Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
MAGNOLIA
Four days later, I sat in a study carrel in Clemons Library, tweaking the last line of a paper for my BioEthics class. My phone vibrated on the desk.
Dad:
Did you get your test grade back yet?
I checked the time. 6:36 pm. Dr. Voss, my Organic Chemistry II professor, vowed to have the exam 1 grades posted today. Aromatic Compounds & Electrophilic Aromatic Substitution. I groaned, remembering the literal tears I’d shed studying for it.
That class was kicking my butt, but it was kicking everyone’s butts. Except for Kevin Liu—a verified genius—who was sure to jack up the curve if Voss even had the heart to use one.
I texted Abilene.
Did you check your grade yet?
Abilene
Bye, bye med school.
She sent a picture of her score. 41.
Abilene
A carton of Americone Dream is waiting for you here at the apartment. But I doubt you’ll need it. You’re probably right behind Kevin.
“Doubtful,” I whispered. “But thanks, Abs.”
I typed in the address for UVA’s student information system, winced, and clicked anyway.
A whopping 53.
My head fell back and my stomach turned sour. Even with the most gracious curve, that couldn’t come out to more than a C. Tears pressed at the back of my eyelids because Abilene was right. Bye, bye med school.
I clicked on the answer key that was now available and sifted through the questions, looking for where I’d gone wrong. Med schools didn’t want Cs in Organic Chem—the weed-out class. They wanted perfect.
I calculated what I would have to get on every test for the remainder of the semester, feeling more defeated by the minute. How was I ever going to pull this up?
“You did that good, huh?”
My eyes flew open to see Kevin standing at the edge of my desk, gloating. Fine, he wasn’t gloating. Kevin was a really decent guy. But I swear, he could sniff out tears.
He gave me a sad smile. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“What did you get?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know,” he said evenly, without a trace of ego. “High enough to mess up the curve.”
I let my head fall forward, muttering, “Of course you did.” I swear, Kevin was actually an android. There was no other explanation for how he was so good at everything. I looked at his arm, searching for a hidden button I could push to download his brain like an update.
He must’ve thought I was eyeing his Rolex because he took a step back.
Kevin wasn’t born rich, but he definitely planned on dying that way.
I suspected it was his entire reason for wanting to be a neurosurgeon.
Lucky for him, he learned faster than the rest of us breathed, which left him with loads of free time for side hustles: Uber, online math tutorials, freelance coding.
His phone honked, like a clown car. Everyone knew that meant he had a potential Uber customer needing a ride.
He pulled it out to check the notification. “Gotta go. Chin up, Mag-netron. You’ll do better on the next one.” I watched him go, fake sobs shaking my whole body.
Kevin was practically perfect—in a platonic, annoyingly impressive sort of way. Perfect manners, perfect hair, perfect vocabulary. His only downside? He kept all that perfection to himself. Group study sessions? Nope. Said we slowed him down. And if it didn’t pay, Kevin didn’t play.
As he bounded out, the helplessness hit hard. I thought of the rest of my class, probably scattered across campus, feeling the same crushing despair. How in the world were we going to pass Dr. Voss’s gauntlet of intellectual torture devices disguised as exams?
Another text came through on my phone.
Dad
***
I sighed, picked it up, and lied.
The grades aren’t up yet.
Then I texted Abilene.
53 Save some Americone for me.
I gathered my things and left. As I walked across campus, not even the falling leaves or the smell of a bonfire in the distance could cheer me up.
And when I got to my car, there was a piece of paper tucked under my wipers.
Great. I could add attempted kidnapping to my list of Crappy Things That Happened Today.
My dad had just sent me a reel with different strategies attackers use to incapacitate a woman as she gets into her car. Leaving something for you to pick up and lacing it with chemicals that knock you out was the first one.
In all seriousness, it was probably just a flier for a campus event like Serendipity Night.
But a single woman walking alone after dark could never be too careful.
So I pulled out my pepper spray and, with a finger on the trigger, crouched down to make sure there was no one under my car waiting to attack me.
Schew. The coast was clear.
Three girls were walking up the sidewalk, and a family of four was riding bikes down the street, headed in my direction. So I lifted the wiper and took the paper.
Oh, it was cardstock. Definitely not a flier. I flipped it over and nearly forgot how to breathe.
It was a colored sketch—soft strokes and warm shades that made the scene feel almost alive—of a woman in a crisp doctor’s coat, stethoscope looped around her neck, speaking to a patient who was half-laughing, half-crying.
It knocked the wind out of me because the doctor was…me. Or some version of me—older, surer, radiant in a way I couldn’t imagine I’d ever be. And gorgeous. Too gorgeous. Like, if I ever looked like that, I’d never stop taking selfies.
Was this AI?
I tilted the drawing side to side, trying to catch the details in the light of the street lamp. No. This was legit. Not printed on a printer even. It was hand-drawn with what looked like watercolor pencils. If that was even a thing. Someone had taken their time drawing this.
For me.
I cradled it gently, my chest tightening in a good way. This could not have come at a more opportune time. Actually, it was downright serendipitous.
But who knew that I needed this today, of all days? None of my friends could draw. Not like this anyway. Whoever it was, they knew where I’d parked. Which, I realized, was kind of creepy.
I got in my car and locked the door, but I didn’t turn the key. I stared at the picture, taking in the details. It didn’t feel creepy. It felt kind and generous. Like a blessing.
This sketch was the reminder that I needed.
Yes, undergrad was brutal. Med school would be worse. But I could do this. It might take some actual blood, sweat, and a river of tears. It might even demand some creative finagling. But I’d been doing hard things my whole life.
I propped the picture up on my dashboard, dug through my purse, and found my phone. Then I created a group chat with every friend I knew who had probably failed that test—which was everyone but Kevin.
We can’t go down like this. And we won’t. I have a plan. But we need to pool our resources. So get ready to cough up that leftover FAFSA money, dig through the seats of your car, or go donate plasma, because friends? We’re hiring a study coach.
I didn’t wait for their responses, though I instantly saw bubbles wiggling. Because I had one more text to send.
Kevin, I know you don’t like study groups. But I know you LOVE . I have a proposition for you.
That was the beginning of Maggie and Friends pulling A’s on every assignment and test in Organic Chemistry II, and the end of feeling hopeless and helpless.
But it wasn’t the end of the sketches.
It was just the beginning.