty of money. Spending a little on Sean isn't going to hurt you," she said. Sure, my family was wealthy, but that didn't make me a charity case. Why should I pay for him? I refused to back down and called the police to get my money back. However, Janine retaliated by sabotaging my family's company, pushing it to the brink of bankruptcy. While I was on my way to meet with investors, Janine and Sean plotted together and ran me over. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of Sean's graduation party.

My girlfriend, Camille Chaney, gets pregnant right before the college entrance exam starts. In my previous life, I gave up on my college entrance exam and married Camille. We had a son together. Life might be nitty-gritty, but it was still rather fulfilling for me. When I was on my deathbed, Camille and her first love, Howard Salter, dropped by to visit me. "Thank you for raising our son for more than 20 years. Now, you may die in peace." Camille pulled the plug on my life support at that moment. She watched as I slowly suffocated to death. When I open my eyes again, I find out that I've returned to the timeframe when the college entrance exam is about to take place. This time, I slam the door shut in Camille's face when I hear her asking me to take responsibility for her pregnancy. "Go find someone else to play house with you. I'm not interested in becoming a father at all."

On the day we were supposed to leave for our graduation trip to the Cloudspire Plateau, my girlfriend dropped off the face of the earth. While I waited at Bellwarren International Airport, my roommate sent me a strangely loaded message. "Elliot, don't panic. There's a big surprise coming." I felt relieved. I assumed Naomi was running late because she was getting dressed up. She'd always promised that the day we graduated, she'd put on a wedding gown and marry me. Then our class representative dropped a cash giveaway into the group chat. @Everyone: "Thanks to every student and faculty member here to witness Naomi Keller and Derek Vaughn's engagement! Three years together, and they finally made it official!" It was cleaned out in seconds. One classmate after another posted congratulations. Then somebody finally put it together and wrote, "Holy hell, Owen. Did you forget to take Elliot out of this group?" The chat went dead silent. A second later, all of them started tagging me. "Elliot, don't come down here and make a scene. They've been together in secret for three years. It wasn't easy getting to this day." "You're so controlling that Derek couldn't show his face for three years. He's been through enough." Even our faculty adviser piled on. "Do it as a favor to me. You're a man, so be the bigger person. Don't ruin their night. Let them keep some dignity." Their messages closed in around me until I couldn't breathe, let alone ask a single question. The promise that was supposed to carry us from school uniforms to a wedding gown wasn't the only lie. Every part of those four years had been one.

My mother despised me because I was the unintended consequence of a one-night stand. She poured all her love and attention into her students, treating them as if they were her own flesh and blood. One day, when her favourite pupil confessed his feelings for me, she flew into a rage. She slapped me hard across the face and called me a whore. Years later, as Alzheimer's clouded her mind, she forgot I even existed, yet still remembered every single one of her precious students. The irony was that not one of them ever came to visit her in the nursing home. They all loathed her just as much as I did.

Seventy-two hours before the graduate school recommendation list was posted, someone stole Wesley North's research data. He stared at the empty folder on his screen, his fingertips going cold. Eight months of work—more than two hundred pages of charts and twelve rounds of empirical analysis—gone. Wesley checked the security footage. The files had been copied by Natalie Rowan, his childhood friend of eighteen years, and handed to Derek Sloan, the classmate everyone believed was struggling to get by. In that moment, Wesley didn't think about his own future. He thought about his grandmother. Her doctors had declared her critical eight times, and she was hanging on just to hear whether he'd made the list.

I had worshipped my older sister, Sophie Lane, ever since I was little. Growing up, my greatest happiness was serving her drinks, carrying her bags, and picking up her meals. After Sophie was accepted into Central University, I immediately got my SAT and skipped a grade so I could get into the same university. On the day Sophie moved into the university, she entered the dorm room with eight bodyguards. Our roommates call her "The One Queen!" Meanwhile, I was making her bed. Only Viola Lynch gave me a knowing look and teased me. "You aren't her roommate at all, are you? You're clearly her personal maid." I merely smiled without answering. That day, Sophie casually tossed me the new Chanel purse she had bought. "This color suits you. Use it." When I took the purse with a grin, Viola happened to walk past the doorway. The weekend Sophie went abroad on vacation, Viola and I were the only ones left in the dorm. "Eve, do you know what everyone in class calls you behind your back? Sophie's pet." The next day, my boyfriend Aaron Sanders, the campus heartthrob, asked me to meet him at the track field. Viola stood beside him with red eyes. When he saw me, he frowned deeply. "Eve, can you stop being so pathetic? You became someone's pet over a single purse? Viola's family might be poor but even she has more dignity than you." Viola tugged at his sleeve and whispered. "Aaron, don't say that about her. I'm not worth it." I looked at them holding hands and suddenly chuckled. Wait. For real. Had no one noticed that Sophie and I shared the same last name?

Ayanna Cambor, the crush of my childhood friend, Dorian Harmon, makes fun of me for being a mute. She purposefully pours melted dark chocolate into my thermos. Then, she howls at the top of her lungs. "As a mute, you can't complain even when you swallow something bitter." Later on, Ayanna takes advantage of the situation by forcing me to stick my tongue out. She insists on making me show everyone whether or not a mute's tongue is different from a regular person's tongue. I look at Dorian instinctively. After all, he has promised me that as long as he's around, he won't let anyone bully me. But he merely shoots me a cold glance. "Just stick your tongue out and show it to Ayanna. It's not anything major to cry over." I can only hold my tears back as I quietly conceal the school transfer application that I've just received. It's true that transferring schools is no big deal. In that case, there's no need for Dorian to know about it.

