Mr. Ferris dronedon and on at the chalkboard. Prepositions and adverbs and yada, yada, yada. I should have tested out of English 101. This was kids’ stuff. I had a solid public school education; I did not need this bull.
Why hadn’t I listened to my mom?
Oh yeah, because I wasn’t speaking to her.
I fingered the corner of the letter she’d sent me yesterday. I’d only just found the guts to open it this morning. I’d read it on the walk to class, knowing I would be distracted dodging morning rush hour through the quad.
Besides, I knew what it was going to say before I ever read,Dear Cassandra.
My mother was nothing if not predictable. Well, until she’d filed to divorce my dad, anyway. She’d been the perfect housewife. Breakfast on the table before anybody left the house. Family dinners were mandatory and absolutely no television during the meal. She volunteered for every school fundraiser, bake sale and car wash. I’d been practically baptized in the garden hose at the gas station down the street.
My mom made Martha Stewart look like an amateur.
But then she’d sent her perfect reputation to hell in a hand basket and destroyed the family I thought was perfect. My older brother, Jason, had been in his senior year at NYU and hardly noticed the change in family dynamic. Once, he’d confessed that he knew it was going to happen.
But I had been living at home during the summer before my freshman year at Wharing University, so I’d had front row tickets to the entire, ugly show.
He cheated on me,the letter had started out.
It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before. She’d been spinning this story for months.
“Are those notes?”
I glanced over at the jock next to me, Troy Cameron. He smelled like peppermint and Old Spice.
Shoving the letter back into my notebook, I shook my head. “God, you’re nosey.”
He made a sound in the back of his throat that made me want to roll my eyes. Hewasnosey. Troy, football stud and all around campus heart throb, hadn’t been able to mind his own business all semester.
I was about two assignments away from asking him if he had a learning disability. There was just no way he could miss so much. It was English 101, for God’s sake!
He leaned over again and I got another whiff of his freshly showered body. His light brown hair looked darker than usual, still damp, and his t-shirt clung to his ripped arms as if he hadn’t had enough time to dry off before putting it on.
I didn’t know much about Troy Cameron, but I did know that he had practice before our eight a.m. class which meant he always sat down next to me looking like an aftershave commercial.
Mr. Ferris had sat us alphabetically. My last name was Carmichael, followed by Troy’s Cameron. We were stuck next to each other for the remainder of the semester.
None of my other classes had seating arrangements, but Mr. Ferris was a stickler for attendance and old. He needed us in the same seats every class or his fragile mind would explode.
“Do you have a pencil I can borrow?” Troy asked.
I glared at him out of the corner of my eye. “Do you have a personal bubble? You’re in my space.”
Troy looked down at the two inches separating my shoulder from his chest and smiled. It was slow and victorious, the kind of smile I expected him to make after a game-winning play. “Am I making you nervous?”
“You’re making me nauseous.” I wiggled in my seat. “I’m allergic to people.”
He made that growly noise again. “You’re allergic to happiness.”
I swirled to face him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He leaned forward, closing the already small distance between us. “You tell me, Goth Queen.”
“Is there a problem?” Mr. Ferris asked loudly from the front of the classroom.
My cheeks heated with embarrassment and I closed my eyes briefly, hoping the entire classroom would just disappear.
Or maybe I could disappear.
