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PIPER
The notification arrives at 2:47 AM.
Objectively, aterribletime to receive bad news.
Grade Update: Creative Writing - 42%
I stare at my screen, the cursor blinking mockingly in my half-finished code. My dating app algorithm sprawls across three monitors—elegant logic that can predict romantic compatibility with 87% accuracy.
I'm revolutionizing human connection, solving the stable marriage problem with modifications that account for emotional intelligence.
Professor Jenkinswants me in his AI research lab next year. “You could change how we understand human decision-making,” he said. “MIT, Stanford—they'd fight over you.” But that position requires maintaining a 3.5 GPA.
No exceptions.
I know exactly what I need to do to save my future. So, why can't I pass this stupid Creative Writing class? I thought it would be an easy credit.
Clearly, I was wrong.
Instagram.
I shouldn't look.
I look.
Miles Carver posted a photo.
There he is, arms wrapped around a blonde girl in a sundress. Harper Briggs. The girl he was “definitely breaking up with” all summer last year.
So lucky to have this one
I roll my eyes.
I close Instagram and return to the email from Professor Long:
Ms. Renner, your current grade puts you at risk of losing your academic scholarship. If you cannot raise it to 68% by final assessments, I'm afraid we'll need to discuss your continued enrolment. I'm assigning you a mandatory tutor, whom you will see twice weekly. Details to follow.
Mandatory tutoring.
For Creative freakin’ Writing.
Because, apparently, my brain can process complex data structures butcan'tunderstand why fictional characters need “emotional arcs” and “meaningful growth.”
Someone clears their throat above me.
“Piper? Holy shit, you're alive.”
I jump, accidentally hitting three keys at once.
Who else is lame enough to spend their Friday evenings in the computer lab?
My code starts running an infinite loop, numbers cascading down the screen like digital rain.
“Shit, shit, shit—” I frantically hit Ctrl+C, but it's too late. The program's eating RAM like Pac-Man.
“Try force quit,” the familiar voice says. “Command-Option-Escape.”
