Callan pulls a face. “What are we? Five!”
Wynter scowls at him. “This is bullying! There’s a zero-tolerance policy here?—”
“That says otherwise.” Callan motions to her phone then squints at her. “Which subject?”
“Huh?”
“Which subject did you need help with?”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter.” I kick her under the table. Yelping, she reaches down to rub her shin. “French.”
Callan hums, back in deliberation mode, but so am I.
“Wecando something about this, can’t we?” I muse.
Wynter nods. “We can go to the dean and?—”
“Fuck that. Callan’s right. That’ll do nothing.” I tap my fingers on the table. “Hmm.”
She glances between us. “How long have you been friends?”
Callan peers at her over his glasses. “A couple months. Why?”
“No reason. Just curious.”
Still tapping my fingers, I reason, “This needs fixing.”
“Damn straight it does.”
“I need to fix it.”
Wynter clears her throat. “The dean?—”
“This is how I do it.”
“Do what?” Callan demands.
I lean forward. “Show my dad that I’m not made for sports management.”
“What are you made for?” Wynter inquires, toying with her phone.
“PR.”
Callan’s brows lift. “When did you decide on that?”
“Just now.”
He rolls his eyes. “Glad to know you’ve really thought this through.”
“Hey, I perform well under pressure.”
“Yeah, yeah. So, what’s the game plan?”
I toy with the corner of the textbook I was studying before this whole thing went down. “You’ll help me?”
“Of course!”
The instantaneous response lifts a weight off my shoulders I didn’t know was breaking my back.
