Last first day at UMS.Hell yeah.
Next year I’ll be working in the industry, maybe out west. I’ve always liked the sunshine. And the beach.Andnot having fucking midterms.
“Troy!” Jared calls across the room, leaning back in his chair like he’s holding court.
“You’ve been gone all summer, man! Where’ve you been?”
“Changing lives,” I say, grinning. “Camp counselor again. Teaching kayaking. Shaping the minds of future world leaders. Probably inspired the next President of the United States, not to brag.”
He rolls his eyes, but laughs anyway. “Classic.”
“What about you?”
He shrugs. “Interning at my dad’s place. Total nightmare. He’s on my ass about grades. Says the board won’t green-light me for a full-time position after graduation unless I ‘prove myself academically.’” He air-quotes it, looking deeply offended by the concept of effort.
I wince. Jared’s dad is a big deal at one of the top oil firms in the country. He’s been bragging since freshman year that the job was locked in, six figures, full benefits, company car. The works.
“Yeah, that sucks,” he mutters. “He said I had to get a degree. Never said I had to be a genius about it.”
“What’s your GPA?”
He winces. “2.1.”
I whistle low. “Damn, man. Your old man might have a point.”
I bite back the urge to offer to help him study. That's my default—fix it, smooth it over, make sure everyone's okay. But I’m trying to learn to wait for people to ask. Sometimes I wonder who'd look after me if I stopped looking after everyone else.
Jared groans, slumping back in his chair like I just kicked his dog. “God, don’t you start. Am I really gonna have you breathing down my neck now?”
I slap him on the back just as the professor walks in and the room quiets.
“Only because I love you,” I whisper with a wink. The professor starts writing equations on the whiteboard, but I barely register them.
The professor starts outlining the semester, and Jared leans over, his voice low. “By the way, guess what my dad pulled off? Got me into that Future Innovators competition thing.”
I freeze mid-note. “The FIDIC? Seriously?”
“Yeah, man. The grant competition,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Dad's buddies with someone on the school board. Says it'll look good on my resume, plus there's a ten grand prize.” He gives me a smug smile. “Told me not to worry about the application—he 'handled it.' It was awholething, like some three-page essay they wanted.”
I stare at him, trying to keep my expression neutral. Yeah I fuckin’ know it was. My FIDIC application had taken weeks to get right, a detailed personal statement explaining my environmental engineering philosophy. I'd stayed up three nights straight finalizing it.
“Congrats,” I manage, tapping my pen against my notebook. “That's a pretty selective program.”
“Whatever. It's all politics anyway. Who you know, not what you know.” He stretches, looking bored already. “The old man's hoping it'll bump my GPA, but I'm just in it for the cash.”
I think about the meeting I skipped this morning—the one I'd ducked out of early after seeing the email that all the information would be sent to participants. Coffee with Freddie had seemed like a better use of time than sitting through a lecture hall spiel.
Now I'm wondering what I missed.
“When's the first real meeting?” I ask casually.
“How the hell should I know? I'll show up when they threaten to kick me out.” Jared laughs.
Ok, at least he didn’t go either. If Jared wins this over me I’m gonna be pissed.Reallypissed.
The professor calls for attention, and Jared turns forward, already pulling out his phone to text under the desk.
I sit back, a knot of irritation forming in my stomach. If Jared's in, this competition just got more interesting.
