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"Uh, true happiness is having a deep sense of well-being, and peace, and vitality," I say, remembering reading that in the material. "It's being grateful to be alive."

"That's true," he says, "but that's not what I asked you."

I'm momentarily caught off guard by his sharp response.

"You see, if I wanted the textbook definition, I would've read it," he continues, smacking the book on his desk with the stick. "The question was your definition. Pay attention next time instead of gossiping with Miss Carmichael."

"Sorry, sir."

He stares at me, raising his eyebrows. "Well? Your definition?"

"I, uh…" I can feel the gaze of my classmates burning through me, waiting. "I don't know."

"You don't know," he echoes. "You don't know what makes you happy?"

"Well, sure, but happiness isn't really a thing," I say. "It's a state of mind."

He doesn't look the least bit entertained. "A state of mind or a state of being?"

I hesitate before repeating myself. "A state of mind. It's just the way you look at things."

The corner of his lip twitches, but it's not with amusement. He looks like he might have a blood vessel burst if I keep speaking. "Do you pick up all of your philosophical insight from the realm of children's narrative, Miss Reed, or just your views on happiness?"

I blanch, hearing the wave of giggling flow through the room. I start to stammer out a response when he turns away, pointing back to the chalkboard, a sign that says he's done with my shit. "Albert Einstein said a table, a chair, a bowl of fruit, and a violin were happiness for him. Clearly, everyone defines it differently… those of us who can define it, anyway."

I slink down in my chair, embarrassed, as Melody leans toward me, whispering, "Please tell me you weren't quoting Seuss again."

"Walt Disney," I mutter as quietly as can be, but based on the way Santino's gaze darts to me again, I suspect he knew I was talking.

Class is over within minutes after that. I'm out of my seat as Santino shouts, "Two page paper exploring the concept of true happiness due on Thursday! I'll have your mid-terms graded then."

The class groans as we head for the door. Melody falls into step beside me, sighing as she slips her bag on. "You couldn't be normal and say orgasms, could you?"

I laugh, shaking my head. I couldn't say that, but of course, I wouldn't refute it. The mere mention of the word causes a tingle deep inside of me, the memory of the way Naz made my toes curl as I came for him.

That was undoubtedly happiness.

That was Heaven.

I could write the next great American novel about it.

"You know me," I say. "I like to keep things interesting."

"Yeah, well, you ought to be careful," she says. "You know he gets a kick out of torturing students. It's, like, foreplay to him, and if you keep it up, you might end up being the one getting fucked."

Seems to me I'm already on that path, and have been since the first day I stepped into his classroom. He'd gone down the roster, doing his first and only roll call, acknowledging each of us individually. Scare tactic, Melody said… nothing more terrifying than having Satan speak your name. He'd reached my name that day and hesitated, seeking me out. The others he simply nodded at before moving on, but he'd stared at me that afternoon like with one look he knew I didn't belong there.

We make our way to the dorm, strolling along in no rush, the ten-minute trip taking double that. As soon as we make it to our room, Melody flops down on her bed, while my eyes are drawn to the room phone, the little button on it blinking red. We never use it, only ever remembering it's there when the school calls the number to leave a message. I pick up the receiver and press the button to hear the automated message.

"Please come down to the building resource center this afternoon for a pickup. Thank you."

Sighing, I hang up the phone and turn for the door. "I'll be back."

"Where are you going?"

"There's a package or something waiting downstairs."

I head right back down to the lobby, waiting my turn at the resource center window to pickup whatever was left there. As soon as it's my turn, I step up to the woman working the desk and hold my school ID out to her. "I received a message to pick up something."

She punches it into her computer. "Ah, yes, 1313."

I lean back against the wall beside the window, waiting for her to retrieve the package, when she sets a sparkling vase filled with long-stemmed roses on the counter.

"Here you go," she says, smiling sweetly. "Karissa Reed."

My eyes widen as I stare at the flowers. They're in vibrant shades of pink, three dozen of them from what I can see. I'm thinking there has to be some sort of mistake, some sort of mix-up. "Are you sure these are for me?"

"Uh, yes," she says, double-checking. "Positive."

Slowly, I reach out and take the card from where it sticks out in the center of the arrangement. I pull it out of the small envelope and open it, seeing what's undeniably male scribble.

A dozen for every night you've spent with me.

-Naz

I'm stunned. I just stare at the card for a moment before glancing back at the roses. The lady at the desk is eyeing me cautiously, like she's afraid I may pick up the vase and chuck it at her head. I mumble my thanks, grabbing the vase to leave.

It's heavier than I expect.

I carry them upstairs, dazed, just smiling politely when a girl in the elevator comments on them. When I reach the room, Melody is standing in front of her bed, holding up a familiar black sweater dress. "Hey, do you know what happened to my—?"

She doesn't finish her question, but I know what she's asking. I ruined it. Or Naz did. My cheeks flush. Oh shit.

Melody's eyes seek me out, and she tenses as she stares at the ostentatious flowers in my hand. "Shit, it's not your birthday yet, is it? Please tell me I didn't forget your birthday."

"No," I whisper, pushing stuff out of the way to make room to set them on my desk beside my bed. "Just a gift."

Melody watches me incredulously, dropping the dress onto a pile of dirty clothes, forgetting all about it. "The perk of having a Mom who owns a flower shop, huh?"

I shrug noncommittally.

I don't correct her.

I'm a terrible friend.

Her eyes drift back to the flowers on my desk, and she's quiet for a moment. I wait for her to question me more, but she doesn't, a smile lifting her lips. "Lucky bitch."