“Seriously, she reminded me of Mrs. Wade,” I add with a visible shudder. “Remember sixth-grade math? The way she’d just… stare at you until you wished you could disappear?”
Tessa makes a face. “Don’t remind me. That woman hatedeveryone. Like she woke up every morning actively choosing misery.”
“I lost count of how many times I got in trouble with her,” Khloe chimes in.
I give her a knowing look. “Khloe, you were always in trouble with everyone. But yeah… I think she hated you the most.”
She grins, unfazed. “True.”
We all laugh, that strange kind of middle school trauma bonding that somehow never loses its sting—or its humor.
The line shuffles forward faster than expected, and before long, we’ve swiped our meal cards and stepped into the buffet-style dining hall. Usually at this hour, all the booths are filled (typically by a single person who could have satanywhereelse but chose not to), but we score big because there’s an open boothin the back corner by the big bay windows that overlook campus. It is partially shaded by the heritage tree outside, but sunlight filters through just enough to give the table a soft, warm glow.
We toss our bags into the booth to claim it before scattering in different directions, each of us heading toward our preferred section of the buffet.
Forensic Psychology is a breath of fresh air after the slow death that was Public Finance. It’s a hundred times more bearable—maybe more. Doctor Howard Lowell is sharp, animated, and actually seems like hewantsto be there, which already puts him in the top five percent of professors I’ve had.
He doesn’t waste time with the syllabus either. “You’re adults,” he says, pacing in front of the whiteboard. “You don’t need me to walk you through information you’re perfectly capable of reading.”
Instead, we dive straight into a quick lecture on how televisionabsolutelybutchers forensic psychology. He throws out examples fromCriminal MindsandMindhunter, pointing out all the inaccuracies with just the right balance of sarcasm and actual insight. I’m hooked almost instantly. Fifty minutes fly by, and before I know it, the class is over.
When I step outside, the sun is lower in the sky but still blazing. The air has that sticky, post-monsoon weight to it, like the heat is clinging on for dear life. Just ahead, I spot Tessa perched on a stone bench a few feet from the building entrance, earbuds in, completely in her own world.
She’s bobbing her head and singing—loudly—to “Nightmare” by Halsey. Her voice is unmistakably off-key, but it’s full ofconviction. I’ve heard the song enough times to know the lyrics by heart, even from her slightly tone-deaf rendition.
Tessa’s amazing at a lot of things. Singing isnotone of them. And thank God she knows that and still doesn’t care. Sing your heart out, baby—even if you sound like a dying cat.
Giggling softly to myself, I approach her. I gently tap my fingers on her shoulder. She jumps, startled, before pulling one earbud out and turning. When she sees it’s me, her whole face lights up. “Hey!” she grins, yanking out the other bud and stuffing both into their pink JLAB case. Without missing a beat, she tucks the case straight into her cleavage like it’s a built-in pocket.
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that the official headphone storage unit now?”
She smirks. “Hey, it works.”
I have to agree with her there. God didn’t give us cleavage to not shove shit into them. It’s not like we get pockets in our clothes anyway.
“How long have you been sitting out here?” I ask as she stands up, swinging her strawberry-printed book bag over her right shoulder.
“Not long, maybe ten, fifteen minutes?” she replies as we start moving toward our garage. “How was your class?”
“It was a thousand times better than Public Finance,” I say with a dramatic sigh as we fall into step beside each other. “It was actually interesting. Doctor Lowell knows how to keep people awake—shocking, I know.”
Tessa grins. “So it wasn’t soul-crushing? Progress!”
She suddenly skips a few paces ahead of me, then spins into a couple of light twirls. She moves like someone who can’t stand still for too long, like the world might lose momentum if she doesn’t add a slight motion to it.
Chuckling, I pick up my pace to catch up.
“What about you?” I ask. “How were your classes?”
She shrugs, but she’s smiling. “Honestly? Not bad. Studio was fun. My professor actually has a personality, which is rare, apparently. Art History, though? Bit of a drag. I think the only exciting part was when someone in the back fell asleep and snored so loud the professor stopped mid-sentence.”
I laugh. “At least it wasn’tyousnoring this time.”
She gasps, hand over her chest in mock offense. “Excuse you! I don’t snore. I breathe withstyle.”
Rolling my eyes, I grin. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”
“Absolutely.” She links her arm with mine and leans into me dramatically. “But seriously, I think this semester’s going to be good. I can feel it.”
