Brevity is the soul of wit
All that we intend is scrawled in sand
Or slips right through our hands
And just knowing
That everything will end
Should not change our plans
When we begin again
I have never known a silence like the one fallen here
Never watched my future darken in a single tear
I know we want this to go easy by being somebody's fault
But we've gone long enough to know this isn't what we want
And that isn't always bad
- All things end by Hozier
Eloise needed someone to physically restrain her everytime she tried making a decision before drinking her morning coffee. She should have spent her morning doing a Theo Sharpe once-over.
It was a secret she would take to the grave, but all throughout the past year before a peer review for any assignment, she would look over her work, imagining her eyes to be Theo’s.
She has only ever read one of his essays, in the beginning of the previous year, and since then refused to go near any of his other submissions even with a ten foot pole, even during peer reviews. She could tell he wrote the piece because he either chose titles so short you’d miss it, or titles so long your mouth hurts by the time you finish reading it out. His casual attempts at effortlessness didn’t fool her. He liked to make a dramatic impression.
However, every time they received exam results he would approach her.
“Bridgerton, can I read your essay?”
After a point, the moment she saw him walk towards her desk, she would wordlessly give him her essay, watching his face struggle to remain blank as he read it. He’d hand it back to her and tell her his opinion she didn’t ask for, and walk away before she could respond, claiming he’d be late for the next class.
This was of course, only when he scored more than her.
When she beats him, he’d stand behind her, his hands deep in his pockets like he didn’t care about anything in the world while she looked at the marks pinned on the softboard. She would relish it when he watched a triumphant grin split across her face.
It still didn’t stop her from prodding at places she knew with unshakable certainty, that he would criticize while she proofread any essay she wrote. Eloise had probably shaved a year of her life, rewriting her essays so all ideas were evenly explored, determined to make it perfect.
His curt feedback was like spikes in a garden, carved out of his stupid loopy cursive handwriting, the only thing that gave Eloise a bigger headache than he did.
Nearly thirty minutes had passed since Theo started reviewing her first chapter. Thirty minutes of hearing “The ideas can be framed in a more concise way.”, when she tried to elaborate and “This requires more detail.”, when she tried to keep it short.
He was altogether too predictable, very much like his ideas of a ‘plot twist’.
“Should we search up what curse words they used in the 1920’s?”, she asked, closing her eyes in annoyance.
“To work on the slang?”, Theo asked.
“No, so I can use one on you.”
She was bent over the story plan, bickering with Theo (who for some idiotic reason, still believed they should put a scene with action and dialogue before a descriptive paragraph even though Professor Danbury called her attention to detail commendable.)
Theo chewed his lip, “Bridgerton, we aren’t getting anywhere. All you have written is pages of inner monologue and huge descriptive passages. I know that comes easily to you but you can’t write a story with description alone—”
“You think it’s easy?”, she snarled, “And that I am taking the easy way out?”
Theo shook his head, “I didn’t say that”
Eloise breathed deeply, massaging her temples.
“How about this? You practice writing descriptive passages. I can practice writing dialogue-”
Theo waved his hand impatiently, his eyebrows scrunched up. Did he ever smile?
“Can’t we play to our strengths?”, he asked. “We’d get it over with faster. I can’t wait to work on my own again.”
“I want to learn how to write dialogue.”, Eloise said stubbornly. She was doing this to learn how to write well, so she could publish her own novel someday. What is an unnecessary challenge to most is a necessary step for her.
“Can’t you learn later?”, he asked.
She leaned close to him, “Maybe it has slipped under your radar that I don’t want you to get credit for your marvellous “ realistic dialogue that breathed life into the characters” while I am stuck with a satisfactory nod for comparing an earring to a star in the sky.”
Theo smirked, “so you think my dialogue writing is marvellous?”
Eloise felt her cheeks heat up, “I wouldn’t go so far.”
He gave her an amused look, “Fine, what’s your idea?”
