Page 3 of Afterglow (Ottawa Regents #3)

The Deepest of Shit

Behraz

May

The inner machinations of my brain are an enigma.

However, unlike Patrick Star, there are simultaneously multiple things going on and absolutely nothing. No movement forward.

One part visualizes a milk carton toppling over and spilling its contents out, an image from a SpongeBob SquarePants episode that has been etched into my brain forever. Another grapples with a specific article that is currently giving me heartburn.

Professor Doherty’s instructions are always so ambiguous.

I think I follow them, right? But she originally stated that cases should be in-text citations.

Then later, in person, she said, “No, you do them in footnotes, too.” And I don’t want to rewriggle my footnotes for the cases I put together, because I already put them in text citations.

Like, I put them in- text . Everything else is footnotes.

I was supposed to do one statute and at least three cases.

I did two— two— statutes and at least five cases.

On top of the background information and facts, and all of that.

And in the end, I wrote a fucking article, didn’t I?

I wrote a publishable article that explored the nuances of journalism, immigration, and cross-border conflict, and I did it pretty neatly.

If I were to rate myself, I would say I gave a beautiful performance.

And not only that, but this lady also says it has to be fifteen pages exactly .

No more, no less. She says she’ll grade me down if my analysis isn’t perfect.

I crashed out about this paper for three days in a row. Isn’t that enough?

This is publishable material, but I’m not going to do shit with it.

I’m never going to let this document see the light of day after I hand it over.

I don’t know how to feel. I should feel proud or whatever, but, ugh , I feel bad.

I’m in this weird, limbo, middle zone because I worked really hard on it.

It’s well done. It’s fifteen pages, with almost sixty citations and a really nuanced take on immigration law, but also the ways in which the government tries to delegitimize it by using terrorism.

I thought she would like it, but the feedback on my last article was lackluster.

“ It’s too broad. ”

Mleh mleh mleh mleh mleh mleh.

Well, is it narrow enough for you yet? I focused this document’s scope to hell, and now I’m so tired?—

“Behraz?”

Oh, right. That’s the third part. Paying attention to my mentor.

“I know it’s a lot to take in.”

Uh oh. I missed something. Which is on-brand for me, honestly. A woman meets with her mentor to discuss her academic woes and can’t even stay focused.

“Sorry, I lost you.” I sent her a nervous smile. “Could you repeat the last part?”

The worried wrinkle between Dr. Ahmad’s stunning eyebrows deepens. “The results of the assessment, Miss Irani.” Her tone is kind, but firm as always. “Along with your difficulties in processing written language, you have moderate to severe ADHD.”

I laugh, which shocks her. What else am I supposed to do? The fact that it took me two months and twelve tries to finish the assessment should have been a pretty heavy indicator.

My throat clears, and I straighten. “So now what?”

Her perfect brows rise slightly. “There are a few things. I know a clinical psychologist on the faculty who specializes in ADHD in adult women. Dr. Sharon Gill. It would benefit you to work with her, figure out a course of therapy or treatment, and possibly get a referral to a psychiatrist, in the case you need a prescription or?—”

“Right, right.”

Therapy. Treatment. Meds. Got it.

“Then you can ask for accommodations from the Law Society of Ontario, based on what Dr. Gill recommends…”

Is she sure I’m not just stupid? Like, who fails an open-book exam three fucking times?

“…You can take the exam again, you know? If they agree to the accommodations?—”

“If—?”

“There’s a whole process. It is a bit involved, but?—”

Of course, it is. Why would anything be straightforward?

Maybe I’m not meant to be a lawyer. Maybe I should go back to being a legal secretary. I was decent at it. It wasn’t terrible money. At least I could afford rent.

“I know you can do it, Behraz.” Dr. Ahmad leans toward me, sliding over a file containing the assessment results. “You’re incredibly intelligent, and you could be an outstanding lawyer if you want to be.” She pauses, concern weathering her expression. “Take the help, Miss Irani.”

“I appreciate you saying that. Thanks.” I collect the folder and tuck it into the vintage-style brown leather briefcase I splurged on before law school.

She checks her watch and stands. “I’ll email you Dr. Gill’s contact information after my next meeting.”

I’m halfway down the street when I realize I forgot to ask her what this would cost. The school covered the assessment, but what about the rest of it? My savings account has already been hemorrhaging from this ridiculous career dream of mine.

