CHAPTER 11 — BOOK IV
Holding
(July 2018 — HSC Year)
Fayrani had been staring at the same paragraph for six minutes.
Not reading it.
Staring.
Her notes were spread across the desk in disciplined chaos—highlighters uncapped, margins crowded with arrows and underlined phrases that suggested productivity without guaranteeing it. Outside her window, the courtyard lay quiet, the concrete cool in the late afternoon shade beneath the garage overhang.
She could hear voices drifting faintly from the main house.
Then—
“So,” a voice said brightly through her wall, “what happens if you haven’t studied for your exam and you’re doing it last minute?”
Fayrani froze.
Her pen hovered mid-word.
She waited.
Maybe it would stop.
It did not.
A beat passed.
Then another sound followed, louder, unmistakable.
“You shall not pass!”
Fayrani’s eye twitched.
She stood, marched to her doorway, and yelled across the courtyard without hesitation.
“SHUT UP!”
There was a pause.
Then laughter.
Not loud.
Contained.
Infuriatingly controlled.
Embong’s voice carried back, cheerful and entirely unrepentant.
“Just educational material.”
“YOU ARE NOT FUNNY,” Fayrani shouted.
Another pause.
Geoffrey’s voice joined in, mild and diplomatic.
“He’s a little funny.”
“He is deeply not funny,” Fayrani snapped.
From the other side, Embong called out, “Statistically, students who yell at their elders perform better under pressure.”
“You are not my elder!”
“I’m absolutely your elder.”
“You are thirty-four,” Fayrani yelled. “That is not ancient wisdom!”
Geoffrey laughed again—closer this time, as if he’d leaned toward the window.
“Embong,” he said. “Maybe let her pass.”
There was a soft click.
Then, very deliberately, Embong played it again.
“You. Shall not. Pass.”
Fayrani grabbed the nearest cushion and hurled it at the wall.
“I AM GOING TO FAIL AND IT WILL BE YOUR FAULT.”
“Incorrect,” Embong replied calmly. “It will be Gandalf’s.”
Geoffrey coughed, suspiciously like he was trying not to laugh.
“Embong.”
“Yes?”
“Stop antagonising the HSC candidate.”
A beat.
Then silence.
Fayrani stood there, breathing hard, waiting for the next ambush.
Nothing.
She returned to her desk slowly, suspicious.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Just as she began to relax, her phone buzzed.
A message from Embong.
Embong: Tea in ten.
Embong: Also biscuits.
Embong: You are, unfortunately, going to pass.
She stared at the screen.
Then, despite herself, she smiled.
Later, when she crossed the courtyard for tea, she found Embong at the bench, already pouring, Geoffrey leaning against the counter pretending he hadn’t encouraged the entire incident.
Fayrani accepted the mug without comment.
Embong slid the biscuit tin toward her.
“Eat,” he said. “You’re spiralling.”
She took one, then looked up at him.
“You are evil.”
Embong nodded solemnly.
“Yes.”
Geoffrey watched them, fond.
Fayrani took a bite, sighed, and leaned back against the counter.
For the first time all day, her chest loosened.
She hadn’t failed yet.
And even if she did—
She wasn’t alone.
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