So, flattery was the way to this bastard’s heart.
“I was thinking we could give it to each other to evaluate.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, his jaw sharp in the light.
“Fine”, he said, “but we are planning first. Your vocabulary is extensive, but no amount of purple prose can make up for good organization. It becomes overwhelming without—”
“Hey”, Eloise couldn’t resist it anymore, “how do you know so much about my writing weaknesses?”
He gave her a look of surprise, “Everyone remembers their first experience of torture, Bridgerton.”
“It’s called an authentic writing style. Try it.”
“Save me a bite. You don’t seem to be using it anyway.”
“Seriously”, she lowered her voice, and moved her head closer to his. His eyes were a soft shade of chocolate brown, even when set against the deep shadows underneath.
“How do you know about my writing?”, she asked.
Theo gave her a look like she had just asked him what came after the letter A, “You know our class is divided into two groups with every assignment right? You’re in the first, and I am in the second.”, he explained this maddeningly slowly, “it is based on our roll numbers, which are according to—”
“Alphabetical order”, Eloise snapped, “I know. Get to the point.”
“During peer review, people in the second group get to pick from a student from the first to review.”, he continued.
“Sharpe, I know how it works. Get on it with it or I swear to God—”
Theo looked at her, “I always pick you.”
Eloise’s words were lodged in her throat.
“Wha—Why?”, she spluttered.
“You’re all about the stupid questions today, Bridgerton”, he said, with a small smile, “I pick what I can learn from. I know what to avoid.”
“But the submissions and reviewers are all anonymous”, Eloise said, aghast, “I never know—”
And then, bits and pieces of reviews she had caught over the years drifted through her, pressed into her memory.
“The student’s analysis of Wuthering Heights brings no new idea to the discourse.”, she recited, looking at him, thunderstruck, “The analysis feels bare-boned and incomplete.”
More flooded into her mind.
“The student’s comparison of Kubla Khan and Rime of the Ancient Mariner isn’t structured with enough clarity to trace the development of thoughts.”, she muttered. The words filed one after the other in her mind.
She felt fury wrap around her, “God, there was always one negative review for everything I submitted.”
“My, my, Bridgerton, I didn’t think my reviews were as worth memorizing as—”
“It was always you.”
He nodded, “I could always recognize your work, anonymous or not. Like I said the other day, only you could sound as obnoxious on paper as you do in real life”
If I am so obnoxious, why don’t you march up to Danbury and demand—"
“Unfortunately, your writing also shows me where I can improve”, he said, “Bridgerton, I assure you, as long winded, painfully pretentious and disorganized your writing is, Danbury will be praising you for more than just a simile.”
Eloise’s voice was barely above a whisper, “Like what?”
He kept his cool gaze fixed on her, “The train of thought had lost its driver. The clouds hung low enough to brush against the puffs of smoke, for there were no clear skies in my mind.”
He was quoting her previous submission. She didn’t even like that line.
He removed a slip of paper from his bag and read,
“The white slice of the crescent moon was like a mark left by a fingernail tearing through the sky. The pink tinges of the sky still held ghostly trails of the Sun’s flame even after it was swallowed by the sea, ribbons of gold and melon dissolving into the ripples of the water like smudges of paint.”
“Should I stop, Bridgerton? These are your words, after all.”
She shook her head. Hearing the lines she had written in his voice felt stranger than imagining him carrying it in his bag. She felt exposed, embarrassed that she even cared about what he thought.
He continued, “The sky grieves the sun after it sets, clinging to memories of its warmth long after they melt away in the darkness.”
She was lost for words, every hair on edge as he leaned closer, his head a breath away from hers. He tossed the paper at her.
”Quality over quantity, Bridgerton. Brevity is the soul of wit. If you make it concise but write like that, the power of your writing won’t be lost in the rambling.”
