I Sponsored My Worst Enemy

Professor Davis, is this some kind of power trip?

On the very first day of the new semester, Madison tagged me in the massive class GroupMe for the entire junior cohort:

Connor skipped class all semester, and you gave him a final grade of a C-minus. I sat in the front row every single day, and you gave me a D-minus? Just because Im a woman?

I pulled up the university grading portal.

Madisons raw score on the final exam was a 42. Terrified she would fail the course entirely, I had maxed out her participation and attendance points to 100, dragging her final grade up by the skin of its teeth to a 60a D-minus.

Connor, the slacker she mentioned, had scored a 98 on the brutally hard final. Because I gave him a near-zero for his nonexistent participation, his final grade averaged out to exactly a 70. A C-minus.

I typed my reply in the group: [Those are indeed your accurate final grades.]

Madison fired back immediately.[Professor, this isn't just favoritism anymore. This is textbook, internalized misogyny. Youre an academic pick-me!][Im going straight to the Deans office to file a formal complaint. I am getting the real grades back for every girl in this class!]

Academic pick-me.

The words sat on the screen, feeling like a physical slap across the face.

I taught Advanced Calculus. Right after the finals finished last semester, I had flown straight to Germany to lead a panel at an international teaching symposium. I didnt get back to the States until right before the new term started.

It was only when I sat down to grade the finals that I realized the disaster. The exam had been drafted by a new, notoriously rigorous adjunct professor from the East Coast. It was sadistically difficult.

I couldn't alter the raw exam scores. All I could do was desperately pad their participation grades to keep their GPAs afloat.

And yet, my quiet grace had somehow been twisted in Madisons mouth into a weapon of the patriarchy.

I took a deep, steadying breath, pushing down the rising heat in my chest.

[Madison,] I typed.[Per university policy, if you dispute your grade, you have one week to submit a formal review request to the Registrar.][However, be aware that once a formal audit is initiated, the final exam will be regraded, and your participation score will be strictly recalculated based on actual attendance logs and homework submissions.][If the audited grade is lower than your current grade, you will bear the consequences.]

The group chat went dead silent for three seconds.

Then, an audio message popped up from Madison, her voice dripping with condescension:

[Oh, are you threatening me now?][Everyone in this chat knows the syllabus. The final grade is 70% exam, 30% participation.][I checked my answers against the key right after I walked out. I got at least a 95 on that test!][But my final grade is a 60!][Which only means one thingProfessor Davis gave me a zero for participation!][@ClassPresident @StudyGroupLead: Was I not in the front row every single lecture? Did I not turn in every single assignment?][A model student with perfect attendance gets a zero for participation! And the guy who skips all semester gets a passing grade!][Professor Davis, are your grading rubrics based entirely on what's between our legs?]

I stared at the cascade of notifications. The blood was throbbing at my temples.

Part of me wanted to screenshot her actual, miserable exam sheet and drop it right into the group chat to end this once and for all.

But professionalism pulled me back from the ledge. Student grades are protected by privacy laws.

With a heavy sigh, I opened a private direct message with Madison and sent her a screenshot of her portal breakdown.

[Madison, stop posting in the main chat.][Your raw exam score was a 42. I gave you 100% on participation just to drag you across the passing line to a 60.][Connor scored a 98 on the final. I gave him a 5% for participation.][If you trigger a formal audit, the Registrar will see that you missed two lectures. They will not let you keep the 100% for participation. Your final grade will automatically drop to an F.][If you fail, your academic scholarships and your grad school recommendations are gone.]

I hesitated, watching the cursor blink, before adding one last warning.[I also happen to know that the internship offer you secured at the consulting firm requires a spotless transcript for onboarding. No failed classes.][If you fail, that offer is automatically rescinded.]

[Think carefully before you do this.]

I set my phone face down on the desk. I thought that would be the end of the tantrum.

Less than ten seconds later, my phone violently vibrated against the wood.

Madison had screenshot our private messages and dumped them straight into the 300-person cohort chat.

"Look at this, guys! Professor Davis is trying to use my internship offer to blackmail me into shutting up!"

"She even photoshopped a fake transcript! Shes trying to say I only got a 42!"

"If I hadn't checked my answers with the rest of you, I might have actually believed her. Even if I didn't get a 95, I easily scored a 90!"

