Ethan remained quiet. He had thought all people did at frat parties was stand around and drink. He hadn’t realized there was dancing and color coordination.
“Aww, poor Ethan,” Jessica said. “Traumatized from seeing his first bra.”
Ethan acted shocked at the accusation. It was true, though. His friends wore Tshirts and long-sleeved shirts, so he never had to see their bras. Unless you counted the ones on Jessica’s floor. Ethan peered over at Lorna’s desk. Clean. Either from no use or good hygiene.
“That’s the other half of Browerton I have no interest in knowing,” Jessica said.
“Oh, you guys,” Anna said. “We’re all wearing red, green, or yellow.”
And sure enough, they were. Ethan’s green T-shirt was very appropriate for his single love life. For now. Maybe one day with Preston that would change. Maybe he and Preston could get drunk at a party and release their inner feelings for each other and have a hot makeout session. (And of course that would lead to a relationship, but Ethan was also looking forward to the physical.) “We’re ready to party! Like OMG,” Jessica said in a Valley Girl accent. “Let’s start our own stoplight dance party right here!”
But they didn’t. Instead, Jessica called Dave, and they all went out to eat at the Maynard dining hall.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ethan counted down the seconds until his Thursday 9 a.m. class was over.
Like all Browerton professors, his Spanish teacher bemoaned the quarter system. There were so much curricula, but never enough time. They had eight weeks for classes, plus a week for studying and a week for finals. So two months to teach a college-level course. The professors tended to use every second of class time.
A student had to interrupt to alert the professor that class time was over. Ethan darted out and ran down the stairs outside. He still wore khakis and a button-down shirt. He refused to listen to Greg, refused to let him get under his skin. This time, he would make it to class on time and get a good seat and make a good impression and so on and so forth.
He creaked open the back door of room 304 and gazed out over the packed lecture hall. Professor Sharpe leaned against the podium, already mid-lecture. It was only 9:55! Was his watch slow? He gave the room a cursory glance, but found no empty seats. Ethan wouldn’t tempt the professor’s wrath again by doing an in-depth search. He trudged to the back row.
“You’re late again.” Greg looked up from his phone. He was watching a video with one headphone plugged into his ear and looked like he was wearing the same exact warm-up pants and T-shirt from Tuesday’s class.
Ethan didn’t respond. It seemed that this would be the new normal. A permanent latecomer. Still, he was in Constitutional Law, learning from a valued professor and gaining experience for his eventual next step into law school. It didn’t matter where he sat, he realized. It just mattered that he was here.
He retrieved his notebook and pen from his backpack. Sweat stains from his backpack straps left marks on his shirt. He didn’t even want to look under his arms.
“You need to work on your tardiness. Sharpe is not impressed.” Greg shot him a Cheshire cat smirk, and this time Ethan noticed how his cheeks bunched up to his eyes. He had a squintier smile than most, and on a less vile person, Ethan might have found it cute.
Instead, he sighed with resignation. He would be stuck next to Greg for the entire quarter.
“Don’t worry. If it makes you feel better, Sharpe wouldn’t remember your name anyway.”
“Because I don’t have tits, right?”
“Whoa. Language, Ethan.” Greg covered his ears, while Ethan’s perked up.
“How do you know my name?”
“It’s written on your notebook.” Greg pointed to the “Ethan Follett [email protected]” written with perfect penmanship on the cover.
Ethan flipped it open and took out a fresh pen.
Was it weird that he liked hearing Greg say his name? He thought he’d read somewhere that people liked it when their name was said aloud. Although it sounded more like a whine whenever Jessica said it.
“What’s the nickname for Ethan?” Greg asked.
Ethan tuned him out in favor of Professor Sharpe, who was going over very detailed slides.
“Eeth? Than? Ethie? Ether? Nah, none of those sound right. Is there really no nickname for Ethan? What do your friends call you?”
“Ethan. Just Ethan,” he snapped back and then shushed him.
“That’s so boring.”
“It works for me,” Ethan said in a gritted whisper. “We have our first paper due next week. It wouldn’t kill you to pay attention.”
