He holds up my pencil between two thick fingers. “You left before I could give this back. Didn’t want you to think I’m some sort of…pencil…thief…” When all I do is blink at him, he visibly cringes. “Okay, that was lame. Forget I said that. Anyway. I remembered to bring my own today.” He gestures down to the same leather-bound notebook from last week, this time with a crisp number two sitting on top of it. “I actually debated dropping this class I was so ashamed of my thievery, but then I realized I can’t drop this class because I literally cannot graduate without it, which is kind of bullshit if you ask me. So, here you go.” He flashes a crooked smile, extending the pencil across the space between our desks. “I fully accept the blight on my otherwise pristine pencil-borrowing reputation and apologize for the delay in its return.”
I stare at him for a moment, wondering how anyone has that much to say on a stupid pencil, before carefully plucking it out of his hand. My eyes drop down to my desk. My face warms as I mutter a quiet, “Thanks.”
Before he can respond, thank god, Professor Markham clears his throat, drawing the room’s focus. He adjusts his glasses and scans over his students with a knowing look in his eye. “Well. Looks like we’ve still got a full class, probably because half of you can’t receive your diploma in four months without this credit.”
I don’t know why, but I glance at Wes when he says this, only to find him giving me asee, I told you it’s bullshit,kind of look. I face forward and slump in my seat, embarrassed that he caught me.
Markham continues, “Today we’re going to go over the structure of an informative speech. It will be your first spoken assignment, so I highly recommend you take vigorous notes. Halfway through today’s lesson, you will break off into pairs to conduct personal interviews, and your homework will be to arrange the information you receive from your partner into a sample outline.”
My mind blanks. I don’t process anything Markham says after that because I’m stuck on the phrasebreak off into pairs, my body going into fight or flight. I’ve always had this sort of overreaction to group work, but now that my level of human interaction is basically non-existent, my panic heightens even further.
My ears ring as my vision starts to cloud over, and I tell myself toget a grip.
You’re not being chased by a bear. You’re not jumping off a cliff. You’re not at that party with?—
Stop.
You’re doing a class assignment,for fuck’s sake. Breathe.
I count back fromten, squeezing my fingers tight, tight, tight, and when I make it down toone,my vision clears. My breathing comes easier, and the constant whooshing in my ears fades as the room shifts back into focus.
I exhale. Crisis averted.
With a slight shake to my hands, I take out my laptop and try to tune into the lecture. My fingers move mechanically across the keyboard, recording detailed notes, even though I can barely think past my growing trepidation.
At some point, Markham says, “Time to pair up with the person next to you,” and I begin to feel a little lightheaded. “Oh, don’t give me those pitiful looks. I don’t care. Make a new friend for once. Talk to people you don’t know.” At that, I feel Wes’s heavy gaze on me again, but I can’t bring myself to look athim. “What are you waiting for?” Markham asks. “Pull the desks together.”
The screech of metal fills the air as desks start shifting and scraping over the floor. I struggle to rotate my desk forty-five degrees to the right as Wes lifts his with little effort, lining the edge of his flush against the edge of mine. Markham pulls a list of questions up onto the board and commands us to get started.
“So. Partner.” Wes finally has my attention. I drag my eyes from the board to his face, trying to understand the brightness radiating off his expression. Is he seriouslyhappyabout this kind of agonizing partner work? My guard goes up further because it makes no sense to me. “I think I should start by learning your name. Only fair since you know mine.”
I hesitate, but I can’t argue that he needs my name for the assignment. “Ivy,” I tell him.
“Ivy,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing out the syllables on his tongue. Eventually, he nods as though he approves of the name and jots it down in his notebook. I follow his lead and typeWesat the top of a blank document. “Last name?”
I frown a little but tell him. “Combs. C-o-m-b-s.” He scribbles that down as well. My fingers twitch against the keys. “What’s yours?”
He glances up then with a strange expression on his face. He appears almost…surprised. “Tucker.” My eyes drop back down to the screen as I type out his full name.Wes Tucker.“Do you want to ask first? Second? We could alternate?”
I swallow. “A-alternate is fine.”
My cheeks warm at the stutter. Sometimes I just can’t get the words out right the first time, and I wait for Wes to snicker at my expense, but he doesn’t. He just continues on like nothing happened. “Works for me. Guess we’re starting off with the basics. Why did you come to Stratus University, Ivy?”
An inappropriate answer pops to the forefront of my mind.
He ruined Harrington University for me, so I came here instead.
"I liked the campus.”Lie. “And the curriculum.”Lie. “I’ve, um, always wanted to come here.”Another lie.
I watch him transcribe my horrifically bland reply, curious how he manages to read that chicken scratch. On the opposing page in his notebook are similar notes, line after line of illegible scrawl, a hybrid between cursive and print.
“You?” I ask, fingers poised over the keys.
He shrugs a shoulder. “Of all the school’s that offered me an athletic scholarship, Stratus had the highest academic ranking. It was kind of a no-brainer.”
I shift with unease at the reminder that he’s an athlete, and my stomach turns over. There are so many warnings going off in my brain you’d think I was in the middle of a five-alarm fire.
You can never trust an athlete. Their egos are inflated, their adrenaline’s off-the-charts, and they make stupid, rash decisions fueled by too much testosterone and Red Bull.
