I started down the stairs. As I neared the front door, Professor Stratford called out.
“Mr. Steele?” I paused and looked over. “Can I have a word?”
Shit. So close to escape.
I detoured to his desk. “What’s up?”
“You’ve missed a lot of classes this semester.”
I grimaced. “Yeah, sorry. I…” Shit, I couldn’t even think of an excuse. “I’m still adjusting to college, I guess.”
He tapped the C- on my paper. “You’re just getting by. But you can’t half-ass your way through a degree program. Eventually, it’ll catch up with you.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I know.”
He gave me a considering look. “A lot of kids switch majors. Maybe you haven’t discovered what’s right for you.” He shrugged. “Then again, college isn’t for everyone either.”
My chest tightened. “What are you saying? I don’t belong here?”
“I certainly am not. No one can decide if you belong here but you.” He patted my arm. “So figure it out, all right? Don’t waste my time or yours if you’re just going to phone it in.”
“Yes, sir,” I said quietly.
“Good. If you stay in this class, I expect to see your ass in the chair more often. Now, go. I’ve got other students to worry about.”
He turned away, and I slunk toward the door, feeling about two inches tall. Professor Stratford was right. I was taking up space, just coasting along as best I could, and that could only take me so far.
But what was the alternative? He said no one could decide if I belonged here but me. I already knew I didn’t. But if I dropped out, I’d break Holden’s heart.
It was a no-win situation.
I walked out of class, out of the building, and back toward the dorms. I didn’t have another class for almost two hours.
I pulled out my phone and texted Owen.
You get that nitrous oxide injector yet?
I made it all the way back to my dorm and dumped off my books before he answered back.
Not yet.
Damn it. I needed a distraction. Too many thoughts crowded into my head. I could hardly breathe for feeling trapped.
I grabbed my keys and went out to my car, with no thought except to escape for a while. To get away from school, from my apathy, from my professor’s insight into the situation.
From the reality that no matter what I did, someone would be unhappy.
I got into my Camaro, which I’d spent months rebuilding. The deep maroon paint gleamed under the sun, and nostalgia washed over me.
I’d been so damn happy when I’d restored this car. I’d found her in the junkyard, a beautiful girl in an ugly dress of flaking paint, rust spots, and dents. She’d needed a new transmission, new belts, a new timing chain. I didn’t stop there, though. I wanted her to look her best, so I watched online tutorials and rented the equipment to knock out her dents, strip her old paint, sand her down, and repaint her.
I’d loved restoring a car from the ground up. It was the first time I’d done it, but there was something amazing about seeing a project through from start to finish.
My car had been transformed—maybe I had too—so I’d named her Monarch.
I unlocked the door and slid into the bucket seat. When the engine roared to life, my chest loosened a fraction.
I reversed out of the parking spot and navigated my way off campus. I cruised side streets, keeping to a nice, moderate speed until I got to the highway. Once there, I opened her up and let her fly.
