“Oh, cool. Why do they call it green tea?”
“Because…something something something green. I have no idea.” Preston took another sip. The girls checked their phones.
“And there’s still caffeine in there, right?”
“Yep.”
“You’ll be bouncing off the ceiling tonight!”
Was this him flirting? Ethan knew there was better banter lurking in his head, but by the time it got to his mouth, it jumbled into questions. Preston answered them all, though, so maybe there was interest. Maybe?
“If I defy gravity, I’ll let you know.” Preston pulled his lips into a smile and had a certain glint in his eyes.A smile just for me! I made Preston’s eyes glint!Maybe they were flirting.
Ethan could barely keep his feet on the ground. He knew he wasn’t the type to just swoop in and get the guy. He would have to use a series of small moves that would eventually pay off.
Dave cut into their conversation. “Shall we get exploring?”
“Yes!” Jessica led them to the east corner of the lawn, and they followed her toward an orange tilted cube.
First, a great group of friends.
Second, a class taught by a world-renowned lawyer.
Third, a potential boyfriend?
Yes, Ethan had certainly found his place.
CHAPTER TWO
Ethan Follett considered himself the luckiest sophomore at Browerton.
Sophomores never got into Constitutional Law—or Con Law for those in the know. Many juniors got turned away, too. Professor Wendell Sharpe had argued cases before the Supreme Court, and now Ethan would be mere feet from him twice a week while he mused on Ethan’s favorite subject: the law. He loved that we all had a set of rules to live by and our justice system kept those rules intact.
He had spent the first week back at school piecing together the ideal fall class schedule and mapping out his registration strategy. Despite being a sophomore, there was still risk of being shut out of the more popular lectures. He had experienced the rush of joy and crush of defeat registering for classes as a freshman. Clicking his mouse, then waiting countless agonizing seconds to find out if his selection went through. By the time he’d sign up for one class, another class would be filled. This year, he was prepared. His registration time was 1:15 p.m. By 1:10 p.m., he was already on the page for Constitutional Law, his mouse hovering over the sign-up button.
When he’d reached the confirmation page, Ethan had jumped out of his chair and broke out into a spontaneous dance move. Then he’d stopped himself and checked to make sure his door was still closed, twisting the knob to triple-check. Locked. Phew. Pure joy had coursed through his veins and made his blue eyes light up like a neon sign.
Unlike many kids at his college, Ethan wasn’t born into a wealthy family and wasn’t blessed with the right connections. Any headway he wanted to make in life would be up to him. First step would be sitting up front and wowing the professor with his intelligence, humor, and passion. (Some would call him a teacher’s pet. Ethan considered it networking.) By the end of the quarter, he and Professor Sharpe would be on a first-name basis. Next, the professor would recommend him for a summer internship at a top law firm, then for Harvard Law School, then a clerkship, until finally Ethan had worked his way up to being the first gay Supreme Court justice. Well, the first openly gay justice. That was how his life was supposed to go.
On that bright Tuesday morning, he zipped along the sidewalk, not cutting across the flower garden like some students, and finally reached Bamberger Hall, with its thick white columns and courthouse front steps. It had been more of a hike from his Spanish class than he’d realized, but he still got to class by 9:55. He ripped open the door and then charged up two flights of stairs to room 304.
Ethan paused outside the entrance to rip off his sneakers and swap them with loafers. This was Constitutional Law, after all. Ethan had made sure to wear a nice shirt and pressed pants for the occasion.
Once he entered the classroom, his face immediately sunk to the floor. He didn’t see a single empty seat, and Professor Sharpe was already lecturing.
Ethan crept down the right-side aisle to scope out seats near the front, but this wasn’t like high school; students wanted to sit in the front row. His gaze inched back and back, farther and farther away from Professor Sharpe, farther and farther away from the Supreme Court. All he saw were students being more studious than him.
“There’s a seat in the back row for latecomers,” Professor Sharpe said while shuffling through his notes.
The class went silent and 199 sets of eyes bore into Ethan. He felt like unscooped dog poop on a ritzy street. Professor Sharpe continued on with his lecture.
He calmly walked to the back row, to the back corner, where one seat remained. The dead-last seat in the class.
Φ
He was a latecomer. Who knew what the professor really wanted to call him? Ethan crumbled into himself.
His seat was so far back that the lighting didn’t cover it. The desk part wouldn’t come up from the side. It wasn’t even in a full row. There was Ethan’s desk, a guy next to him, and then a giant wooden column.
