by Lori L. Otto
“Sharp tongue, you’ve got on you. That never came out in class!” Her eyes are wide as she leans away from Asher. He watches me with a smirk across his face.
“Because people are respectful in class. I never had to defend myself because no one brought up my wealth or made me out to be shallow because of it.”
“Oh, you’re deep?”
“Do you always pick fights with guys when you’re drunk? You always seemed like a nice girl before.”
“I don’t like rich boys like you.”
I laugh aloud, looking curiously at Asher, who also comes from a well-off family. The Knoxland name isn’t well known like Holland is, which must be why she’s okay to settle back into his awaiting arm on the couch. I won’t spoil it for either of them.
“Well, that sounds pretty shallow of you, then, not me.”
“Trey’s a good guy,” my friend says, standing up for me. “Honestly. A real stand-up kind of guy.”
But Paulina’s not listening anymore. “Thanks, man.” I decide not to hang around them anymore and find some other friends to talk to even though I’m most comfortable around Asher. I consider him my best friend here at Columbia. After one semester on The Columbia Daily Witness last year, he’d taken me under his wing and made me his personal project. As the president and editor-in-chief of our college newspaper, he already had decided that I would hold the title my senior year, too. It wasn’t his place to give me that title, but he was going to give me all the tools I needed to make sure I was ready. He knew I had the talent. Professor Aslon had told me in private that she thought I did, too, so I didn’t think his efforts were in vain.
After the amount of time we’d spent working together on the paper, we’d naturally became fast friends. He reminded me a little of my high school friend, Callen, in his Brinlee days, when he was a little too arrogant for his own good and really didn’t have a grasp on everything he wanted in life; but Callen had a good heart. He was just a little misguided. I think Asher’s got a touch of ADHD and needs help focusing sometimes, but he’s passionate about everything he does, and I like that about him. He doesn’t do anything half-way.
I run into Monica, my personal copy editor from last year on the paper, and her friend, Stacy, in the next room.
“Treyyy!” Monica yells happily, holding her arms out to hug me. We embrace, and I greet Stacy the same way. “You ready for semester two?”
“Ready.”
“Ready to take on your newbie?”
“Piece of cake,” I tell her arrogantly. “I wasn’t so bad, was I?” On The Wit every year, an upperclassman takes on an incoming freshman in the spring semester as their mentee. Although I’m only a sophomore, our advisor and professor has decided I’m advanced enough in my writing to be a junior copy editor this year.
“No. After the first assignment, you were pretty much on autopilot. You made my job very easy.”
“Well, maybe I’ll get someone who’s just as good.”
“It’s a big incoming class this year,” she says. “A lot of good talent, but a lot of creative writers to wrangle in.”
“I’m a creative writer.”
“I forget. You have too much investigative journalism experience under your belt. When are you ever going to let me read one of your novels, by the way?” she asks.
“You write novels?” Stacy asks.
“Yeah,” I nod to her, then turn back to Monica. “Maybe when I feel like one is really finished. Neither of them are quite there yet. I’m hoping to work on them over spring break, if I don’t have them done by then.”
“What genre do you write?”
“Crime,” I tell her, “but, like, interwoven with historical facts. So they’re historical fiction crime dramas, I guess.”
“Are you good with history?”
“I like history,” I tell Stacy. “But I do a lot of research about specific areas of it for the books. A ton of research, actually. I’ve been working on these two books for two years.”
“Are they related?”
“No,” I laugh to myself at the vast undertaking of both projects. “They’re centuries apart, but I get ideas and inspired by each at different times.”
“I bet you have a lot going on in that cute little head of yours.” She reaches for my hair, but I step away, feeling the awkward rush of heat flow to my face. I glance at Monica.
“Stacy, Trey has been in a committed relationship with his high school sweetheart for… what, four years now?”
“Four years to the day, actually. She goes to Oxford.” I nod my head.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were still together. But her being in Oxford explains why you’re always alone.”
“Yeah. And it’s okay.”
“She trusts you to go to frat parties?” Stacy asks.
Monica excuses herself to get us all refills while Stacy and I take a seat next to each other at a small table. “She knows it comes with the fraternity lifestyle. She wasn’t crazy about me joining Sig Rho last year, but she’s met a few of the guys. She really likes Stanley–my big brother here–and she’s okay with Asher. But yeah, she does trust me. I’ve never really done anything to make her question me. Honestly, I don’t really have it in me,” I tell her.
“Are you just like your dad?”
I consider her question and think about my dad, who–in most people’s eyes–can do no wrong. Any time I’ve ever felt animosity toward him, it was when I was being punished for something I deserved to be punished for. “I strive to be. He’s set the bar pretty high, though.”
“But a little bad never hurt anyone.” I smile at her, thinking again about James Dean.
I shake my head. “No, you’re probably right. I could probably stand to do a little bad. Who knows? Dad probably has some skeletons in his closet. He probably just paid enough money to have them buried very deep.”
“Exactly,” she says, laughing.
“So now it’s just a matter of picking the best bad thing to do.”
Monica sits back down, setting our drinks in front of us. “What are we talking about?”
