Chapter 5: Results and Reckoning

The day the marks came out, the classroom was jam-packed—students, teachers, parents, even TV reporters with cameras and mics. Thanks to Ananya’s hype, the chaiwala peeked in, too.

WhatsApp forwards were on fire:

[Arre, Ananya’s Harvard seat set hai! Supporting character ki toh lag gayi—media here for her downfall!]

[Even if she’s real daughter, Ananya will always crush her, bro!]

Exam computers lined up, each of us tense like we’re in a KBC hot seat.

Results flashed across the room:

“Six-twenty-one, just as I thought!”

“Only five-sixty-eight—my English toh gaya!”

“Six forty.”

“Five thirty-five...what will I tell my dad?”

The air was thick with sweat, hope, and fear. The camera panned to me and Ananya, the showdown everyone wanted.

A reporter thrust a mic at Ananya. “Heard your class has two students predicting 710. Have you checked?”

Ananya gave me a sly look, then typed in her roll number.

Her marks flashed—

Zero.

The room froze. Then—

“How can it be zero? Must be a system error!”

“Maybe toppers are hidden—zero until official results!”

Amid the chaos, Ananya stayed cool. She met my eyes, lips curling: unbothered, almost triumphant.

“Ritika, you really are ruthless. I thought you’d just tank my score, but a zero? Didn’t expect that.”

Whispers spread like wildfire.

“Ananya, what are you saying?”

Ananya straightened, projecting for every camera:

“This might sound crazy, but I swear on my family, my izzat, it’s true. Three months ago, I found out Ritika bound some exchange system to swap my board marks. I’m always first—she wanted to steal my place, shame me. After the exam, we both said 710. She was setting up the swap.”

She scanned the room, everyone hungry for drama.

“So this zero isn’t my real score—it’s what Ritika swapped onto me.”

Reporters rushed in, flashes popping, some kid started a Facebook Live.

“That’s ridiculous—who believes this?”

I stood, heart thumping but hands steady, glasses pushed up. “Ananya, getting zero isn’t the end of the world. Take the exam next year. No need to spin stories to save face.”

Ananya’s eyes flashed—rage I remembered from bathroom bullies, echoing off tile and steel.

“You know what’s true.”

“Oh, really?”

My voice was soft, but the class went silent, like the inverter just kicked in after a power cut.

“I saw you, Ananya, in Connaught Place. Drinking, laughing, every night a party. Now you blame me for your choices?”

Even the invigilator put down her chai.

Ananya’s pupils shrank, but she lifted her chin, determined to save face.

“I went out because I didn’t want my effort to benefit you.”

She squared her shoulders, rich-girl attitude in every movement.

“As for framing you, why would I? I’m the only Sharma daughter. Which university can refuse me?”

She flicked her phone, WhatsApp pinging. “Not afraid to say it—Harvard’s about to send my offer.”

Right then, Mr. and Mrs. Sharma swept in, Kamala Devi trailing, her stare sharp as a steel thali.

Mr. Sharma, crisp shirt and gold cufflinks, announced:

“That’s right. Ananya’s in talks with top foreign universities. We’ve received a letter from the Harvard dean. She’ll be joining soon.”

WhatsApp forwards blew up:

[Sharma family’s power! Harvard will bend after the donation. Marks don’t matter—money talks!]

With her parents flanking her, Ananya seemed invincible.

She pointed at me:

“Ritika, if you say I’m framing you, check your marks—here, now. If you get zero too, everything I said is true.”

The whole room watched—some hungry for scandal, some just nosy.

“Well, Ritika, check your marks! Ananya has backup. If you get zero—beta, life over!”

I smiled, oddly light. “Alright. I’ll check.”

My hand reached for the keyboard, calm as a lake before a storm. Whatever happened next, this time, I wouldn’t bow my head.

The computer screen blinked. The number appeared—and the whole room held its breath.