"And the funniest part? She claims Connor got a 98! Too bad for her, I sat right behind Connor during the final! He wrote for thirty minutes, put his head down, and slept the rest of the time! Hed be lucky to get a 30!"

The second Madison's message landed, a "witness" eagerly jumped in.[I can vouch for that! I was in the same testing hall as Connor. Madison is telling the truth!]

With a witness backing her up, the chat exploded.[Holy shit, theres a witness?]

[Then what the hell did Connor actually score...][Wait, did Professor Davis actually photoshop a transcript?]

Madison tagged me again.[Do you see this, Professor?]

[A guy who slept through more than half the exam magically gets a 98?]

[Do you really think everyone in this cohort is stupid?]

The tide turned instantly. The digital mob had found its rhythm.

[Yeah... that literally makes no sense.][@ProfessorDavis, can you explain your grading metrics? I'm a girl, I came to every class, and my final grade was super low too!][Beware the academic pick-mes! Tearing down other womens futures just because she hates herself!]

Fueled by the validation, Madison went in for the kill.[Thank you guys so much for standing with me! This has been so incredibly unfair!][Today shes using grades to hold me down. Tomorrow shell be holding our diplomas hostage! We work our asses off for our degrees, why should we let some misogynistic academic fraud step all over us?!][Ladies, light up the Deans phone lines! We need to get her fired!]

I stared at the screen, reading the venomous, entirely fabricated reality Madison had just constructed.

My heart felt like it had been plunged into ice water, then pulled out and smashed against the concrete.

Seven years.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine the little girl I had been secretly sponsoring for seven years would turn out like this.

I started anonymously funding Madison when she was in the eighth grade. Her father had been paralyzed in a factory accident, and her mother had eventually left to remarry.

A local non-profit had sent me her file. In the attached photograph, she was a tiny, painfully timid girl, carrying a defensive, cornered-animal look in her eyes that no kid that age should have.

It broke my heart.

I set up a recurring monthly transfer of five hundred dollars.

She didn't text the proxy number often, but whenever she did, the messages were so heartbreakingly earnest.

Big Sister, the money is enough. Please dont send more.

Big Sister, I made the top fifty in my grade.

Big Sister, when I get to college, I want to meet you and say thank you in person.

Eventually, she was accepted into the exact university where I taught.

To keep the pressure off her, I never revealed my identity. I just kept communicating through my burner phone.

She had no idea that "Professor Davis" was her "Big Sister."

Our paths shouldn't have crossed. Until last year.

The original Calculus professor for her cohort went on emergency maternity leave. I was pulled in as a temporary substitute.

I recognized Madison in the very first lecture.

She sat in the front row, playing a game on her phone. Her nails were meticulously manicuredthe kind of intricate acrylics that cost at least a hundred and fifty dollars at a high-end salon.

At first, I chalked it up to wanting to fit in.

But week after week, she sat in the front row, phone in hand.

Between classes, Id overhear her chatting with the girls behind her.

"I literally waited three months on a waitlist for these shoes."

"We went to that new omakase place downtown. It was like two hundred a person, but honestly, just okay."

Her Instagram was a highlight reel of expensive brunches and aesthetic travel spots, always accompanied by the same caption: A girl's gotta treat herself.

Meanwhile, on my burner phone, the texts came in rapid succession.

Big Sister, textbooks are three hundred this semester.

Big Sister, I need a hundred for the mandatory lab equipment.

Big Sister, the deposit for the grad school prep course is eight hundred.

I transferred the money every single time.

I knew she was vain. I knew she was putting on a show. But I told myself that she was a young woman with a traumatic childhood, desperate to blend in with her affluent peers.

Then I heard the whispers among the other students. They all thought Madison was old money, a wealthy heiress keeping a low profile.

I had considered cutting off the sponsorship. But seven years is a long time. I figured I would just see her through to graduation. Let the story have a proper ending.

This year, as a junior, she couldn't land a decent internship. She cried to "Big Sister" over text.

My heart softened, one last time. I pulled a massive favor with a friend and got her an internal referral for an internship at a top-tier firm.

My friend had been blunt. "I'll take her, but the company has strict rules. If an intern fails a classeven if they pass the makeup examthe offer is void."

The memory fractured and dissolved.

The group chat notifications were pinned at 99+.

Drunk on the power of the crowd, Madison issued her final ultimatum.