Stacy picks up her cup. “To the best bad thing you can do,” she toasts, grinning at me mischievously.
I smile back at her and hold up my cup. “To the best bad thing I can do.”
“I’ll toast to that,” Monica says, and the three of us tap our plastic cups together in a strangely twisted little tribute that will hopefully bring a little extra thrill to my life.
After having a few drinks with the girls, I switch to water and head out into the backyard for some fresh air. There’s not only blaring music coming from our house, but the parties at the other brownstones on frat row aren’t keeping the noise levels down, either. I’m surprised no one else is in the yard, but realizing there’s no booze out here, I can understand why the party’s stayed inside.
“Trey!” someone yells from the backyard next door. Jimmy, another of my friends, is jumping up and down, waving to be seen over the fence.
“Hey, Jimmy!” I laugh at him. He must be pretty wasted, too. He’s one of the most reserved guys I know at school.
As there’s a simultaneous break in the songs from our house and theirs, I hear faint voices in the dark corner on the other side of our house. It almost sounds like a struggle, but another song begins before I can hear enough to know for sure.
I set down my water and get out my phone, turning on the flashlight app as I make my way over to that area. A guy has a girl pushed into the corner where the house meets the fence, and as I approach, I can hear her telling him to stop. I can’t see her, but I know from her pleas that she’s telling him to stop.
Even without his shirt on, I know it’s Asher. Fortunately, the girl is fully dressed, but one of his hands is up her shirt. I can’t see the other.
“Hey!” I shout loudly. My friend moves away quickly with his hands up. The girl–Lucy–straightens her clothes and wipes her lips. I recognize her from one of my labs last year. “What�
��s, uh… what’s going on? Everything okay?”
“We’re good, yeah,” Asher says, looking at her and nodding. “Right? We’re good?”
She nods her head with him, her eyes wide and unblinking, and she moves out of the corner. “I’m fine. Hey, Trey. How are you? You okay?”
“Look, I’m sorry if I interrupted something,” I tell them, not sure now what I heard.
“It’s okay,” Lucy says as she goes into the house.
“Asher, I’m sorry. I just thought I heard a struggle. I didn’t know–”
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” he says as he grabs his shirt from the ground and puts it back on. “She just couldn’t wait, and there wasn’t a room upstairs, so we came out here. I’ll finish the job later. It’s not a problem.” He pats me on the back and walks by me, kicking my cup of water aggressively before he goes into the house.
I stare at the door and the wooden porch, now stained with water. If it wasn’t a problem, why’d he go all Beckham on my cup of water?
Deciding to follow up with another question or two, I trail him into the house. After asking a few of my brothers where he went, Stanley tells me he left in a cab, alone. I look around for Lucy, who’s huddled around the table I sat at earlier, laughing with a few of her friends. She seems to be fine, and I seem to have misinterpreted whatever it is I thought I heard and saw. I tell my friends goodbye and decide it’s time to walk home to my apartment.
chapter three
Tapping the eraser end of my pencil on the table, I stare at the bulletin board at the front of our room. The rest of my classmates are already beginning our assignment. Twenty minutes into our first journalism course of the year, my assigned partner hasn’t shown up yet. Already, I don’t like him. He’s not punctual. He’s wasting my time. And what kind of name is Coley, anyway? Be a man. Drop the y.
In a way, I wish I could be the one doing the writing for this assignment instead of the editing. I’d already begun forming my first impression of Coley, and it’s not favorable. I would be more than happy to give him the written feedback in our next class, too. What am I saying? I’m his mentor. I’ll tell him to his face when he gets here. Someone has to set expectations. It should be me. I know Monica would have given me the same feedback last year had I been this late.
Stop being so judgmental, Trey.
When the door finally opens, I look over to see who I’m dealing with, but a girl enters the room instead. Her blonde hair is falling out of a clip near the nape of her neck, as if her hairstyle was no match for the wind outside. One side of her black oversized t-shirt is falling off her shoulder, revealing two straps: a black one and a pink one. Her kneecap is exposed on only one leg of her jeans, making me wonder if they were actually designed that way, or if she had an unfortunate accident on the way to school today. She’s wearing flats that barely peek out beneath the jeans that are too long for her petite stature.
She’s carrying a purse, a tote bag, and a backpack, all on the shoulder that’s covered by her shirt. In her hand, she has a light blue, letter-sized piece of paper that I recognize as a map of the Columbia campus.
“You made it,” Professor Aslon says as she approaches her.
“I’m so sorry I’m so late,” the girl apologizes quickly. “I got lost on my way here.”
I thought I was the only one still waiting for my partner, so I look around the room to see who else is left without their freshman writer. The rest of the room seems to be working in pairs already.
“Today’s the only day that excuse will work for you,” our advisor says with a kind smile. “You can set your stuff here.” She pats the surface of the table next to me, and I stand up reflexively, ready to introduce myself.
“You’re Trey Holland." Her eyes are wide and transfixed on me as she drops all three of her bags onto the floor. The sound they make as they hit the tile snaps her out of her brief preoccupation, and she jumps in surprise, letting out a tiny squeak. I bend over to help pick up her things while she gathers the loose items that scattered from her purse. I see the badge clipped to the bottom of her t-shirt when I stand back up.