“Says the guy who just rambled about it.”, she scoffed in what she hoped was a haughty, effortless way
Theo lowered his gaze and scratched his jaw, where she noticed a sport of a light stubble, “Well, I have to get going.”
He had just gotten up when Professor Danbury strode into the library.
“Ms. Bridgerton”, she exclaimed, rolling the R’s as usual, “and Mr. Sharpe!”
“Professor Danbury”, Theo straightened up, “I wanted to ask, when do we submit the final draft of this story?”
“After the first draft is reviewed, you may submit your second draft sometime in April. I’ll give you the date. After your revisions and editing, I’d expect your final submission before the end of May. Now, surely, you aren’t working on this instead of focusing on your exams?”
Shock crashed into Eloise’s stomach, cold as liquid ice.
“E-exams?”, she tried to speak, but her voice was barely a squeak, “You mean, our midterms?”
Danbury raised her eyebrows, “Ms. Bridgerton, I’m surprised at you. The timetable for your upcoming midterm examination was pinned on the softboard outside of your class around two days ago.”
Eloise exchanged a look with Theo, who also looked deeply uncomfortable. She wanted to kick herself. She had been so distracted by this story, she focused on running after Theo after Modern poetry ended, her eyes fixed on the back of his head instead. She had completely forgotten to check for announcements.
“When is it?”, Theo asked, gripping the table.
“It starts in the last week of March and ends around ten days before your easter break. You can work on your story after that.”
“We have barely a week”, Eloise sat bolt upright and glanced at Theo, “Sharpe, did you know about this?”
He shook his head and grimaced, looking pale, “I have been busy.”
“Too busy to keep an eye out for such information?”, Professor Danbury folded her arms and fixed him with a piercing glare, “Not with work, surely. I went by your printer shop last night and didn’t see you.”
Eloise stared at Theo, confused. Theo’s ears flamed red, like they did when he got an answer wrong. A rare occasion, not that she pays attention, of course.
“Uhm, Jonathan sent me home. He closed the shop early.”
“Jonathan Fisher, right? Are you sure?”, Danbury looked at him in shock, “I was there at 9 and he was present. He said he had been there all day.”
The colour drained out of Theo’s face as he stared at her in shock, “I didn’t—He told me to go home at 7:30. I would have—”
Danbury patted his shoulder sympathetically, “It’s alright, Theo. Maybe he wanted you to rest. Don’t take it personally.”
Danbury never called anyone by their first name, but Eloise barely registered that as the Professor walked away.
Theo closed his eyes in annoyance and carded his hand through his hair.
“You work?”, Eloise asked, shocked, “till the night?”
He rolled his eyes, “Yes, Bridgerton, some of us have to do more than just call our parents for money.”
“Shut up”, Eloise slammed her books shut, “I knew you were a scholarship student but I thought it was on merit. I didn’t know you, you…”, she trailed off. She didn’t want to say it.
“You can say it.”, he drawled, “I struggle for money. I am poor. I come from the places you wouldn’t take a step in wearing your expensive shoes, even if my neighbour probably made those shoes for a pound per hour.”
Eloise flinched. She could probably do a whole investigation on discovering what doesn’t offend self righteous Theo Sharpe. Now, that’s a mystery she would read, even if she hurls it at the wall.
“I merely think it’s impressive.”, she said, carefully, “You work for hours and you maintain grades despite your background. I do feel bad for you though. I cannot imagine juggling all that.”
Clearly that had been the wrong thing to say. His face twisted into a sneer. He moved back and the sudden gap between them startled her.
“Of course”, he snarled, “All hail the duchess for her much required pity. The fact that I’m poor is a surprise because of my grades?”
“Sharpe!”, Eloise interjected, her heart hammering in panic, “You know that’s not what I meant. I worded it wrong. I—”
“I am not explaining myself to you and I don’t want your pity.”, he snapped, ignoring the glare Brimsley shot him. Theo stood up and stuffed his things into his bag.
“And for the record”, he said, shouldering his bag, “My scholarship is merit based. And if you must know.”
