Fuck This Shit

*Maeve Thorne*

*Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.*

The clock mocks me. It has been exactly seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds since I opened this cursed syllabus. I glare down at the heavy textbook, 'Introduction to Java'. A thick block of paper sitting right in the middle of my desk, challenging my sanity.

I do not want to be introduced to Java. Java and I should remain distant strangers.

I shake my head and force my eyes toward the bright pink sticky note taped to the wall. My personal motivation list.

Bullet point one: Clear this seventh semester.

Bullet point two: Get an actual paying job.

Bullet point three: Get a boob-job.

I close my eyes. I suck in a harsh breath. *Inhale. Exhale. Enter. Exit.* I wait for some kind of divine academic spirit to wash over me. I wait for the coding logic to seep into my brain.

Nothing happens. Just the cold reality of failure looming over my shoulder.

I snap my eyes open. I grab my notebook, my pens, my highlighters, and that stupid Java book. With one aggressive sweep of my arm, I shove them all off the edge of the desk. They hit the hardwood floor with a loud thud.

"Fuck this shit."

I jump up from my chair and kick the side of the wooden table. Pain flares in my toes, but the frustration burning in my chest is much worse. I cannot deal with this right now.

Just as I prepare to scream, a warm, rich scent drifts into my room. I pause. I tilt my head back and take a long sniff in the air.

Pancakes.

My stomach tightens. My mouth waters. The frustration fades into the background, replaced by raw hunger. My legs move fast. I hurry down the hall and push through the kitchen doorway.

Maddox is standing by the stove. He does not have a shirt on. His shoulder muscles bunch and shift as he flips a golden pancake high into the air. He catches it in the pan. His boxers hang so low on his hips that I can see a quarter of his buttocks peeking out above the waistband.

*What is this lousy piece of shit doing here?*

That is my first thought. But then I spot the open jar of Nutella sitting on the counter. A fresh batch of pancakes rests on a ceramic plate, steaming hot. I quickly swallow my usual sarcasm. I need those pancakes.

"Maddox, my favorite brother in the world!" I pitch my voice higher, putting on my sweetest tone. "I knew you loved me, boo." I practically squeal as I point at the chocolate spread.

He does not even flinch. He does not turn his head. He just slides the freshly flipped pancake onto the stack.

"This is for my girlfriend," Maddox says. His voice is flat. "She is waiting for me in my room. Not for you."

I clench my fists. We share the same birth date. We are twins. We even share the exact same stubborn attitude, probably inherited straight from our mother. Right now, I strongly consider grabbing that hot frying pan, smacking him in the face with it, and running off into the woods with the plate of food. No one stands between me and food.

"How is your preparation going on?" he asks.

Maddox is exactly one minute older than me, but he operates like a machine. He has the brain of a robot. He passes everything on the first try. Meanwhile, I have been stuck in the seventh semester for the past year.

I ignore his question and point toward the hallway. Two large suitcases sit by the front door. "Whose suitcases are those?"

"That is your favorite brother and his darling girlfriend's, of course." Maddox finally turns around and flashes a smirk.

"Going somewhere?" I ask, feigning a lack of interest.

"We are going on a Europe vacation. Celebrating graduation." He winks at me, grabbing the pan. "Just grabbing a quick bite before that."

*This son of a biscuit!*

He has the nerve to wink at me. He knows I have a massive exam tomorrow. I was supposed to graduate right alongside him. *If* I had passed. But I didn't. I am not an idiot; I just lack any genuine interest in memorizing formulas and chasing grades. Getting a degree is so mainstream nowadays. Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg—none of them cared about finishing degrees, yet they hired people with Harvard diplomas. It is all about creativity. And I am creative as fuck.

Maddox's smirk drops. His expression shifts into something serious. "Mae, mother showed me another guy's bio today. She said he is a fit for you."

My blood runs cold.

"If you do not graduate by next year, or get a job, she is going to force you to marry that businessman. And I will not be able to do anything to stop her. So, focus on your exams."

His tone is soft now. Genuine concern fills his eyes. He picks up the jar of Nutella in one hand and the plate of pancakes in the other, walking silently past me toward his room.

His words stab into my chest. I refuse to be a pawn in a deal. I am not marrying some boring, aged businessman who probably only knows sex positions for no more than just three.

Then, a thought crosses my mind. Why did Maddox take the jar of Nutella if he already spread it on the pancakes?

I freeze. *Oh. Eww.*

Images of his girlfriend Gemma covered in Nutella dance through my brain. I shudder in disgust, shaking the thought away. Maddox's warning floats through my head like a dark cloud as I walk out of the kitchen with no pancakes.

I need to get a job. I need to get this degree. But first, I need to pass.

My legs carry me straight back to my bedroom. I stop in the doorway and stare at the mess on the floor. My clothes, textbooks, towels, loose papers, and highlighters are scattered everywhere. Finding a clear spot to step is a challenge.

A few minutes ago, I wanted to give up. I wanted to burn the Java book. But the threat of an arranged marriage changes everything. I value my freedom too much. I want to make my own money. I want to live on my own terms.

I step inside. I bend down and pick up the thick Java textbook off the floor. I grab the notes, the pens, and the scattered papers. I neatly stack them back on the wooden study table. I pull my chair out, dust off the seat I kicked earlier, and sit down hard.

"I cannot fuck this shit," I mutter to the empty room. "I need to graduate."

I stare back at the pink sticky note. I remind myself that I am doing all this for my freedom. For money. I have to pass. The exam is tomorrow, and I cannot fail. I need to graduate.

*And I need to buy a new Nutella jar too.*