"Today we talk about a demonic exam strategy, that Professors learn during their internships at Hades Universal Teacher's Symposium. 

No, we're not talking about a certain Development Economics professor who decided to troll us by setting an "All False" answer key in a True/False based exam. (65 False Statements...May Allah forgive your sins, Sir.)

We're talking about "Cheat Sheets". A word that causes a wave of incoherent, relieved sobbing to run through the student body. 

The truth is, this is all a mind trick. A false promise. A mirage in the middle of the scorching desert. It's Not Real, folks. FYI: You're still screwed. 

If a professor allows you a cheat sheet before exams, this is what's really going through his mind:

'Awww. Poor suckers. Thinking their puny tools can help them at this dire hour! huehuehue! Your microscopic reproduction of the entire syllabus is no match for my ULTRON-MEGADETH-SUPERFAILER 2.0 Exam paper. *Evil Cackles* Time to die, mortals. *Unscrews Red Marker*'

--(Nitty Gritty, Issue Number 4545, May 2017)

I remember when I was around 5 or 6 years old. 

My gymnastics coach was a former Olympian, running a Junior Gymnastics School in Islamabad City. Even though I lived in Karachi, He agreed to coach me because of Dad's connections, and my mother's influence. A big fat compensation package, along with handsome accommodations, might have also helped convince him. Dad chose him because he was 'The best' in the field, and nothing less than the best would do for his daughter.

Sikander Azam his name was (Literal Urdu translation of Alexander The Great) A tall, tanned, mercilessly grueling mentor, he often forgot that he was training mere children. 

"I'm training future champions," He used to stress whenever I complained to Dad about him (which was basically every other day. I was very fond of complaining about everything as a kid) "If you don't want her to be one, then I have no business coaching her."

"My daughter will be a champion, Sanam," Dad announced to Mama when she tried to make my training schedule less intense. "In a couple of years, she will be the youngest Olympian to win for Pakistan. See if she won't!"

Just like that. It was decided. 

I had to be home-schooled to keep up with the training hours. 

Despite my complaining, I loved every second I spent at the Gymnastics Club we trained at. 

I laughed, I cried, I got hurt...then I picked myself up again, and again. And again.

"Nobody is going to save you Layla," Sir Sikander flatly refused to help me up after a particularly nasty fall of the Pommel Horse. I was wailing like a banshee, but he wasn't moved by my tears. "dust it off, kid. Pick yourself up, and dust it off. You will live."

I did live. After every hit. After every fall. After every sprained ankle, or twisted elbow...I lived. 

I learned deeply empowering lessons during that time. Everything we did during training, wasn't just physical, it was spiritual too. I didn't realize it at that time, but these lessons are still embedded somewhere.

In retrospect, If I hadn't become ashamed of my body, and quit gymnastics all those years ago, I think it would have been a better alternative to the psychological therapy my mother forced on me. I would have learned to accept my falls, and respect my body for the wonders that it could do...Perhaps I would have been a different person now. An even stronger person. 

One of my favorite routines since childhood, is the parallel-uneven-bars. It has a set of two or more horizontal bars, attached at varying heights.

Swinging, and releasing on a single bar is pretty easy. It's an easy set of spirals.

Twist. Release. Hold. Twist again.

The Uneven bars make it complicated. You have to Twist. Hold. Release. Fly. Hold. Release, and Twist again, before an exit salto.

Flying is the most terrifying part. You have to let go of a familiar, comfortable bar, in order to reach for a more ambitious one. It is an exercise in trust. A trust in your own body. That it will not let you fall to the ground, mid-flight. That it will allow you to cheat gravity, long enough to reach the Acme of your routine. The highest point. The desired point. 

It's not easy. Letting go. Trusting. It's terrifying. 

My life is an Uneven Bars set right now. I am swinging on the lower bar. Safe, comfortable. But I don't want to stay here forever. I can see it; my Acme. My love. Him. Just ahead of me, yet still out of reach. 