I swing the bag into the basket of my propped bike against the rack. My hand gets stuck while I’m fishing my keys from my jeans pocket to unlock it, and when I finally remove it with a grunt, the force of my pull launches it across the path, slapping an innocent passerby on the face.

The man is too stunned to speak.

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.” My feet betray me, tripping over themselves when I scramble to grab the keys from the cement. I faceplant. Or boob-plant rather. Right over his shoes.

“Jesus,” he mumbles.

“Sorry, sorry.” I skitter back on my knees, waiting for him to move so I don’t somehow take him out when I stand. Spatial awareness isn’t my strong suit, and fresh bruises are evidence of it.

I can accept that some days are worse than others, but the days when nothing in my life goes right seem to be increasing. I unlock my bike with a sigh. And right on cue, it starts raining.

Of course, I don’t have an umbrella. Or a raincoat.

The ride through puddles is atrocious, and by the time I pull up to my apartment, I’m thoroughly drenched, a strip of wet dust and debris streaked up my back, despite the splatter guard.

I’ll have to stop by the laundromat tomorrow.

I haul my bike through the doorway, and the heavy wood and glass door slams while I park behind the stairs.

My sneakers squish every step of the way to the third floor. The sweat and rainwater combo does not smell great on me.

Zoe and her boyfriend, Alan, glare at me over their coffee mugs when I step through the apartment door.

What a nice, warm welcome.

I pretend not to see them past the shroud of dripping hair covering my face and make a beeline to my bedroom, but it’s a no-go.

Alan nudges Zoe with an elbow.

“Hey, Bea! We wanted to talk to you about something,” she starts.

“Oh, hi!” I chirp, splitting the wet strands apart and pushing them behind my ears. “What’s up?”

My roommate motions to the empty chair across from them at the round kitchen table. “I know these past few months have been rough…”

“But they’re rough on Zoe, too,” Alan interrupts.

She squeezes his forearm to silence him. “I knew we discussed it, but I can’t keep covering your half of the rent.”

I’d argue my case, but it’s too embarrassing to mention the amount of money left in my bank account. My savings have been wholly gouged. “It’s only been a couple of months, and I was gonna reach out to the law firm I used to work for about getting some part-time work?—”

The explanation is ignored.

“We were already kinda planning to move in together when your sublease was up. Alan is gonna pay for the last two months?—”

“Oh, gosh, that’s really generous, but?—”

“If you move out.”

“Move out?” Where would I go? I mean, I could figure it out. I’ve always figured it out. Say yes, Behraz. You won’t owe rent. Find another sublease for even cheaper until you get all this bar exam business outta the way and then?—

“By the end of the month.”

My jaw hangs.

“ This month? Like, in two weeks?”

“Yeah.”

Now, I’m in shit. The deepest of shit. Okay, okay. You got this. You don’t have that much stuff. Get it together. This is probably for the best.

“Okay.”

They seem pleased. I go to my room to peel away my wet clothes and shower, making a mental list of things that I need to get done. One, write all this down. I step into the tub and turn the faucet on.

There’s no hot water.

I want to cry. But I don’t.

Instead, I text Indi. She’s the closest thing I have to family left in this city.

Me

Hey, my hot water isn’t working. Can I come over to shower?

Indi Bhindi

Again? You need to move outta that dump.

If only she knew.

Indi Bhindi

But yes, come over!! You know you don’t have to ask.

Indi Bhindi

I was just gonna text you because we ordered way too much pizza

Me

Be there in 15

Indi Bhindi

Also don’t judge me for the state of my house

I’d be the biggest hypocrite if I did that, considering how I keep my bedroom.

Today, however, Landon and Indi’s place looks like the inside of my brain.

“Don’t say anything,” Indi warns.

I nearly topple over while untying my sneakers at the door and taking in the disarray.

The usually spotless living space of their massive penthouse is filled with multiple giant suitcases.

They lie open, half-packed with nuts, Costco-size packs of chocolate bars, and diapers.

Indi leads the way, navigating through the maze toward an open spot.

Their dining table has become a khajano of Indian clothes: heavily beaded kurtas, sherwanis, anarkali-style gowns, and lehengas drape over the backs of each chair. One chair with Akhila-sized lehengas makes me audibly awww .

A variety of colorful jooti lie in a pile on the floor beneath the bar overhang of the kitchen island, its countertop smattered with stacks of brocade-covered jewelry boxes and clear-film packed sleeves of bangles.

“What in the name of Bollywood is happening here?”