The Code of You

Pandora

Would anyone miss me if I died?

I let the book slip from my hand. "I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!” Wuthering Heights.

My favorite novel. Someone had underlined that sentence, even though you weren’t supposed to mark up library books.

I sighed and slid it back onto the shelf. No one would ever say that about me.

Dust motes drifted in the stained-glass light spilling through the tall windows.

I trailed my fingers along a shelf when I saw it.

Up there. A first edition of Keats’s poems. I climbed the ladder and eased it free.

The leather was thick and worn smooth, carrying that scent I loved more than anything—earth and history and something almost alive.

My fingers traced the embossed cover, following the gilded lines.

I pressed the book to my cheek. The cool leather settled something in my chest.

I placed the Keats back on the shelf. Carefully, the way you set down something living.

I let my fingertips linger on the leather for a moment before I turned away.

Then I left the library. My office sat two hallways away in the English Department at Ashmore University.

Books covered the desk, the windowsill, even the floor.

It was as if I’d tried to fill the silence with paper.

A stack of essays waited on my desk. I dropped into my chair and smoothed my skirt. Back straight. Shoulders back.

A knock.

"Come in.”

The door opened. A young woman with honey-blonde hair stepped inside.

I knew her from my Introduction to Romantic Literature lecture.

Third row, second seat from the left. Always the first to raise her hand.

Always the last to leave. She stood in the doorway, staring at her shoes, a piece of paper clutched in her hands.

"Dr. Blake—do you have a minute?”

"Sure. Come in. Have a seat.”

She perched on the edge of the chair. Her eyes were red. She placed the printout on my desk. I recognized it. Her last essay. My grade in the top corner: a B.

"Dr. Blake . . .” Her voice cracked. "You’re my favorite professor. But I . . . I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

I folded my hands on the desk. Calm, open, approachable—the demeanor the faculty handbook said to adopt. Body Language in Teaching: A Guide. "Chapter Four: Handling Emotional Situations.”

"A B is a good grade.”

"A B isn’t an A.” Her lower lip trembled. "I just don’t understand why I’m not . . . good enough.”

She cried, silently at first, and then a sob broke out of her like something that had been locked up too long. Her shoulders shook. She pressed her palms against her eyes as if she could push the tears back in.

I reached for the tissue box and set it in front of her.

Not good enough. The words crawled under my skin, settled there, dug into an old scar that had never properly healed.

I saw my mother at the kitchen table. Her smile that wasn’t really a smile.

"An A minus is fine. An A would have been better, of course.” My father beside her, silent, newspaper in front of his face.

I swallowed. My throat was tight. I turned back to the student, who was blowing her nose into a tissue. "Listen to me.” My voice came out calm, controlled, the way I’d trained it to be. Every word in its place.

She looked up. Mascara streaked her cheeks.

"A B means you did good work. Not perfect work. Good work. And you know what?” I leaned forward. "Good work is enough.”

Liar, a voice whispered in my head. I didn’t believe a word of it. Last night I’d spent three hours on a single paragraph of my novel and deleted it in the end because it hadn’t been good enough.

I ignored the voice. "Your analysis of Byron’s metaphors was precise,” I said. "Genuinely. You drew connections even I hadn’t made. But your conclusion was rushed. You dropped the argument before it could land.”

The student nodded and pulled another tissue from the box. "I just . . . thought . . .” she managed between sobs. "Chat Plus . . . said the conclusion was fine.”

Chat Plus? The AI? Was she serious? Was she one of those students who ran their papers through a machine for validation? I felt my expression shift and brought it back under control immediately, clearing my throat. "You use . . . AI?”

Her eyes went wide. "I . . . not to write it, obviously,” she stammered. "Just to check it at the end.”

I nodded slowly, but something tightened inside me.

Last semester I’d read an essay that had been flawless.

Every sentence had landed exactly right.

Not a single error. And yet something had been missing as I read it.

Like looking at a perfect copy of the Mona Lisa—technically impeccable, but without the one brushstroke that tells you Leonardo da Vinci was tired that day.

Or in love. Or angry. The student had admitted he’d had the AI write it.

Since then I could smell it, that sterile scent of text that had never been alive.

"I swear I wrote everything myself,” the student cried, dissolving into sobs again.