Every day we come closer to the date of his departure. He will leave without ever knowing how much he means to me. Without knowing that I stay awake at night dreaming about impossible scenarios where I tell him how I feel, and in response, he smiles that gut-wrenchingly adorable, dimpled smile, leaning forward to whisper in my ears; "I know exactly how you feel Nightlife. Because feel the same way too." 

To get to my acme, I have to let go first. Of my fear; my hesitation. I have to let go of my comfortable lower-bar, and I have to fly. I have to fly without knowing that I will ever be airborne long enough to grasp the higher bar, in mid-flight. 

All I have is blind Trust. Trust that my body (Or in his case; my heart) won't betray me. Won't allow me to get hurt.

I don't know why, but ever since Azaan got his email, I've been intensifying my gym hours at home. I no longer have a coach, so I keep in shape, mostly through the old routines Sir Sikander drilled in me all those years ago.

Since I'm not competing anywhere, it doesn't really matter that I lack an exhibitionists' finesse and technique. It also doesn't matter that I mostly do routines to "Angry, Profane Music" as Ruby calls it (She means Eminem, DMX and the like, of course). Sir Sikander used to train me to intense, classical pieces. Bach. Beethoven. The occasional Chopin or Mozart. 

He used to call me his baby swan. 

"One day, you will be as graceful inside as you are on the outside, Layla. Your routines should reflect your inner psyche. A measured, steady, interpretation of harmony."

I no longer have harmony. Haven't had it since someone broke me. 

The baby swan has turned into a pissed off Seagull, who feels cheated at the hollow, unfulfilled promises of Swanhood. She is aggressive, and moody, and very, very sensitive. 

With Eminem's "Lose Yourself" blaring from the surround sound system in our gym, I try to attempt the Uneven Bars. My breath sped up as I hoisted myself onto the lower bar, with the help of a stool. 

It's been years since I last attempted the uneven bars. I don't know why I want to try it again, and prove to myself that I am capable of trusting myself.

 "Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted-One moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip?"

'I don't know, Eminem. What if he says no?' I think.

 "You better lose yourself in the music, the moment 
You own it, you better never let it go"

My arms stretched, and heart raced as I huffed through the twists and turns. I gritted with concentration as I supported myself on one hand, holding myself aloft on the bar for seconds before letting my body release again. 

"You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow 
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime you betta
Lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go"   

'Rap music is the best alternative to a merciless, angry, human coach.' I think to myself, as I prepared to fly.

This was it. The moment of reckoning.

Do I trust myself? Do I trust my heart? Knowing that men are cheaters, liars molesters, and selfish heartbreakers...

"His soul's escaping, through this hole that is gaping
This world is mine for the taking"

I let go of the lower bar, soaring through the air, twisting my body in an arc, reaching for the Acme above me. My hands stretched ahead, eager to grasp it. If I don't grasp it, I will fall, 8 feet below. I will likely hurt my knees, and live with the regret of knowing that in a tough moment of choice, I didn't trust my body enough. 

Eminem's next verse scares me. 

"He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out
He's chokin, how everybody's jokin now
The clock's run out, time's up over, bloah!
Snap back to reality, Oh there goes gravity"

"No!" I growl, as my hands made contact with the higher bar. I almost let go...almost. 

But I didn't. I reached it, and I grabbed it with eager hands. I trusted it. 

My flight was complete yet the set was still not over. I was so overwhelmed by the unexpected success that it left me sobbing in the middle of the routine.

If someone saw me just then, I would have looked so funny. A tiny girl clad in a black full-body unitard, hanging from a 12-foot bar, crying her eyes out.

The muscles of my arms popped under my weight, as I made no move to somersault, or just let go of the bar to the padded mats below me. 

"I won't stay quiet," I vowed to myself, as I hauled my body towards the final release. "he cannot leave me, without knowing how I feel. I won't spend the next two years wondering if I ever meant more to him than just a friend. If his care for me, was something deeper...something more?" 

