Page 37 of Sinister

She scans the forms and then starts entering the data into the system. The whole time, her expression doesn’t budge an inch.

I watch her face, trying to read any hint of a reaction, but it’s an exercise in futility. Finally, she looks back at me, and I know something’s wrong before she even speaks.

“Yeah, no, Art History’s full.”

My stomach drops. “What, already? I came here as soon as I could.”

“It’s a very popular class,” she responds in a monotonous drawl, like she has been reciting the same line to other enthusiasts and hopefuls throughout the morning. “I can put you on the waiting list, but there’s no guarantee you’ll get in.”

My shoulders slump, and my heart sinks. “Is there really no way to get in? Maybe I can speak to the professor and-and show her all my preparations for the cou⁠—”

“Can’t help, sorry. Gotta stick to the enrollment limits. For the already-registered students.” The woman is not even looking at me, a merciful respite because I’m on the verge of tears.

Then she hands me back my forms, along with a revised schedule.

“Here are the other options. Find something else that interests you, and let us know within the week.”

I glance down at the list, but it’s hard to focus. All I can think about is how much I had been looking forward to this class, and now another thing is slipping out of my control.

“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’ll figure something out.”

I walk out of the office, the revised schedule crumpled in my hand.

Great, just great.

First the pregnan—the you-know-what—and now this.

Which of my haters is vengeful enough to make a voodoo doll of me? Will they ever stop sticking pins into it?

Though my inner cynic poses such zany questions, she’s also freaking out.

At least a part of me is still making jokes.

But things are always destined to get complicated, right? As I am trudging past the quad, wondering when my life started to spiral so rapidly, so comically, into the bottomless pits of hell, who do I spy with my weary eye?

Sin.

A tight-knit circle of admirers stands around him. Girls laugh at his jokes, touching his arms, vying for his attention, fluttering their eyelashes like debutantes at some Victorian ball.

I feel a pang of jealousy and self-consciousness.

How many of those girls has he been intimate with? Am I just one of many? Did he get any of them pregnant, too? Did he make them get an abortion?

After all, if he was so quick to have unprotected sex with me, who else has he been having it with?

Oh my God. I haven’t even thought about STDs.

Fucking hell! That’s the last thing I need right now . . .

I turn away quickly, knowing that these thoughts will gnaw at me all day. As he shares jokes and tells amusing stories, Sin seems so far out of my league, so different from the guy who held me in his arms that night.

Should I tell him? What if he doesn’t care? I am unable to concentrate in class, my mind replaying the same doubts and fears over and over again.

By lunchtime, I’ve made up my mind.

I will tell him. He’s as responsible for this as I am—maybe more so, considering I can barely remember any of it.

I find a quiet corner in the library, looking around carefully to ensure nobody can see me, and write a note.