Page 23

“I’d never think about trying.” His grip shook with his voice.

I’m not sure how long we looped pinkies like that, but I wasn’t going to be the first one to let go, and I don’t think he wanted to, either.

Chapter 8

A sprite would have come in handy that morning, considering my alarm never went off.

Without any possibly hallucinated creatures destroying the kitchen loud enough to wake me up at the crack of dawn, I slept way too late. Now I sprinted up the stairs to the City College, praying for no pit stains in my cropped striped crew neck, as I jumped over the eroded steps.

The humidity smeared my Chapstick, and the shorter layers of hair that framed my face tangled in my mouth. When I got to the top of the staircase, I pulled up the map to find the best route to class and picked a path that seemed to go in the direction I needed to be heading.

I entered a gray-slatted building, my hurried footsteps echoing through the empty hall, curious glances and my feverish reflection staring back at me from the tiny windows in the classrooms’ doors I swept past. Behind the Plexiglass, labs with white coats and microscopes made it clear this was not where I was supposed to be.

Cool, cool, cool. I’d just continue to wander around aimlessly and miss my first day, no big deal.

Pavement replaced the linoleum as I exited out into a shady courtyard. Concrete benches arranged in a half-moon lined the perimeter, backed by trellises of morning glory flowers. It would have been a peaceful place to study if it wasn’t enveloped by a cloud of smoke.

Its current patrons crowded in front of the exit path, their stream of laugher and swearing stifled by coughing and hocking loogies—one landing near my shoe. Ew.

Cringing a bit, I glanced around the courtyard for an alternative route or a map because the one on my phone was hardly legible when I zoomed in. Going back the way I came would just put me in circles. Ugh, I should’ve listened to Javi and toured the campus before my first day…My hands balled into fists. That was it, I was going to have to grow a spine and cut through the smokers, even if they looked like they’d bite.

A guy turned away from the group and blew a plume right in my face. It watered my eyes and tickled my nose. I bit back a cough, but it was too late, and one came bursting out of me. As my palm covered my mouth, the others turned to look.

Ten. Ten older guys and girls stared back. All of them dressed the same—greasers, but with a James Dean edge—abundantly pierced, tattooed, wearing band t-shirts, hair slicked into messy comb-overs that made anyone want to run their fingers through it.

All eyes were on me as I took a deep breath. “Excuse me—hi—is the seven hundred building that way?”

One guy responded with an endearing burp, while the girl next to him brought a fist to her lips, her striking blue eyes squinting from trying to withhold her laughter. The rest gaped at me as if I just told them punk rock was dead. The way my cheeks flushed, I felt like I might’ve. Standing on the outskirts shifting between tippy-toes did not send off the vibe of confidence I needed.

Before I changed my mind, I beelined through the group, not daring to lift my head any higher than the knee holes in their jeans. They parted for me only a second before I’d plow into them. One person was a little too slow—my toe caught their half-laced boot, and I dove headfirst into the concrete.

I ate more of that fall than my own birthday cake.

For a moment, the shock kept me from moving—kept me from feeling anything. Slow as an earthworm, I crawled to my feet, resisting the urge to cry or scream as embarrassment flooded me. I’d be surprised if the welt protruding on my forehead didn’t spell out the word loser.

Common sense yelled, Get lost! while impulse thought, How bad? The smart thing to do would be to leave and not look, but of course I did the opposite and stole a quick glance, because I was sure they were just dying to know I was okay…

They weren’t. Their dismissive stares pierced me like laser beams. Someone scoffed.

“I’m good!” I threw my hands up to prove it. Not that they were asking or cared.

Eager to split, I almost tripped over another pair of Doc Martens as I scampered away.

For those few mortifying seconds, I forgot why I’d been running in the first place, then the light bounced off a plastic room number plaque. I was still scrambling, but at least it was in the right direction.

Finally, I found it: 707. The door to my class practically glowed.

My plan? Slip in, take a seat in the back row—after all, this was college. Chances were the teacher wouldn’t even notice. Beaming with giddiness, I reached for the handle. What could be worse than the humiliation I just endured?

A classroom filled to the brim. Students taking tests. Everyone looking up at me in silence from their desks.

That’s what.

The wiry, grayed professor tilted his silver spectacles, observing me through agitated blinks. His scorn destroyed my short-lived joy at finding the classroom, replacing it with the hot shame I thought I’d escaped.

Sorry, I mouthed, narrowly avoiding the school-style booby traps in the aisle: backpacks and pen caps and outstretched ankles—my own almost hooking on a skinny metal desk leg. I followed the professor’s finger, fighting the urge to give him one of my own, to the single empty seat. Settling into his direct line of fire, I realized why it hadn’t been taken yet: it was front row, dead center.

He gestured to the engraved tumbler he held. MR. HESS. Then with his free hand, flashed me four fingers, followed by five. Forty-five minutes, I assumed.