  "You own it, you better never let it go 
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow"

'You got it Slim Shady!' I grinned through my tears, as I landed on my feet. Gracefully, in spite of the angry rap music. 

Men may be cheaters, molesters, liars, and selfish heartbreakers...

but they're also sensitive boys who throw up after punching a groper. 

They're also charming devils who make your heart race when they tell you that they're proud of you. 

They're also sweet, confused consolers who don't know how to make your tears stop, but they try their best anyways.

They're also silent, somber mourners who're not ashamed of crying for 140 dead children they never knew. 

They're also the teasing brothers who would do anything for their little sisters.

They're also dimpled, perpetually hungry, geeky jerks who don't politely knock on your heart before entering...they barge in without ceremony, whistling to a cheesy Bollywood song, unmindful of their muddy feet, leaving perpetual marks over your soul. And they refuse to leave. Dammit.

I have laughed with him. I have fought with him. I have admired him. I have even hated him. 

But the truth is; I have never loved anyone like I've loved him. 

And that makes all the difference. 

.....................

"I have to talk to you." I whispered to him after our last final exam on campus. It was a Friday, and the boys were planning a football match afterwards, as is traditional for every end-of-semester party. How they can play during a heat-wave, is beyond me. How they can even think of playing in Traditional Friday attire (Plain Kurta Shalwars) is also beyond me. 

I tried not to stare at his lean, powerful body, outlined snugly by the crisp white Kurta he was wearing. I tended to lose my nerve whenever I looked at his perfection.

I would swallow crushed glass before admitting it to his face, but this boy just gets a little bit more attractive every time he wears desi. His short dark hair and summer tan set off against the brilliance of his cool white cotton kurta shirt. His sleeves were pushed up to reveal his impressive forearms, lightly dusted with hair.

Physique-wise, he wasn't overly muscled or hulking like Faris. He was more of a wide-shouldered, lean muscled type, commonly found in football players. 

'How can he ever feel anything for me?'  This beautiful, god-like creature. 

But then he put my doubts to rest, grinning teasingly at me, shading his eyes with his hands. "About to confess your undying love for me, huh?" 

My eyes widened at his joke, as I expelled a hysterical snort of laughter. 'You have no idea, dude.' I thought privately to myself. 

  "I'll catch you after the match, then. I'm not going anywhere." Azaan grinned at me, subtly stealing my half-eaten Lays packet from my hand. I didn't bother glaring at him. This was so intrinsic to our everyday life. I buy food, and he steals it. He calls it my 'Food Zakat'. I call it 'Dimpled Extortion' (To myself, obviously). 

"Malik! If you can unattach your ass from the bleachers in about 20-seconds...That would be great." Faris barked at Azaan, twirling his football suggestively on his middle finger. He looked pointedly away from Shay who was scowling at his choice of words, and loudly justified "Ass isn't a cuss word, in case someone disapproves of it. Ass is a part of the human anatomy! I refuse to find a Euphemism for Ass"

Azaan calmly strolled into the vast field, nibbling leisurely on the chips, a move that pissed off Faris even further. I saw him elbow away Asad who tried to steal some of the barbecue flavored chips. 

"I don't share food, peasant." he arrogantly declared. 

Soon the match started, and I was glad for the cool shade of our bleachers. The ground was so vast, that the occasional breeze swirled around us, providing respite from the remnants of evening heat. 

"How was your Financial Management final, Shay?" I settled into the bleachers, taking my cellphone out of my jeans pocket, to scroll meaninglessly through it. Shay sat down beside me, leaning into me, using me as a pillow.

"Ugh. Totally bombed the last question, yaar (mate). Faris is an awful finance tutor! You remember how he explained the US mortgage crisis?..."

I snorted a laugh when I recalled Faris' unwilling tutorship.

This is how he explained the US financial Crisis of 2008;

"It was all just one big Cluster-flub basically. The Bankers in the case were greedy bast-err-custards. They started giving housing loans to poor as flub people, who couldn't afford to pay for shi-err-schnitz. Then they colluded with some mother-chucking investment bankers who sold those loans as securitized loans to investors. What they didn't realize was that the housing market would completely flub them over. So to conclude, my point about cluster-flub is evident."