[Professor Davis, playing dead won't work!][Are you scared now? Too late!]

[You want me to let this go? Fine.][First, you add an immediate 20-point curve to my final grade, and to every other girl's grade in this class!][Second, you send one hundred voice memos to this chat, apologizing one by one. You admit you are a misogynist, an academic pick-me, and unfit to teach!][Miss even one, and I send a zip file of these screenshots to the board of education, the ethics committee, and every local news station!]

[I will make sure you never work in academia again! Make your choice!]

I read the lines of text. The sheer, blinding audacity burned away the last lingering traces of my patience and my pity.

Instead of panic, a cold, quiet laugh slipped from my throat.

I tapped the screen, my fingers steady and deliberate.

[No need.][I have just submitted a formal request to the Dean and the Registrar. Tomorrow morning, we will initiate an official, fully transparent audit of your Calculus grade.]

The chat flatlined.

A few agonizing seconds passed.

Madisons reply popped up. The tone was still aggressive, but the cracks of panic were visible in the syntax.

[Oh, so you finally stopped hiding?][Audit me! You think I'm scared of you?!][My raw score is over a 95, you can't photoshop your way out of this!]

I didn't send another word. I powered off the phone.

Madison, you chose this road.

Tomorrow, I hope you have the spine to carry the fairness you just begged for.

The next morning, before I even pulled into the faculty parking lot, the university's PR director called me, her voice shrill with panic.

"Harper, have you checked Twitter?"

I froze, pulling up the app.

Trending at number nine:

#UniversityProfessorForgesGradesToThreatenFemaleStudent

I clicked the hashtag.

It was a sprawling, multi-paragraph post from Madison, painting herself as a martyr for women's rights in STEM. She spun a narrative of a brave student standing up to a corrupt, male-pandering professor who artificially suppressed women to elevate men.

The post wouldn't have gained much traction on its own.

Except, several students from my class had quote-tweeted it, using their real names to corroborate her story.[I'm in Professor Daviss class. Her relationship with Connor isn't just academic. I went to her office hours once, and through the door, I could hear him literally whining like a kept boy.][The funniest part is how cold she is when she calls on anyone else, but the second she looks at Connor, shes practically undressing him with her eyes!][If you know, you know. Theyre definitely sleeping together.]

10

The internet had caught fire.

The comments were a mob of absolute rage, demanding the university fire me immediately and mandate a massive grade curve for the entire class.

But as I sat in my car, I was paralyzed by a profound, agonizing confusion.

I had mentored this cohort for a year. I stayed late for office hours, I practically rewrote their resumes, I fought to get them resources.

Just last month, I had cashed in every ounce of goodwill I had in the corporate world to secure every single student in that class an internal referral code for Cole Enterprises.

It was the most coveted, impossible-to-get internship in the country. I was planning to announce it to them as a surprise this week.

Why would they do this? Why would they follow Madison into such a blatant, easily disprovable lie?

My chest felt tight, the air thinning in the car.

My phone buzzed. It was a private text from the class representative.[Professor Davis, I'm so sorry. Last night, Madison posted on her private story saying her fianc is Harrison Cole, the CEO of Cole Enterprises. People believed her.][She called everyone in the class individually. She told them if they helped her get you fired, she would guarantee them all internships at Cole Enterprises.][I swear I didn't join in on the rumors, but I was too scared to stop them...]

11

The bottom dropped out of my stomach.

I clicked over to Madison's Instagram.

A carousel of nine photos. The sprawling gardens of the Cole estate in the Hamptons. Two Rolls Royces in the driveway. A candid side-profile of Harrison Cole driving. And a heavily blurred shot of his passport.

The caption read: My Mr. Cole.

Unless you lived in that house, there was absolutely no way you could get those photos.

The comment section was flooded with my students.[Holy shit Madison, your fianc is the CEO of Cole Enterprises???]

[Harrison Cole?? Are you serious??]

[Girl, you kept that so quiet!]

Madisons replies were sickeningly coy:

[Keeping it lowkey. He prefers his privacy.]

I stared at the candid photo of the sharp jawlinea jawline I knew intimately.

A laugh bubbled up in my throat, sharp and hysterical.

Still laughing, I dialed Harrison's number.

"I need you to come to the universitys Registrar office right now."

"I have something to ask you."