Rejoice

---

The campus of Salem was humming. Not just with sewing machines or whispered critiques — but with pressure. Final project week had descended like a stormcloud. Designs sprawled across tables, mannequins stood half-dressed like witnesses to nervous breakdowns, and students raced against time, inspiration, and doubt.

Rejoice stood at her corner table in Studio C. The theme "The Self in Fragments" echoed in her ears every time she picked up a needle.

Her sketches had started abstract: broken mirrors, shattered glass, displaced threads. But after a long walk the previous night — after Zion's words lingered longer than she expected — she changed course. Her fragments would be stitched together.

Her project would not be about brokenness. It would be about rebuilding.

Across the studio, Zion watched her from behind his pattern board. There was something different about Rejoice now. She was no longer shrinking in the presence of critics. She moved with intention. Poise. Even under pressure.

He admired that. More than he cared to admit.

"Need help?" he asked softly.

Rejoice didn't look up. "Only if you know how to fuse fabric with metaphor."

Zion chuckled. "Lucky for you, I'm fluent in symbolism."

She allowed herself a small smile, but her hands stayed busy. "Then sit. Quietly. I'm still figuring out if pain makes better art than healing."

"I think both make it honest," he replied.

Meanwhile, in the embroidery room

Sonia and Daphne huddled over their collaborative panels, each thread representing a part of their journey. Daphne's colors were bright, bold, almost rebellious. Sonia's were soft, layered, deceptively gentle — like her.

"Rejoice is going to kill this," Sonia whispered.

"She's built for this," Daphne agreed. "Even her silence says something."

They both glanced toward the hallway, where Elizabeth had just walked past.

Her head was high, but her eyes darted too quickly. Something was off. Her usually polished nails were chipped. Her blazer wrinkled.

"She looks… wrecked," Daphne observed.

"She's unraveling," Sonia replied, threading a new needle. "And she knows it."

Elizabeth hadn't spoken to Crystal or Grace in days. Faith had fully detached from their group. And Mr. Ibukun's sudden coldness toward her hadn't gone unnoticed.

In truth, Elizabeth was flailing.

Her new design — a sharp, avant-garde dress inspired by battle armor — wasn't coming together. She couldn't focus. The betrayal still burned.

Rejoice had played her. Outsmarted her.

Worse — exposed her.

Now, the whispers followed her like shadows. Even Queen, who had been gone weeks earlier for academic misconduct, hadn't caused such a stir.

Elizabeth wasn't just losing the competition.

She was losing her identity.

---

On Day Three of project week, Mrs. Happiness called Rejoice into her office.

"Sit," she said, offering her ginger tea.

Rejoice did, but she kept her hands folded tightly on her lap.

"You've surprised many of us," the woman said gently. "Even me."

Rejoice raised an eyebrow. "In a good way?"

Mrs. Happiness nodded. "In a real way. Your growth is visible. It's layered into your work. You've taken the theme and stitched yourself into it — literally."

Rejoice hesitated. "Sometimes I don't feel strong. I just feel...tired."

"That's what strength looks like sometimes," Mrs. Happiness replied. "It's not shiny. It's resilient."

Rejoice blinked. "Thank you for protecting my portfolio."

"I didn't do it for gratitude," she said. "I did it because you earned that trust. Now go — show the judges why you deserve the world."

---

Back in Studio C, Rejoice returned to her mannequin.

Each piece of her design was symbolic:

The bodice featured uneven panels — representing shattered dreams.

The sleeves, made from patchwork organza and lace, symbolized delicate recovery.

And the hemline? Threaded in bold red stitches. Scars. Not hidden — but highlighted.

Sonia walked by and paused, visibly moved.

"It's...beautiful."

Rejoice smiled faintly. "It's me."

---

On Day Four

The pressure cracked someone.

Malik, who had once joked through every project, broke down beside the bobbin shelf. His design had warped during ironing, and nothing was aligning. Tilda tried to help him, but his hands were shaking too hard.

"I can't fail," he whispered. "My parents… they sold our fridge so I could afford these materials."

Rejoice overheard — and paused.

Without hesitation, she walked over.

"You have fabric left?"

"Some," Malik said shakily.

"Then reimagine it. Less is more. Collapse the layers. Simplify."

He stared at her.

"I know how hard this is," she added softly. "But you're not alone."

Malik's eyes welled up, but he nodded.

From across the room, Zion saw it all.

He turned to Elizabeth — who had witnessed the same scene — but her expression was unreadable.

---

That night in the dorm

Daphne opened a bag of chips dramatically. "Tomorrow's the panel inspection. I can't feel my fingers."

Sonia laughed. "That's what fashion sacrifice looks like."

Rejoice sat by the window again, her bodice hanging behind her on a temporary dress form.

"I'm scared," she admitted.

Both girls looked at her.

"Of what?" Sonia asked.

"Of wanting this too much."

Daphne leaned forward. "Good. Want it. That's how you know it matters."

---

The next morning

Salem's central atrium transformed into a gallery. Spotlights illuminated mannequins. Presentation boards stood like silent narrators beside each piece.

The judges arrived: Mr. Caleb, Miss Edna, Mr. Ibukun, Mrs. Happiness.

And a surprise guest — Madam Folake Durosinmi, legendary Nigerian fashion archivist.

Gasps echoed. This woman curated for Vogue Africa. She'd once dressed the president's wife.

The stakes had just tripled.

Rejoice's heart pounded. She adjusted the collar on her piece and stepped back.

Elizabeth watched her from two tables down, her armor-like dress standing like a warning.

Faith whispered to Rejoice on her way by: "Yours looks alive."

Rejoice smiled. "So do you."

---

The evaluations began.

Each student had three minutes to explain their vision. The judges asked tough questions.

When it was Rejoice's turn, she inhaled deeply and stepped forward.

"My piece is called Scar Bloom. It represents how identity is not a singular shape, but a patchwork of pain, resilience, and rebirth. The uneven panels are my setbacks. The red stitches — my scars. The transparent layers — my honesty."

She paused. "We are all fragmented. But we are not broken."

The room was quiet.

Then Madam Folake nodded once, powerfully.

"Beautifully said," she murmured.

Rejoice exhaled — and stepped back.

Zion smiled behind her. Even Mrs. Happiness's eyes were glistening.

---

Elizabeth went two present later.

Her explanation was technically sound. Words like "aggression," "domination," and "defense" filled the air. Her design was coldly impressive.

But something was missing.

When asked what inspired it, she froze.

Finally, she said, "Fear. Of being irrelevant."

Mr. Caleb wrote something down.

Grace looked away.

Crystal remained silent.

---

Later that evening

The judges convened. Decisions were sealed. Announcements would come the next morning.

But in the dorm, the tension was unbearable.

Daphne paced. Malik muttered prayers. Tilda baked cookies no one could eat.

Sonia grabbed Rejoice's hand. "No matter what happens — you fought fair."

"And stayed whole," Daphne added.

Rejoice nodded, grateful. She thought of Salem. Of Mrs. Happiness. Of Zion.

Of the girl she was when she arrived — invisible, unsure, afraid.

Now she stood tall. Visible. Brave. Creative.

Ready.

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