I smiled nostalgically, realizing that our group study sessions are over now. After the guys move on, we'll be on our own for the final year, for better or for worse.

"So, you're going to talk to Azaan today?" Shay was grinning cheekily at me. 

I stiffened reflexively, my guard going up instantly. I kept my face neutral though.

"I talk to him all the time, Shay. Nothing unusual about it."

Shay's grin widened.

"Aww come on! Stop hiding it Layla! It is plain as day, babe. You like him!"

I laughed too loudly at that, to mask my nervousness.

"Yeah, right."

Shay is quiet for a while, brooding it over.

"Does he know?"

"There's nothing to know."

Shay waved my prevarications aside.

"You cannot lie to me, honey. I've been seeing it since forever. And I've seen him too. He likes you back, Layla. No doubts about it."

My heart fluttered at her words. Clinging onto them. They gave me hope. They gave me reason to trust. Reason to let go of the lower bar, and fly without fear.

"I know he likes me, Shay. As a friend maybe." I said firmly, trying to convince both her and myself that this was a bad idea. Cold feet at its finest. 

"Really? Friends agree to be blushing brides, to save you from embarrassment? Do friends punch Qais in the face for daring to touch you? Do friends stay up till 4 am during survival camp because you were scared of spiders crawling into your sleeping bag? Do friends tease you for dressing up, and then secretly spend the whole Annual Dinner party glaring at guys who complimented you?..."

I felt my face heat up, when I recalled everything she was reminding me about. Don't all friends do that?

"Yeah, I am sure he would do the same for anyone of us, Shay. It's nothing." 

Shay raised an eyebrow at that; "Seriously? can you imagine him punching some girl who decides to get handsy with Faris?"

We both snickered at the visual. 

"I'm not one of those girls who want to push people into commitments, just because I am almost in one. So I won't pressure you to do something that doesn't feel right. But you have to know that I would love to see Layzy happen. It has to happen!" Shay hugged me around my belly, resting her head in my lap. I stroked her hair fondly, smirking at her stupid ship-name. I really was lucky to have friends like her. People who cared about me so selflessly. Always on my team. 

"MALIK, FOR FLUB'S SAKE, KEEP YOUR DANG EYES ON THE BALL! LEAVE THAT FLUBBING POTATO SACK ALONE! DEAR GOD!" Faris hollered at Azaan, when the latter sneaked away in the middle of a timeout huddle to munch on the leftover chips. 

"STAFP SAFING FANG! (Stop saying Dang)" Azaan yelled mid-munch, before swallowing, "I HATE THE PERVERTED WORD!"

"WHAT THE FLUB IS PERVERTED ABOUT DANG!?" Faris growled. 

It was during this confusion that Asad took a practice shot towards the goal Azaan was defending. He got so distracted by Faris that he couldn't avoid the football thwacking against his head. 

Azaan dropped the snacks, and dazedly reached for his head. He teetered drunkenly for a moment before crumpling dramatically to the grass beneath him. 

"Haha! Drama queen!" Shay laughed, pointing at the almost-comical scene. 

I don't know why, but something didn't feel right to me. 

"Shay...is he...did he faint, for real?" I gasped, waiting for Azaan to dust it off, and slug Asad in retaliation, or hurl back a witty insult or something. 

As the seconds ticked by, Azaan remained unmoving. Prone. 

"Aww. Sheesh. I think he died, or something. Ass." Faris gleefully jeered, poking Azaan with his toe. "Show's over Malik. Get up."

"Oh my God! these idiots! He has actually fainted!" I yelled as panic overcame me. I pushed Shay off my lap, and grabbed my water-bottle from the front pocket of my backpack. 

Faris started getting worried, when Azaan didn't move. I saw Asadomer staring worriedly at the unnaturally still, and deathly pale figure.

