How was she supposed to get all that done while resting and course prepping for the next semester? Well, that was the lie: that she’d find a way. Every break that she didn’t magically find a way to do all the things she’d planned to do made her feel worse. And when she walked into the next semester less rested and more stressed, the worst part was that she’d believed her own fairy tales.

On some level, her students knew she was bullshitting about how easy her exam was. They knew their attendance grades and if they’d barely passed the reading quizzes, assuming they took them at all. They’d also been on ratemyprofessor.com, so they knew how many other students said she was a hard grader, a bitch, a mess, unqualified to be doing her job. Her students knew she was lying, just like the chair of her department knew she wouldn’t finish her book this year even as he nodded solemnly at her and wished her luck. But Deja believed that she would do all the things she’d planned and more, even with all evidence pointed toward the fallacy. She had to believe because it was about the only way she could trick herself into believing in herself.

So she wasted the first week of her winter break studiously checking books out from the library, printing out academic articles, and organizing her notes. She didn’t read or write anything, but she got herself in order. She deep-cleaned her apartment, she washed all the laundry she hadn’t had time to do, and she made many, many lists. And at the end of the week, she Skyped her family on Christmas Day.

“I wish you could have come home, sweetheart,” her dad said, his face too close to the laptop, as usual, so all she could see were his eyebrows, forehead, and thinning hair line. It made her smile.

“Me too, dad, but I—” Deja stopped speaking to take a few breaths. She didn’t want to cry on the Skype call because then her entire family would start crying. Again. They’d been here before, and after years of staying away to finish her work — to try to stay afloat — her family was used to her missing all the holidays, even if they hated it. “I just have so much work to do, dad. If I can just get my book in good shape, I really think I can submit it to presses next year. I do.”

Deja tried to ignore the pathetic naïveté she heard in her voice. She sounded like a used car salesperson, but she didn’t know who she was trying to convince; herself or her father. Either way, it was so sad.