Theo turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, muttering an apology to Brimsley under his breath.
Eloise pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. She needed to cool off, calm the rising tide of anger within her. She seemed to be operating in slow motion, folding the papers and slipping her books into her bag, one by one. It didn’t matter what she did, or said. She always got it wrong, hurt someone.
It wasn’t her fault, she told herself furiously as she walked inside the classroom for her next lecture, Literary theory. She couldn’t even listen to the thundering footsteps around her. Theo was just being dramatic, playing victim. That’s what people like him do: they jump at every opportunity to vilify others to avoid taking accountability. It was easier to act offended than to understand and explain, or even forgive, even though she couldn’t understand why he was so angry.
People will see only what they wish to see.
As hard as she tried to think about scheduling her study sessions for the upcoming exams, not even the chilling thought that she already lost two days of preparation could drive Sharpe’s angry face out of her mind. He was always curt and sarcastic, and strutted about with the air of an insufferable know-it-all who loved putting people in their place. He had been like that since the day the met, one and a half years ago, in their first year.
Whatever Eloise remembered about her first year of university was against her will. She could hardly recognize herself during the September of 1993, wrapped under layers of anxiety and clothes as she bustled from class to class, books tumbling out of her arms. Eloise had thought everything in her first semester would set the stone for the rest of her university career- every impression, every conclusion she jumped to.
She was honest, loud and eager, her hand hovering in every lecture, bristling at every thorn that tried to burst her bubble.
There was one very specific thorn, that was particularly Sharpe.
Most of her memories of the first year had blurred into a Ferris wheel, spinning too fast for her to focus on any of them. She had felt disoriented, thrust into new experiences, like she was wearing a coat that didn’t fit in a place that was too cold for her to take it off.
Her first encounter with Theo had however been branded into her brain, in full bursting colour.
In the first two weeks of class, Theo was just a student who’d come to class a little late, with a tattered bag slung over his shoulder. He’d give the Professor a nod and sit in the back with his friends, Dev Menon and Preston Thomas. Thero’d occasionally raise his hand, too far away for Eloise to hear his point. He’d speak so softly the professor would go close to his seat.
Theo didn’t plant himself on her radar until they received their first assignment for their British Literature module: an essay submission. They had to write their opinions about any novel from the syllabus (Emma, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Tale of Two Cities and 1984). Eloise picked Jane Austen’s Emma, one of her favourite novels. She was the only one in class to write more than 1000 words. She quoted the novel multiple times and provided an in depth analysis of the character and representation of Victorian society to prove why it carried all the qualities of an enjoyable story writers should look up to.
Eloise could still remember the ringing in her ears when Sharpe had burst into class fifteen minutes late, holding his crumpled essay in his hand. He leaned against the doorway, his bag sliding off his shoulder. His chest was heaving as he had panted, his hair falling on his face. Holding a stitch at his side and ignoring the laughs, he had handed it in.
“I am sorry I am late.”, he said in between gasps, “Here’s the essay. It is barely 800 words, sorry.”
Eloise had scoffed to herself, watching Professor Fairwater click her tongue in disapproval.
She had waited anxiously, imagining the looks of envy and admiration on her classmates’ faces, looking forward to Professor Fairwater displaying her perfect answer.
The results were posted on the softboard outside their classroom the following week. When Eloise had elbowed her way through the crowd of students, she read the sheet several times. She knew she had to be hallucinating, because why else would the boy who turned an essay that barely brushed the word limit edge her out by seven whole marks?
He was the last to stroll up to the softboard, his hands deep in his pockets as his eyes lazily flicked over the sheet.
“Good try, Bridgerton”, he said, as if he was bored. She had stood there, fuming as he explained to their classmates that he had just handed in something he wrote in the last minute.
“What book did you pick?”, one of her classmates asked eagerly.
“I picked the most basic novel”, Theo said, carding his hand through his hair carelessly, “Emma.”