"Oh God! Oh Holy Flub! He is actually DEAD!" Faris's horrified proclamation made me want to slap him silly. "Oh God, Oh ALLAH! WE KILLED HIM!" 

For the record; Faris Maniar freaking out, is a sight I don't ever want to see again. 

I was trembling with fear, and anger when I reached the huddle around Azaan.

"Step away from him. NOW!" I whispered in a tone that brooked no arguments. The rest of the football guys hurriedly stepped away. It took me three tries to unscrew the water bottle, because my hands were shaking so badly.

I turned Azaan, face up, with some adrenaline-fueled strength that I never imagined I'd ever have. His face looked bloodless, it was so pale. His pristine white kurta was grass-stained, with some blades of grass clinging to his forehead, and jaw. I swiped away the dirt from his face, before emptying the entire water bottle on his face. 

He spluttered awake, after a split-second, gasping for breath, as he coughed up water all over my own shirt. I whacked the back of his neck, to help expel the water from throat. 

"Holy flub! dude! you scared Layla so bad, man!" Faris croaked weakly, as usual unable to express his own feelings. I didn't even glare at him for this lie, because I was suddenly weak with relief.

"Alhamdolilah. Alhamdolilah. (Thanks be to Allah)" I kept whispering, offering a flimsy thank you, in exchange for bringing him back. My knees gave out beneath me, so I reflexively sat down beside Azaan, bracing myself on my knees.

"Uh. What happened?" Azaan rasped hoarsely, wiping off his dripping face. 

"Dude, Omer kicked a ball at your face, and you fainted like a lady. Then Layla was too scared to help you, so I poured water on your face, until you coughed away from Mr. Death. True story." Asad explained hurriedly. 

"Why you lying custard!" Omer growled at him, using one of Faris' curse-equivalents. 

I just laughed out in relief, intending to make a joke at Azaan's expense, but something about his expression made my laughter die in my throat. 

"Hey, are you okay?" I asked worriedly. 

He kept staring blank-faced at me for a while, before shifting his gaze towards Faris, Asadomer, Daniyal, and others. 

I took off my favorite Cashmere shawl, and held it towards him, intending him to use it to wipe the water off his face and neck. 

When he made no move to grasp the shawl, and kept staring blankly at all of us, I started worrying once again. 

"Azaan. Can you see us?" I asked sharply. I have heard of head injury victims losing their eye-sight for a few moments, post-impact. Usually, doctors shine flashlights in the eyes to measure healthy pupil contraction.

"Yeah, I can see you." he grunted, shifting his wary gaze to my face. I sighed with relief.

"So what's the problem? Why are you acting so weird?" 

His face crumpled at that, his forehead wrinkling with pain. My eyes widened when I realized that he was crying.

"Because I don't remember" he croaked out, helplessly yanking at his short hair.

"What don't you remember, Azaan?" I whispered numbly. 

"Anything. I don't remember anything." 

Author's Note:

Hey guys! 

This chapter was so frustrating for me, because I lost it TWO TIMES! (FLUB YOU WATTPAD GODS. FLUB YOU!)  Do you have any idea how psychologically traumatic it is? losing almost 2000 words of the same chapter on two separate occasions? 

You should have seen me turn into the Incredible Hulk when it happened the second time. Be glad that I didn't give up on it! :D This is just for you awesome, readers, voters and commenters (especially the commenters :*) You give me infinite happiness and patience. 

Also, the incredible drawing in the description is a character sketch of Faris, done by none other than Her Royal Snarkiness, my adorable little bundle of sarcasm, Meu_Rae. :* (Only you can snark on my book. Ok?)

Not to be outdone, my girl silverresnitch has found Faris in Chick-form, and Puppy-form. 

^__^ Enjoy. 

If you have any fan art of the characters of my book, I'd love to see it, and feature it! Seriously, I wouldn't even mind badly drawn stick-figures!

Don't forget to VOTE and COMMENT! if you liked what you read! 

Peace!

-E.