"I know.” I placed my hand over hers and almost pulled it back. The warmth was unfamiliar. I didn’t let people in very often. "I believe you.”

She calmed and blew her nose.

"This isn’t failure,” I said. "This is a draft. Literature is always a draft. We write and rewrite and rewrite again. Failing is part of it.”

My own words echoed in my ears like mockery. If failing was part of it, why was I so terrified of it? My fingers tightened around the armrest. She looked at me the way students sometimes do. Like I had answers. Like I knew how to live. If only she knew.

"Come to my office hours next week,” I said, putting on the professional smile I’d practiced in the mirror until it looked real. "Bring your conclusion. We’ll work on it. Together.”

She nodded, wiped her cheeks, and stood. "Thank you, Dr. Blake.”

She left. The door clicked shut. I counted to five, listening for her footsteps to fade.

Then I let out the breath I’d been holding.

My shoulders dropped. My hands uncurled, and I saw the red crescents my nails had pressed into my palms. My heart was beating too fast. I laid a hand on my chest, but that made it worse.

I could feel it everywhere now—in my throat, in my temples, behind my eyes.

The walls of books closed in. I tried to breathe, but the air wasn’t reaching where it needed to go.

Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.

I pressed my forehead against the edge of my desk.

The wood was cool and hard and real. I focused on that.

And then it was there, the thought that always came when I lost control.

The thought of hands gripping my wrists, holding me down, forcing me to be still.

I opened my eyes and pushed it away, to the place where I kept everything I couldn’t allow myself to think about.

I breathed in and out, again and again. The trembling faded slowly, the way things do when they’re only retreating, not leaving.

I sat back up and smoothed my skirt. With hands that still weren’t quite steady, I pulled a stack of essays toward me.

Forty of them. The third one had a coffee stain on the last page.

I stared at it. The stain was from a mug, not a cup—the ring was too big for a cup.

Who drinks coffee from a mug while printing an essay?

At home, then, not in the library. But why hadn’t he printed it again?

Had he run out of paper? Had he not cared?

I touched the stain. It was dark. Strong coffee.

Black, no milk. That didn’t fit the student whose name was on the cover page.

He always had a latte in front of him during lectures.

I shook my head. It was just a coffee stain on an essay. It didn’t matter at all. I turned the page and forced myself to focus on the words. But whose coffee was it, if not his?

The church bell rang. Once. Twice. I didn’t flinch until the third strike. Shit. The meeting. I jumped up, grabbed my notes, stuffed them into my bag, and ran. My footsteps echoed through the vaulted hallways, bouncing off the stone walls. Damn, damn, damn.

The heavy wooden door to the courtyard crashed shut behind me. The autumn air hit my face. Henley hated tardiness. I checked my watch. Shit, I was fifteen minutes late.

The administration building loomed ahead of me. Red brick like so many buildings in Cambridge, crawling with ivy. In the distance, the Boston skyline glistened in the sunlight. I yanked the heavy entrance door open. Inside it smelled like floor wax and old files.

Henley was already waiting. Of course. And he was smiling. That was worse than any anger. "Dr. Blake.” His voice was lethally polite. "How lovely that you could join us.”

I stopped, catching my breath. "I’m sorry, I . . .”

"Come.” He turned and marched into his office. His face had taken on that color it got when budgets didn’t add up.

Inside, Jamie Kowalski studied me with something that looked a lot like pity.

"Sit down.” Henley gestured to the chair across from his desk.

I dropped into it.

"We have a problem,” Henley said. "Your position here is . . . at risk.” The words hung in the air like a verdict.

My stomach clenched. "At risk? What do you mean?”

Henley leaned back. His fingers drummed on the desk. "We need to cut costs. Eliminate positions.”

"Eliminate positions?” My throat tightened.

"There’s one way we could keep you on.” He avoided my eyes, like he already knew he was about to ask something unreasonable. "Going forward, you would need to take on two hundred students per semester.”

"Two hundred students?” My voice came out sharp. "I can barely give fifty students what they need.”

"Dr. Blake.” Henley raised a hand. "I admire your dedication to your students, but you’ll need to find a way if you want to keep your position.”

Jamie cleared his throat. "Pandora, maybe you could . . .” He stopped when I looked at him.