39. Academic Committee
Samantha
I shouldn’t be comforted by his arms.
And yet, I am.
Whatever happened between us didn’t erase years of shared tenderness and friendship. He was my safe place for a long time. Long before we became a couple. With him, I could be myself. He’s one of the few people who cared enough to truly see me.
And that makes our current situation all the more painful.
When I wake up, he’s gone.
It’s better that way.
On the pillow beside mine, a simple scribbled note:
You’re going to succeed. I know it. They won’t be able to do anything but bow before the beauty and power of your work.
I set the paper down, unable to decide what to do with it.
Despite everything, the night was restful. I’ll always be grateful that he came, even though it doesn’t erase his words or his accusations.
I get ready quickly, add a bit of makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes.
In the living room, Mara and Emelyne are waiting for me with breakfast: pastries, yogurt, fresh fruit, freshly squeezed orange juice.
“You’re going to blow them away,” Emelyne reassures me, handing me a croissant.
“No doubt about it,” Mara adds.
But their smiles are too wide. Their voices a little too bright.
They’re scared for me.
*
The presentation room is on the third floor, at the end of the hallway.
White walls. Harsh lighting. A large table behind which three people are seated.
Ms. Mainville gives me a discreet, encouraging smile.
The other two are strangers.
A stern-looking man in his forties, dark suit. And a younger woman, glasses perched on her nose, her gaze attentive, almost probing. I greet them, my voice hesitant.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” they reply, their expressions unreadable.
“Miss, you may begin,” the man says in an impersonal tone. “We’re listening.”
I comply, hands damp with sweat, plug my USB drive into the projector, then take a deep breath.
“I chose to work on the theme Movement and Persistence Through Time. My project is based on the combination of three elements: transparency, light, and movement.”
I turn off the lights and project the first slide.
My lost works appear on the screen. Then the four watercolors, the painting I worked on at Alexander’s over Christmas, and two new oil paintings. Rushed, not quite finished, but emotionally powerful.
I speak for fifteen minutes. About light passing through translucent layers. About movement fading away. About what remains when everything else disappears.
My voice grows steadier as I go.
When I finish, a deafening silence settles over the room.
The man takes notes. The woman leans toward Ms. Mainville and whispers something. My professor nods.
“Thank you, Miss,” the man finally says. “Please step outside while we deliberate.”
In the hallway, time stretches.
I pace. Sit down. Stand up again. Stare at the closed door.
Five minutes? Ten? An eternity.
The door finally opens.
“Sam, you can come back in.”
Ms. Mainville’s face is unreadable.
I sit down. My legs are trembling.
None of them smiles.
My heart tightens and sinks somewhere deep in my stomach. I’ve failed.
“First of all,” the woman begins, “thank you for your presentation.”
She pauses—endlessly.
“We were impressed by your perseverance. Many people would have given up after such an ordeal.”
I don’t know whether that’s a compliment… or polite preamble to rejection.
“What do you think of your presentation?” the man asks.
I hate that question, but if I’m going to fall, I might as well do it with grace.
“I think this project has real potential,” I say calmly. “And that it would be a shame not to see how far it can go.”
The faintest smile flickers across the woman’s face.
“So you believe we should allow you to sit for the final examination?” the man asks.
My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe.
“Yes. Without a doubt.”
A look is exchanged. Long. Heavy.
Ms. Mainville doesn’t move, but I sense the tension in her shoulders.
Finally, the woman nods.
“In that case…”
One second. Two.
“We’ll see you at the final examination.”
I blink.
“I… I’m sorry?”
“You are authorized to present your project to the degree jury,” the man clarifies. “But don’t forget: a minimum of thirty works. How you manage it is up to you, but the numbers must add up. Otherwise, it’s an automatic failure.”
Ms. Mainville finally smiles.
“Congratulations, Sam. And now—get to work.”
I stand, still unsteady. I shake the hands offered to me. I thank them, barely hearing my own voice.
In the hallway, the door closes behind me.
I lean back against the wall.
I did it.
Now all that’s left is to create.