Eloise would not have been surprised if steam was blowing out of her ears.
“His paper discussed some unique points”, Professor Fairwater had explained patiently, when Eloise demanded to know how he managed to score above 90. It was a feat all of her seniors had told her was as easy as getting Professor Berbruke to keep off the booze in a college event. In other words, impossible.
“What qualities of his essay stood out to you, ma’am?”
“He criticized the novel, and gave compelling arguments to support his opinion. He even explained what we could learn to avoid while writing a character centric story.”
Eloise had marched right up to Theo to wipe that stupid smug look off his face. It wasn’t just about the marks anymore. It almost felt like a personal attack.
“How could anyone possibly dislike Emma? Jane Austen had intended to create an unlikeable character. If anything, disliking the heroine only proves the brilliance of the novel.”
“It’s quite simple, really”, Sharpe had drawled, “There is a difference between an interesting unlikeable character and an insufferable, obnoxious one.
That wasn’t the boiling point. It had tipped over when Theo had fixed her with his cool look of disdain and said, “You keep bothering me with this, Bridgerton and I’ll know which category you’d fall into.”
The next morning, Eloise found Jane Austen’s Persuasion on her desk with a note attached.
“You’d find You have pierced my soul. I am half agony, half hope much more romantic than If I loved you less, I’d talk about it more.”
She had returned it to him without so much as opening it.
“I read your essay”, she had told him, “The only thing that was special in it was that you had an unpopular opinion.”
“No”, he had replied smoothly, “What was special was that I chose quality over quantity.”
Since then, there were four significant changes :
Eloise had avoided reading any submission of his.
Eloise had learned to know when he was approaching the softboard just by his footsteps.
Eloise officially identified him as a threat
And worst of all, Theo started raising his points, in every single class.
Once, they were in a seminar, discussing The Great Gatsby when Fairwater invited opinions on Gatsby’s love for Daisy.
Eloise, sitting in the front, delivered a passionate defense of Gatsby’s love as tragic and romantic, “I think it is perfect for his character. He waited for her. He never let go of his vision. His devotion, however flawed, represents the sort of timeless romantic dedication most people never experience. It is perfect for a novel about the American Dream. His dream all along, was love, a driving force that gave him hope.”
Theo, sitting near the window, raised an eyebrow instead of his hand and spoke without waiting to be called on. “Devotion? That’s a generous word for desperation. He threw parties continuously hoping a married woman would waltz back into his life. Gatsby was clinging to the past versions of himself and Daisy that didn't exist anymore.”
“He didn’t give up on her!’, Eloise said angrily, “We might not recommend it in real life. The novel is a cautionary tale about the illusion of the American Dream, but can’t we appreciate Gatsby’s romantic idealism?”
“Not sure if you noticed”, Theo said acidly, “but the whole point was that Gatsby was hung up on something unattainable. It is perfect for his character because it reveals a critique of something everyone romanticizes."
"His ambition may have corrupted him", Eloise said firmly, "but I still think his romantic intentions weren't as messed up as people think."
"Refusing to acknowledge reality and seeing only what you want to see isn’t love.”, Theo finished, leaning forward even more so that his full face was bathed by the light streaming through the window he was sitting next to., "He was in love with the idea of her."
Eloise had shot back, “I don’t think depicting it translates to promoting or romanticizing it. We can appreciate it for its portrayal, right, sir?”
“We can”, the professor had said, but was interrupted by Theo.
“Are you implying we can’t critique its reception?”, he said. He wasn’t looking at the professor. His eyes were fixed on Eloise.
She had straightened up, fully turning around to look at him, “It’s easy to judge Gatsby, but if you actually read the text—"
Theo had leaned forward, undeterred. “I did read the text—probably without a glass of Pinot Noir and a trust fund to romanticize it. I don’t think passion or ambition justifies turning your own life into collateral damage.”
