“Yes, and I will be skipping it to hear about your future glory.” She sees my expression and sighs. “Fine, I won't skip. But you're coming over tonight, and we're celebrating. I'll even order from that weird vegan place you like.”
I continue toward the Engineering Building, my steps lighter than before. For someone who carefully guards her independence, it's unexpectedly reassuring to have someone who believes in me more than I believe in myself.
Five minutes later, I'm sitting in a lecture hall surrounded by the smartest people on campus, and all I can think is…I hope I don't throw up on someone's MacBook.
All around me, people are murmuring to each other. I, on the other hand, am pretending to look very interested in the grain pattern on the table.
Most of them are in smart outfits. There’s always a chance to network with the faculty after these and people are obviously taking their final yearwaymore seriously. Someone has a tablet stylus clipped to their shirt collar like they're starring in a tech start-up documentary.
Meanwhile, I'm in black jeans and trying not to sweat through my black T-shirt. I'd spent fifteen minutes debating if it was the right look or not. Social gatherings of ambitious overachievers aren't exactly my natural habitat.
“Oh my god, is that Troy Hawkins?” a girl whispers from the row behind me, her voice dripping with disdain.
I glance up, spotting him instantly—slouched two rows ahead with the casual confidence of someone who never doubts they belong somewhere. He's scrolling through his phone, occasionally smirking at something on the screen.
“What'shedoing here?” her friend replies with a scoff. “This is for Future Innovators, not Future Beer Pong Champions.”
The first girl snickers. “Exactly. I had him in Engineering 3.0 last semester. He just charmed his way through group projects while everyone else did the work.”
“Classic frat-type. All swagger, zero substance. But heispretty to look at.”
“I heard he got Professor Wilson to change his grade after flirting with his TA.”
“I believe it. Look at him—I’d give him an A if he smiled at me enough.”
I find myself bristling slightly at their dismissive tone. I've seen Troy in action all summer at Camp Pinehaven, and while he's insufferably arrogant, he's not stupid.
But then I remember what he did to me and my momentary impulse to defend him evaporates. The girls behind me are probably right. He's here because he thinks his smile can get him through anything.
As if sensing the attention, Troy glances back, his eyes sweeping the room before landing briefly on me. Recognition flickers across his face—a slight widening of those irritatingly blue eyes—before he offers a small smirk.
I glare back.
He stands, gathering his things with that same effortless confidence. He stops to exchange a few words with Professor Klein from Engineering, who actually laughs and claps him on the shoulder like they're old friends. Then he heads for the exit, weaving between chairs without a care in the world.
“See? Didn't even stay for the meeting,” one of the girls whispers triumphantly. “Probably realized this requires actual work.”
“Or he's late for a spray tan,” her friend adds, and they both giggle.
I should agree with them. I really should. But something about watching Klein's respectful nod as Troy left doesn't quite fit their narrative. It's annoying how he seems to charm everyone—students, professors, camp directors—with minimal effort.
My phone buzzes with a notification. Mom.
Mom
Have a great first day, sweetie! So proud of my little architect!
I stare at the screen, my jaw tightening. Three weeks of silence and now one loving text, like she hadn't promised to call “every Sunday” over summer. The heart emojis only make my own heart twist.
I set the phone face-down without replying and grab my laptop instead.
A tall man with rolled-up sleeves steps onto the podium at the front of the room. Professor Holwell. He's got the look of someone who bikes to work, composts religiously, and knows how to guilt you into recycling without saying a word.
“Good morning, everyone,” he says, his voice carrying easily. “Welcome to the Future Innovators Design and Innovation Challenge.”
F.I.D.I.C
I note down.Sounds like a virus.