I got into an elite college with my boyfriend, Philip Jewitt—and tossed my acceptance letter in the trash. His mom was dying. He stood in front of me, eyes red. "Stella, she doesn't have time... If she finds out I dropped out to pay for her treatment, it'll destroy her. Please. Help me. I swear I'll treat you right for the rest of my life." Philip got four perfect years on campus. I scraped by, working three jobs. I paid his tuition. Covered his mom's bills. After graduation, he needed startup money. I convinced my parents to mortgage our house. When his company went public, he proposed in front of everyone. I thought all those years finally meant something. But then he heard his one-sided love, Winnie Schell, died in a car crash. He got drunk and shoved me to the floor. "Why wasn't it you? If I didn't feel guilty about you, I would've married her." I clutched my stomach, pregnant, begging through tears. He sneered. "You owe Winnie everything. You really think you deserve my kid?" Then he kicked me—hard—right in the stomach. Pain ripped through me. Blood pooled between my legs. My vision went dark. When I opened my eyes again, I was back—one hour before the college application deadline.

On graduation photo day, my boyfriend, Ethan Jones, takes more than 200 photos of Chloe Lloyd, the prettiest girl in our class. As president of the photography club, he knows better than anyone how to find the most flattering angles. Chloe stands beneath a tree and smiles at him. "Are you sure this isn't too much trouble?" Ethan looks down and flips through the photos on his camera. "Not at all. You look good no matter how I photograph you," he says gently. When my turn comes, I clutch the hem of my skirt and walk over. Ethan casually presses the shutter twice. "Done." I stare at him. "That's it?" He frowns at me. "You never look good in pictures anyway. Don't hold everyone else up." I look at the two photos on his camera. My eyes are closed in one, and half my face is hidden in the tree's shadow in the other. I ask him to take a few more, but instead, he puts up a post on the campus forum. "Photographer wanted. 20 dollars to snap a few graduation photos of my girlfriend." Half an hour later, I receive a private message from an unfamiliar profile. I send over my location, then say quietly, "Just so you know, I'm not photogenic." The reply comes almost immediately. "Your photographer didn't know how to work with you." After the shoot, he sends me the unedited photos. I'm stunned when I see the photos. I never knew I could look this good on camera. Even crazier, the photographer who took the job for 20 dollars seems to know what he's doing better than the president of the photography club.

During a group assignment, I'm trying to speak up with my ideas. My boyfriend and our childhood friend are flipping through sheet music, heads down, deep in a heated discussion about ensemble pieces. Halfway through, they finally notice I'm still standing beside them. Reid Sullivan and Aria Merrill glance at the sheet music in my hands and look at me like they don't know what to do with me. "Your fundamentals are way too weak for the ensemble, so don't even bother. Just toss that scrap paper." "Yeah, and you've got such a great eye anyway. Just stick to taking our photos and editing our videos." I grip the sheet music I've spent all night writing while fighting back tears. The three of us are childhood friends. They love music and never run out of things to talk about. I love art, can't carry a tune, and can never get a word in. So, everything I put in just gets brushed off as scrap paper. After class, they fall into step together and head for the practice room without even noticing I'm not trailing behind them like I always do. I crouch in the hallway, staring at nothing. If they don't see any value in me, then I should just leave. So, I wipe my tears and stand up. After tossing the sheet music into the trash, I dial a number. "Cedric, is what you said before still on the table? "I've made up my mind. I'm transferring to the art school and studying abroad."

During an elective class, the campus belle, Jemima Ford, who is our senior, describes her ideal type with everyone egging her on. She says, "My future husband has to be at least six feet two inches tall. His parents must be college professors, and his grades should be top three in his major…" The room buzzes with teasing chatter and gossip. At the same time, I snap up my head in surprise. Why does Jemima's description of her ideal type sound like my boyfriend, Elijah Sanders? The next second, the professor standing by the podium smiles obsequiously and says, "Very well said. If Eli hears this, he'll definitely be very happy! Later, the two of you can meet. That way, he won't get tricked by some naive girl into going abroad." Amid the burst of laughter from the class, I lower my eyes and look at the message my parents sent me. It reads, "Sweetheart, are you really going abroad with your boyfriend? There'll be no one left to inherit our company with you gone."

I suffered from a skin condition. I scratched myself in the library, and millions of netizens spammed my private inbox. Only then did I find out that a girl accused me of harassing her. I took out my diagnostic report to defend my innocence, but the girl cried pitifully. “You really know how to make an excuse for yourself! How could someone innocent like me frame you?” Even my elder brother spoke up for her! “Why would she frame you of all people? Can’t you take a look at yourself?” I could not bear the cyberbullying, and I died from a sudden heart attack the day before the court hearing. My grandfather could not accept my death, and he collapsed into a coma. My parents cut off ties with my brother before they committed suicide at home. Meanwhile, the girl did not just successfully make her way into graduate school, but she also dug open my grave and used my ashes to make fireworks. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day when she had asked me to reserve a seat in the library.

My stomach cramped with pain. Lisa Witherspoon said she'd go buy me some hot milk, but she came back with a room-temperature one instead. When I asked her about it, she brushed it off. "I ran into Freddy on the way. He said he wanted something hot, so I gave it to him. Room temperature's basically the same anyway." Standing in the cold November wind, I thought about the past three years, every single time Lisa had chosen Freddy Bateman over me, and I suddenly felt like none of it meant anything anymore. I heard my own voice, perfectly calm, saying, "Let's break up." She looked at me like it was a joke. "So which of my social media accounts are you going to block this time?" What she didn't know was that before I ever said the word breakup, I'd already applied to a top university, Monarch University. This time, I was really leaving.