“And you must be Coley Fitzsimmons?"
“How’d you know?"
“Your student ID."
“Oh,” she says, then laughs nervously.
“So I’m assigned to you,” I tell her, taking a seat and gesturing for her to do the same.
“What do you mean?"
“Can you get her caught up, Trey?” Professor Aslon asks me.
“Of course. Since you were late–"
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” she says to me, looking genuinely remorseful as all the hair on the right side of her head comes free of the clip. She hurriedly removes the accessory, gathers all of her fine hair together, twists it, and fastens it back up. Tendrils in the front remain uncooperative, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
“Don’t apologize to me… but you missed the explanation. Every freshman starts off as a feature writer, and you’re assigned a junior copy editor. So you’ve got me."
“For a story?” she asks.
“For the semester,” I clarify.
“Oh, my God,” she gushes, putting her hand over her heart.
“Is that going to be okay?"
“Oh, my God. I think so.” She’s completely out of breath.
I smile at her. “If you’re really good after your freshman year, you go on to be a junior copy editor your sophomore year. After that, you go to copy editor, then managing editor, or if you’re lucky, editor-in-chief. Editors write stories as well, with an editor above them. But for your first year, they want you to focus solely on writing."
“Cool,” she says.
“Any questions so far?” I ask her.
“All semester?” she asks.
“Yes, you’ll focus on writing all semester.”
“No, I mean you’re my editor all semester?"
“Yes,” I reiterate. “I thought we established that already."
“I’m sorry, I’m so nervous."
“Why?” I ask her.
“Why?” She looks at me incredulously. “Why?!” she repeats. “You’re only Trey Holland. The miracle child born to Jack and Emi Holland.”
“Miracle child, oh boy…”
“They’ve done so many things for so many people. And you, too, with your volunteer work, and your blog.”
“So you know a little about me, huh?” I ask her, squirming in my seat.
“And you’re the brother of the most talented artist in the world.”
“Don’t ever say that in front of Livvy. Jon has enough problems with her ego already,” I tease, referring to my brother-in-law, who’s about the only person equally matched for my gifted sister. They are an art and architecture tour-de-force. Separately, they are at the top of their fields. Together, their work is incomparable and in demand by the wealthiest and most well-known celebrities in Europe, Asia, South America, and here at home.
“I saw them once with their adorable little girls. Livvy is so poised and perfect.”
“You can never, ever meet Liv.” I start laughing at the way she’s gushing over my family.
“I think I’d be scared to!”
“You’d be so disappointed to learn that she’s normal. Probably just like you.”
“Everything okay?” Professor Aslon asks the two of us.
“I think Coley reads too many Manhattan gossip rags,” I respond, slightly amused and only mildly frustrated with my partner.
“A little star-struck Miss Fitzsimmons?"
“I never expected to even see him on campus, much less be in a class with him… and he’s my editor…”
“Yes, he is your editor. Trey, why don’t you take Coley for a cup of coffee and prove to her you’re human? Decaf, maybe…”
“I was going to suggest that,” I tell her.
“Good. And Coley? For Wednesday, I need an article on your first impression of Trey. Got it?"
My partner nods he
r head enthusiastically. “Oh! Who’s my audience?"
“Me,” my professor says, and I smile, knowing the assignment well.
“Okay, good, yes. One article, due Wednesday."
“One copy, printed, Miss Fitzsimmons.” Coley nods in understanding.
“Let’s go,” I say, waiting for her to put on all three of her bags. I pick up my notebook, pencil, and style guide, leading her out of the class. “Want me to carry your backpack or something?”
“I’ve got it,” she says, but as her body shifts under the weight of her belongings, I stop walking and hold my hand out until she passes it to me.
After we begin our walk to the coffee shop nearby, she looks up at me shyly, her eyes still wide. “So we can just cut class like that?"
“Class time is about collaboration. Our professor doesn’t care where we work – as long as it’s not in our residences – that’s the only stipulation, not that she’d ever know. We call Professor Aslon “Professor As Long As the Job Gets Done.’ That’s her motto.”
“That’s cool."
“Well, she knows most of the real work will be done on your own time. Most beginning writers can’t write on command like that. She understands that. But if you ever feel inspired when we’re collaborating, you say the word, and you can write. Okay?"
“Okay,” she answers.
“So you got lost. Where were you?” I ask her.
“I don’t know why I thought this would be a class in Pulitzer Hall… but it’s not.” She shakes her head.
“You were way off.” I laugh lightly. “That’s the grad school.”
“I learned. I ended up asking someone in the library where I was supposed to go.”
“You poor thing. Was there no one you could ask in Pulitzer?”
“I was just intimidated.”
“You’ve got to get over that,” I tell her. “You’re going to be a reporter for The Wit. You could be interviewing any of those people one day very soon.”
“I can do it,” she says to me, planting her feet into the sidewalk.
“All right then.” I nod toward the entrance of the coffee shop in the building from which she just came, inviting her to continue on our trek.
