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* * *
I’m at CC’s at quarter to four because Organic Chem II is at four-fifteen and Professor Lassiter locks the door at four-sixteen, which means I have about eleven minutes to put a coffee inside myself and walk three buildings.
I couldn’t sleep last night, which means right now the coffee is an absolute must—and CC’s is the best place on campus for a good hit.
CC’s has big windows going gold with the last of the light for the day with students camped along the pale wood counter wherever there’s an outlet. The espresso machine is hissing away, and I love it in here. On a day with more than eleven minutes in it, I’d take the window table and stay to study. I love studying in busy places, something about the rush of people and noises keeps me focused.
Today is not that day. Standing at the milk station, I’m very carefully dispensing exactly the volume of milk that makes a black coffee not a black coffee but a brown one, when behind me two girls start talking about Callum Fox.
It seems I cannot escape him.
I don’t purposefully eavesdrop…but I can hear exactly what they’re saying because anyone within a fifty-foot radius would notice. They are not exactly whispering.
“—no, but apparently he’s, like, actually doing college,” one of them says. “Like he’s not just here, like, hiding. He’s signed up for, like, classes and stuff.”
“He’s so going to fail. How can you do both?”
“He’s not going to fail, that’s the point. My friend Mia is in his Theology One thing, and she said he, like, raised his hand in the lecture. Like, with a question. She said his voice is even hotter and deeper in real life. I’m so jealous. I should’ve taken Theology.”
“Ughh, me too.”
I am, against my will, listening to this, yet I can’t seem to walk away.
“I think it’s hot,” girl one says. “Like, he could be anywhere. He could probably be on a yacht or something. And he chose to be in a freshman lecture in Mountain Springs because he wants to, like, grow as a person.”
“Yeah.” She swoons.
“Like, he could’ve kept doing the band thing, but he’s taking a break. To learn. So fucking sexy.”
“Yeah. Ugh, I’m still thinking about how I should have taken Theology.”
“And he walked off at Cascade because of, like, a family thing? My cousin’s friend was there. She said the whole crowd knew it was something serious. Like he wouldn’t just leave. He cares about the fans too much to do that.”
I finish stirring my coffee. I cap it. Pushing the door open with my hip, I walk out into the cold.
Last night, I may have stayed up reading his Wikipedia page the whole way through. I know the gist of his career—Atlas Falling formed when he was eighteen, he’d been in a small local band before that, two EPs and one album, dropped by Bingo six months ago in a ‘mutual agreement’ which is the most efficient phrase the English language has for ‘we are not going to tell you what really fucking went down.’
I know he walked off the biggest stage of his career. Everyone speculates that they got dropped because of Cal walking off—the timing is a little too convenient. Some fans are still pissed at him for missing concerts and not explaining why. Others are desperate for new music and tour dates. Curiosity pricks in my stomach, and I hate it, because it makes me exactly like every desperate fan online. Why did he walk off that stage? Why is he at UMS now?
I drink the coffee and make it to Lassiter’s with eleven seconds to spare.
* * *
Gianna finds me at the kitchen table the next morning with my laptop open. I’m still trying to think if there is a way out of tutoring Callum Fox. I don’t need that craziness in my life right now. I know firsthand musicians equal chaos, and this semester I need calm. Predictable.
“Alright,” she says, setting down her coffee. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I got assigned my LA tutee for spring.” I don’t look up. “It’s fine.”
“It’s clearly not fine.” She sits. “Talk.”
“Okay. So. You know how I apply to med school next cycle?”
“I’m aware. You have a countdown.”
“Right. So the thing that actually decides it isn’t my grades, or even the MCAT. I mean the MCAT is a huge part of it, but another huge part is the committee letter—the school writes you one letter, under their name, vouching for you. Or not.” I turn my mug. “A great one carries a borderline applicant. A lukewarm one is a death sentence.”
“Define lukewarm.”
