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“Will you have him for any more classes?”

I whipped my head back to him. “I don’t know.”

I was in my third year. In an ideal world, I would’ve finished college years ago—unless I’d chosen to go for a Master’s, which I might have to do anyway because after Erasmus was implemented, a degree was worth close to nothing without one—but I hadn’t started college at the same time as the people my age because I’d been more interested in working and making money to get top surgery. I hadn’t been able to picture starting college without getting that out of the way first.

“Well?” Tony pushed my laptop toward me. “Check.”

“Why?”

“Because if he’s only your professor for this one class, it seems doable. If he’s not, you might want to stop bothering with the ongoing email fights and look into transferring.”

“I can’t just transfer.”

“You’re on a private scholarship, right?”

I frowned. How did he?—

Oh, right, because there was only one public university here, and it was the one he taught at.

“Yes.”

“Can you apply for one to the State?”

“It wouldn’t be enough.”

Issues about them taking forever to respond and send the money to my account aside, the State-granted scholarships covered little more than tuition. They might cover food, but rent, utilities, and every other emergency that could come up? I wasn’t too sure, and I felt too old to go back to sharing crumbling studios again.

I didn’t even remember if I qualified anymore. Back when I was in high school, there were age-based limitations depending on the degree.

“Enough for what?”

“Uh, paying the bills?” I scoffed. I knew Tony had money—everyone with eyes knew that even if they didn’t recognize hislast name—but, come on. I was expecting more class awareness. “Putting food on the table? Being able to have a life outside of college and my shitty apartment?”

Just because I didn’t want to go back to studios that were one step away from falling apart didn’t mean my savings and scholarship were giving me access to the Ritz. My apartment had two tiny bedrooms, and two even tinier bathrooms, which still made sharing with Cece ten times more comfortable for both of us, but no other amenities to write home about.

Tony pursed his lips. “Is everything an attack to you, boy?”

“Stop with the boy thing,” I said with a growl.

Tony lifted his chin. “Stop acting like one.”

“The fuck?”

Tony just made himself more comfortable. Bald heads didn’t usually do it for me, but there was something about how he ran his hands over his before clasping them behind his head and leaning back. Manspreading didn’t begin to explain how he was sprawled all over the couch.

“Read the book. Draft a response. Send it to me, and do not email it back to your professor until I’ve approved every single comma in there. Are we clear?”

“You’d do that?” I frowned. My eyes widened as I realized what it meant. Well, it wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind when I all but ran here—after the bus dropped me less than two blocks away—but it was the closest I could realistically get to it. “Thank you?”

No clue why it came across as a question.

Tony chuckled. “Don’t thank me yet. There’s a reason people give me the lowest ratings on the yearly surveys.”

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t scare easy, and I’d heard all the tea there.

That was to say, there was none. Even when Tony’s name made it to all the digital newspapers when he was outed last yearand everyone was talking about it? Students only talked about how he had a stick up his ass or how he didn’t let anyone hand over an assignment past its deadline. The main critique was that he didn’t do multiple choice tests and how hepretended to be coolfor hisold schoolmethods.

If only they knew about his methods behind closed doors.