“Let’s get going, okay?” I clear my throat and stepback, shrugging off his touch. “I don’t want to be late.”
He blinks, and for the briefest moment, I see a crack. A flash of hurt. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by his usual easy grin.
“So, where to?” he asks casually as we walk across the quad toward the main campus building. “I’ve got Professor Grant for Intro to Business first.”
“I’m Theater History and Visual Culture. Then Vocal Performance Studio.” I shake my head with a grin. “And, of course, French this afternoon—the class you somehow talked me into. Still not sure why I agreed.”
“Because you love seeing my pretty face,” he says with a wink that’s way too self-satisfied. “Besides, my father says knowing multiple languages is essential for business these days. You’ll need it to communicate with your legion of international fans someday.”
“Yeah, right.” I scoff.
Spanish would’ve made way more sense, especially living this close to Mexico. But no, I signed up for French. It’s not like I’m jetting off to Paris anytime soon. Not like Hayes’s mom, who flies there every Christmas just to shop for holiday gifts, and again twice a year for Fashion Week.
But Hayes already speaks Spanish fluently. And Greek. And like five other European languages. He figured picking up another one would be “easy” and promised we’d study together. Said he’d make sure I got an A too.
“Yo, Vassilios! Over here!” someone yells from the steps of the student union.
I glance up and spot a cluster of good-looking guys in matching athletic hoodies and team slides loitering around. Hayes’s football buddies. I’d met most of them over the summer at the workouts and practices Hayes dragged me to. Long, sweaty afternoons where I killed time reading horror novels in the bleachers.
Dylan Masterson waves at us. Star running back, party god, surrounded by sorority girls in Greek-letter tanks, their glossy hair bouncing like shampoo commercials. Truthfully, he gives me the ick. He’s attractive, sure, but he knows it and wields those good looks like a sleazy used car salesman. Dylan is all jawline and overinflated ego, with a spray tan and zero self-awareness.
Next to him is Tony Hernandez, the team kicker. Tony is the complete opposite of Dylan. Warm, funny, effortlessly charming, with big, kind eyes. He came out recently, and even though we live in California, our small town still skews conservative. Some alumni grumbled about Tony’s “locker room presence,” whatever that was supposed to mean. Hayes—despite only being a freshman—shut it down fast, making it clear he had Tony’s back. No room for debate. After that, everyone else fell in line.
“Go hang with your friends,” I say, nudging Hayes lightly with my elbow.
He looks surprised. “You don’t want me to walk you to class?”
“Nah, I’m on the opposite side of campus anyway.”
“So?” He smiles, easy and warm. “I don’t mind. I like walking with you.”
I know he’s just trying to be nice and probably feels bad I don’t have friends like he does, but I don’t need an escort across campus. I’m not ten years old.
“I’ll be fine. Have fun.”
“Al—”
“Jesus Christ, Hay. Just go.” I give him a shove.
He chuckles, backing away. “Meet you at the dining hall at noon? Lunch on me?”
I nod, turning toward the Arts Complex without looking back.
My first class of the day goes well enough. I’ve always loved theater—the stories, the symbolism, the history. I’m hopeful Vocal Performance Studio with Professor Jones will be just as good.
I first met Professor Jones over the summer at an open house for accepted students. He spoke on the arts panel, then stuck around to chat afterward. We ended up talking for twenty minutes about everything from professional choirs to vocal strain. A few days later, I spotted him again at theHerculesauditions. He was in the audience, volunteering as a vocal coach, when I thought I’d nailed Megara… but apparently didn’t.
“Hello, Ms. Smith!” he calls out as I slide into my seat for my second class of the day. “Nice and early. I like that.”
“Hi, Professor.”
I’m the first to arrive, so I take my time unpacking, pulling out my notebook and a handful of pens, arranging everything just so.
“Welcome to The Studio. I think you’re going to enjoy my class.” He gives me a kind look. “Shame aboutHercules. You holding up okay?”
I look down, heat blooming in my cheeks.
“Ego’s still a little bruised. But yeah, I’ll live.”
