by McKinley May
“No, I am. I just don’t want to be front row in your class. It’s weird. I’m not even enrolled.”
He utters another heavy breath before conceding. “Fine, Princess. Where would you like to sit instead?” He waves an arm across the room, gesturing for me to pick a seat. “By all means, lead the way.”
I walk up a dozen or so steps until I find the perfect spot: far enough from the front the professor won’t call on us, but close enough to see the board. I plop down in the middle of the row, Vaughn sinking into the seat on my right. It’s still ten minutes ’til, so I pull out my phone to scroll through social media while he rummages in his backpack for a notebook and pencil.
I’m interested to watch him take notes, see the type of student he is. When I first met him, I took him for a snoring-in-the-back-row sort of guy, but when he revealed he was some kind of mathematical mastermind last week, I realized I was way off.
But just because you’re a math prodigy doesn’t mean you’re not immature as hell, as evidenced when he reaches over and pokes me in the ribs to get my attention.
“Hey, save my seat. I gotta pee.” He stands, smirking down at me. “Unless you need to shadow that, too?”
I groan. “You’re disgusting. Go away, please.”
“Don’t even think about sneaking out of here while I’m gone. I’ll be right back.”
I wave him away. “Whatever, I won’t.”
As he walks out of the room, groups of students start to trickle in, settling in their seats for the long lecture ahead. I’m fixated on my phone when someone says my name.
“Rayne?”
I whip my head up to see Allen standing in the row ahead of me. He’s got a pen tucked behind one ear, poking out from his brown curls, and his camera’s hanging around his neck as always. He’s extremely passionate about his photography, treating that camera like his own child. I swear I saw him rocking it in his arms a few weeks ago, coddling the damn thing like a baby.
Although a bit quirky, he’s a super nice guy and a great asset to Windhaven Weekly, always eager to get us the best photographs possible.
“Hey, Allen. What’s up?”
“You’re not in this class, are you?” His head cocks in confusion.
I shake my head. “No, I’m not. I’m just here with… somebody.”
Well, that was unnecessarily cryptic. I guess I just can’t bring myself to admit I’m here with Steel.
“Oh, um, okay.” He looks perplexed by my vague answer but shrugs it off. “How was your weekend?”
“Pretty nice. I went home and spent some time with family. How about yours?”
“Nothing special.” He shuffles on his feet nervously. “Anyway, I was going to ask you this at the meeting tomorrow, but since I ran into you here I was kinda wondering if maybe—”
“Hey, bro. Sup?” We both swivel to the right where Vaughn is back and smirking at me in amusement. He lifts his head in greeting and casually takes a seat—sitting much closer to me than he was before.
“Hey,” Allen squeaks, his eyes volleying back and forth between the two of us before landing on me. “He’s who you’re here with? You two aren’t, um, together, are you?”
I immediately shut that notion down with an incredulous laugh. “Absolutely not!”
I hear Vaughn clear his throat begrudgingly beside me. Okay, maybe my response erred on the side of offense, but he can get over it. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about the two of us.
“It’s article-related,” I explain.
“She’s ‘observing’ me,” Vaughn interjects with air quotes, a huge grin on his face. “Following me around all day like a freakin' puppy.”
“Strictly for the article,” I repeat.
“Oh, cool,” Allen says, looking almost relieved at the information.
I smile politely at him. “So what were you asking me?”
His eyes shift self-consciously towards the man-child on my right before he gets his question out. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me this weekend? Um, on a date?”
What?
I try to hide the shock on my face. I was expecting a simple question about the paper, not an invitation on a date. I really don’t want to hurt his feelings—he’s a sweet guy—so I try to let him down as easily as possible.
Right as I begin to respond, a loud crash grabs our attention. I whirl around to see Vaughn leaning over, picking up his fallen water bottle. When he lifts back up, he gives us a look that he may think appears apologetic, but I can see right through the thin veneer.
“My bad. Continue on with your conversation. Pretend I’m not here.”
I shoot him a death glare before turning back to Allen, who’s anxiously awaiting my answer.
Letting out a deep breath, I reply, “Look, Allen, I think you’re great, and I’m flattered, but I’m not really dating right now. It’s nothing personal. I hope you understand.”
I feel a pinch of guilt as his face falls, but he gives me a quick nod. “That’s cool. It’s fine. No problem.” His eyes flit once more between Vaughn and me. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“Yep,” I answer as he waves goodbye and walks out into the aisle.
