She felt the blood drain from her face. A D-minus. She had never received a C in her life.
"This is your enemy," he said. "The university system has coddled you. It has rewarded you for mediocrity wrapped in pretty fonts. I am not interested in your feelings. I am not interested in your 'journey.' I am interested in your mind. If your mind is soft, you will fail. If your mind is lazy, you will fail." coursedevil
The first day of class was a lesson in atmospheric tension. Dr. Thorne did not shuffle in. He marched. He was a man of severe geometry—sharp elbows, a jaw that looked like it could cut glass, and suits that were impeccably tailored but somehow looked like armor. He did not carry a briefcase; he carried a stack of papers that he slammed onto the podium with a sound like a gunshot. She felt the blood drain from her face
Maya retrieved hers. At the top, in thick, angry red ink, was a grade: D-. "This is your enemy," he said
A.
When she finished, the room was deadly quiet. She looked at Thorne.