“Professor,” I began carefully, forcing my voice into something steady, something controlled, “I heard, that is, do you offer extra credit opportunities?”
He blinked.
Then smiled.
“Yes, indeed, I do. Are you interested, Miss Cordoza?”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Very. I—” I stopped myself, exhaling. “I would like the opportunity to improve my standing.”
That sounded better.
More composed.
More… adult.
He studied me for a moment.
“You are not like your sisters,” he said.
I almost laughed.
Because for once—he was absolutely correct—and it didn’t sound like an insult.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’m not.”
Not tall.
Not thin or graceful.
Not effortlessly powerful.
But I was still here.
Still trying.
And that had to count for something.
“Nonetheless,” he continued, already reaching into his briefcase, “all students are given the same opportunity.”
He handed me a single sheet of parchment.
I took it.
Read it.
Once.
Then again.
Slower.
Carefully.
Because there had to be a mistake.
“There isn’t,” he said mildly, as though reading my thoughts.
I looked up at him.
