Page 10 of Twisted Needs

By the end of class, my hand is cramping so badly I can barely fit my laptop back into my bag. Dr. Markut continues yapping about nonsense while half the room packs up early. Nobody ever waits around after his lectures unless they absolutely have to. The man radiates the kind of energy that makes students walk faster instead of actually going to him for help.

I wait anyway…mostly out of spite, but also because I’m a brown noser.

Markut notices me immediately. His eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Mr. de Sousa.”

“Great lecture today, Dr. Markut.”

“You’re approaching my podium.” He sets his marker down carefully. “That never means anything good.”

I drop my graded paper onto the podium in front of him. “I just wanna know why this got a ninety.”

He glances down at the front page, then back at me with a sarcastic look. “You got a ninety. You’re unhappy with it?”

“I’m upset about the principle.”

“The principle,” he repeats flatly. “Ten points.”

“It brought my grade down. You didn’t leave feedback on why I got docked the points.”

Markut exhales slowly through his nose before flipping through the pages. “Your paper was supposed to compare Obama’s Liberalism to FDR’s.” He straightens the pages neatly, almost like it’s habitual. “You over-explained and it weakened your argument.”

I cross my arms. “The maximum count was two-thousand words. I stayed right under that.”

Markut ignores that entirely, flipping to the second page. “This paragraph here.” He taps the paper once. “Excellent argument. Strong analysis. Then you ruin it by over-explaining because you suddenly lose confidence halfway through.”

“I wasn’t over-explaining.”

“You used the phrase ‘in other words’ three times.”

I open my mouth and immediately close it because he’s right. I wrote that paper half-drunk at four in the morning.

“You could’ve written half this, maybe,” he continues. “And walked out with a better grade.”

Markut slides my paper back across the podium. “Cut out the unnecessary stuff and tighten your argument,” he says. “Bring it to office hours next Friday and I’ll take a look at it.”

My brows lift. “For extra credit?”

“No.” He puts his glasses back on. “Because I said so.”

I stare at him another second before grabbing my paper. “Thank you,” I murmur. “I appreciate that.”

“There you are,” Aviva beams when I slide into the booth.

Ward’s Tavern is a hot fucking mess tonight, like always. Every surface is sticky. The floor is a graveyard of crushed peanut shells and spilled beer. Every Friday, the tavern hosts some sort of competition, where more and more people file in each week. Last week was trivia. This week is karaoke.

“Markut wants me dead,” I huff, kissing Aviva on the cheek.

She viscerally recoils, whipping her head to the side and smacking me in the face with her auburn curls in the process. “Dude. Makeup.”

“Sorry, babe,” I smirk. “I just thought you were naturally this gorgeous.”

“That is not a compliment,” Lee snorts from across the table, absentmindedly running their hands through their long blonde hair.

Aviva rolls her eyes right back and waves me off dismissively.

We met in Intro to American Government when I accidentally stole her seat and she informed me—in graphic, horrific detail—exactly what she thought of me. Three years later, we’re as thick as thieves.

Like it’s perfect timing, Charlie emerges with two pitchers in her hands, barely making it over to the table. Beer sloshes, accidentally spilling down the sides of the plastic pitchers as she fights for her life trying to slink her way through the overflowing crowd.