The professor had swiftly intervened but the comment had rang in her head like a bell.
As they left the seminar, Eloise made a beeline towards Theo, who was lounging against a pillar in the hallway, waiting for his friends to exit the Shakespeare class.
“Pinot Noir and a trust fund?” she demanded.
Theo merely shrugged, “What? You don’t strike me as a whiskey-and-libraries type.”
“Ms. Bridgerton”,
Eloise was wrenched to the present.
Professor Dean was looking at her intently, “Are you alright, dear?”
“Yes, of course”, she gripped her pen. She hadn’t written anything.
“Right”, the professor leaned against the desk, “Does anyone remember the Ten Tenets of Liberal Humanism? Could one of you give me an example of one idea of theirs that critical theory would have argued against?”
Eloise fought to keep her eyes open. She had dozed off for the first fifteen minutes, and had no idea what he was on about. Furious with herself, she flipped through her previous notes, her heart dropping to her stomach.
“Well”, Theo said from the back, “For one, liberal humanists believed literature was supposed to be a timeless reflection of all of humanity, like it is some sort of universal experience.”
“Isn’t that right, though?”, Eloise couldn’t help herself, “When you read a piece written 200 years ago, we recognize emotions, and events that we ourselves relate to. That’s why certain books are classics.”
Theo sat up straight, “Yeah, but how can you call it universal? Wouldn’t you argue that a rich person would experience life very differently from someone in poverty? Am I right, sir”
“Well, yes”, the professor said, “That’s what the ideas brought in by critical theory would argue.”
“But emotion”, Eloise burst out, “A poor and a rich person both grieve.”
“Well, yes—”
Theo turned towards her, his gaze burning, “What about behaviour, or perspective and opinion ? How would a poor and a rich narrate describe someone is struggling with money? One would relate and the other would respond with pity.”
Eloise reddened, “What’s the point of tearing one of them down, all to place the other on a moral pedestal?”
“Alright”, the professor interrupted loudly, “Let’s get back—”
“Eloise is just emotional.”, someone jeered from the back.
“Shut up”, Eloise and Theo said in unison, Eloise stared at him in shock. He was glaring at the person—a boy Eloise knew was named William— with his fists clenched.
Another student cleared her throat, and Eloise and Theo didn’t say a word, or even spare each other a glance as the discussion continued. The professor paced around, occasionally scribbling points other students raised on the board. Eloise would occasionally look at Theo whose gaze was fixed on his notebook.
Let him be sanctimonious. Let him be wrong about her.
Eloise was grateful to break for lunch. She sat next to Reena. Erin Quinn was with her boyfriend, James Maguire. He was a Journalism major who was in Penelope’s film module, which if Erin remembered correctly, was scheduled right before lunch.
“Please”, Reena raised her hand as Eloise opened her mouth, “Do not mention the midterm exams. This stew is hard enough to eat as it is.”
“I was going to ask how you’re doing.”
Erin patted Reena’s arm, “I think that reaction gave you the answer, Eloise. We are all fried.”
Eloise prodded the roast potato and beans on her plate, “Have you seen Penelope?”
To her surprise, it was James who answered, “I saw her talking with Colin. Uh, they didn’t look too happy. I dunno if they’ll come.”
“Why?”, Eloise demanded, “What did my brother do?”
“I didn’t listen.”
Erin rolled her eyes affectionately, “Men.”
“Don’t get me started”, Eloise sipped her lemonade, “I have had enough of them altogether. Not you, though, James.”
“Theo’s bothering you?”, Reena asked.
Eloise was startled, “How did you know?”
Reena shrugged, fishing a carrot out of her stew, “I’ve never seen you as passionately angry when you’re ranting about anything else, and that’s saying something, considering you once told off a grocery store employee so hard he cried.”
“He tried to sell us expired lotion!”
Reena snorted at the memory, “What did Theo do?”
