She hated the neat, looping handwriting that had penciled in “simile” next to the passage about the storm. She hated the smug little checkmark beside the question: What effect does the writer create? The answer, in that same confident script, read: Tension and foreboding.
The answers were always there, lurking in the back of the Cambridge IGCSE First Language English Coursebook. Not in a printed answer key—that was a mythical creature, whispered about but never seen. No, these answers lived in the margins, faded like old scars, left by students from years past.
She wrote until her hand ached. She didn't mention similes. She didn't list techniques. She wrote about silence and indifference and the weight of being small.
Desperate, she closed her eyes. She imagined her own uncle, who had lost his fishing boat to a storm off the coast of Kerala. She remembered the way his hands had trembled around a chai cup afterwards. The way he didn't speak for three days. The way he finally whispered, “The sea doesn’t hate you. That would require it to know you exist. That’s the cruel part.”
She opened her eyes and began to write.
Maya stared at the blank lines. Her mind was a dry riverbed. She could feel the old answers pressing against the pages of her memory: Powerful verbs. Personification of the sea. Short sentences for panic. But those weren't her words. They were borrowed ghosts.
But this year, Ms. Okonkwo had declared war on the ghosts. “No looking at old annotations,” she’d said on the first day, her voice dry as the Harmattan wind. “You will write your own answers. You will bleed for them.”
Maya hated them.