Eloise explained everything,
“He kept thinking I was being condescending!”, she exclaimed with a huff. Her food had gone cold and she couldn’t bring herself to give a toss.
“Well…”, Erin scraped off the last bit of stew from her plate, “I know you didn’t intend to…”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Erin tucked her blonde hair behind her ear, “Well, I know you wouldn’t like being called a bigot…or a classist, but he wouldn’t like actually being on the receiving end of bigotry, which is something he has probably always been subjected to. He probably associated what you said with--”
“But I wasn’t being classist!”, Eloise cried. What was everyone’s problem?
“I know”, Erin said quickly, “he just…jumped to conclusions.”
Eloise snorted, “So he assumed the worst by thinking I assumed the worst about him?”
Erin blinked a couple of times to understand, “Yeah that’s exactly what he did. He should have heard you out instead of snapping at you, but El, that’s because you said you felt bad.”
“Oka-ay.”, Eloise said, “Is that…condescending?”
“In a way, even though you didn’t intend to be.”, Reena said, chewing thoughtfully, “Maybe he’s heard worse from others who probably said something you did, but in a much more hurtful way. He automatically thought it was offensive, which isn’t completely on you.”
“So why is he--?”, Eloise started furiously.
“Look at this way”, Erin said, leaning her elbow against the table and placing her head in her palm, Imagine if someone said Oh Eloise, it must be so difficult for you to study as a woman. What would you think?”
Eloise bristled, “Depends on the person and the context, but I’d probably think it’s a jab at my intelligence, like I am stupid or inferior because I—Oh,”, she said, realization dawning upon her, “He felt I was trying to be superior or something, looking down at him with pity because he is below me, like I am on some pedestal and he’s some bottom dweller that needs charity to be on my level.”
Erin and Reena nodded and Eloise felt her insides heat up.
“He shouldn’t have argued with you in front of the class though.”, Reena said quickly, “He would have understood what you meant if he just kept his cool and spoke—"
“God”, Eloise buried her head in her hands, “I’m awful.”
“Now, don’t say that, Eloise”, James said, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder, “We know you didn’t intend to hurt him.”
“What do I do?”, she groaned.
“Well, if you were in his position, what would you want?”
“A genuine apology.”
“There you go.”, James clapped her on the back, “We all mess up, and we all learn. That’s what matters. Don’t beat yourself up, and eat your potatoes.”
“Why are you not eating?”, came Penelope’s voice. Eloise lifted her head, ready to throw herself sobbing on her friend’s shoulder. But just as she opened her mouth she noticed Penelope’s eyes were red rimmed.
“What happened?”, Eloise asked, astonished, Theo driven from her mind at the sight of Penelope’s drooping cheeks.
“Was it Colin?”, Reena asked, with an edge to her voice, “I know he is a senior but I will shove that stupid black umbrella he carries up—”
“Oh no”, Penelope said, her voice higher than usually, “I’m fine. Just got a bad grade on my assignment.”
“Professor Hart’s essay?”
She bit her lip and nodded but Eloise frowned. She had taken his class the previous semester and he always took at least three weeks to grade something.
“I’m glad I didn’t take his module this time.”, James muttered.
“Leave it Penelope.”, Erin urged, pushing a glass towards her.
“You can redo it.”, Reena said airily, pouring orange juice from the jug, “right James?”
“You know he’s a tough grader.”, James said with a shrug, “He screwed all of us over last time. Your essay is probably one of the best.”
Penelope speared the vegetables on her plate with a fork and let out a whimper like they committed a mortal offence.
Eloise leaned forward, “Did Colin do something Pen?”
“I just overheard...”, Penelope sniffled, “He was just talking with his mates….Oh it’s silly. It’s on me for even hoping…God, never mind.”
“But—”
“Look, I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
Eloise wrapped an arm around Penelope.
“It’s fine. Tell me whenever you’re ready.”
She wanted to be there for Penelope, but didn’t want to worry about what Colin did. She had her own apologies due.