The moment he’s out of earshot, I sock Vaughn on the arm.
“Dammit, Rayne.” He rubs his bicep dramatically, pretending I hurt him when I’m positive my knuckles bore the brunt of that hit. “What the hell was that for?”
“You’re such an asshole, you know that? You totally dropped that water bottle on purpose.”
“It was an accident!”
“Sureeee it was.” I give him a knowing look.
His lips curl up in a smug smile. “I told you he liked you, by the way. Never question my judgement.”
“I honestly never got that impression, but I guess I was wrong.”
I rub my throbbing knuckles, trying to soothe the pain. Are his biceps made out of freaking granite?
Vaughn gives me a curious stare. “Why’d you turn him down?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t feel any romantic connection there. Like, at all.” I shrug. “Also, I’ve sworn off boys. I don’t have time for them. All they are is a distraction.”
“You have time for me and I’m a dude,” he states pompously, relaxing back into his seat and looking oh so proud of himself.
I scoff. “Please. That’s completely different and you know it. The one and only reason I’m making time for you is because I’m forced to. I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Nah, that’s not true. You’d still make time for me even if I wasn’t the star of your article.”
“No, I really wouldn’t,” I maintain, but he doesn’t falter.
“Yeah, you really would. You love hanging out with me. It’s obvious.”
I get the urge to sock him again, but I restrain myself. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to feed that huge-ass ego of yours, then go ahead. But we both know the truth.”
Vaughn flips to a blank page of his notebook, just giving me a stupid, goofy grin in response. I stick out my tongue right as the professor begins tapping on the microphone to test it out.
“Good morning, everyone,” he begins in a tone so monotonous it makes Siri sound like a peppy cheerleader. “Today, we’ll be continuing on with…”
“Oh my Godddd,” I whisper-whine in Vaughn’s direction. “How the hell do you stay awake through this?”
His shoulders shake as he silently laughs, his hand a blur as he scribbles down whatever the robot-voice is saying. “It’s only an hour; quit being a damn baby.”
I slump down in my chair and prepare to be bored to tears. Robot Man drones on and on about what they covered last class and what they’ll be going over today. When he finally finishes and heads to the board to work out a problem, I check my phone to see how much time has passed.
That had to have taken at least twenty minutes, right? I mean, he talked forever.
9:06 am.
Wonderful.
Only 54 minutes to go.
13
“Rayne, could you take a look at this?”
It’s Tuesday night, and I’m back to the grind at the newspaper meeting. Dani’s out fixing an issue with the printers, and her absence means everyone’s able to enjoy themselves for the time being. Most of us are buried in our laptops, putting the finishing touches on our sections before the paper comes out tomorrow. Wednesday might seem like a strange day to put out a weekly issue, but it’s been that way since the paper was started. The founders wanted to stick with the university’s “W” theme: Windhaven Weekly on Wednesdays. It’s cute, albeit a mouthful.
Jessica’s sitting across from me, hunched over and typing furiously, completely absorbed in her piece. I pause working on my weekly column—this one focused on the men’s golf team—and raise my head.
“What’s up?”
After a few more seconds of banging on her keyboard like a madwoman, she rotates her computer to face me. Pointing at the screen, she asks, “What do you think? Is this formatting okay?”
She’s working on her weekly trends piece, and I lean forward to see. Five pictures grace the top of the column, each one of students posing at different campus locations. All of them are wearing a hideous, dark-yellow color that reminds me of mustard. After skimming the first few sentences, I figure out the color is called mustard.
Nasty.
“Formatting looks great,” I tell her. “But that color is awful.”
Jess frowns. “I don’t pick the trends, R. I just report on them.” She takes another look, head leaning to the side as she studies the color. “It’s not my fav of the season, but I could see myself rocking it. It’s unique. I need a title for this. Any ideas?”
“How about ‘Mustard: Not Just For Hamburgers and Hotdogs’?” I crack.
She places a finger to her chin, and—what the hell—is she actually considering that?
“Oh my gosh, Jess. I’m kidding! Please don’t use that. It’s terrible.”
She shrugs, still contemplating my suggestion. “It’s creative, I’ll give it that.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something better. Or ask Jorge. He’s the best at titles.”
Upon hearing his name, Jorge perks up from a table across the room. Besides his natural talent for producing catchy titles on command, he’s apparently got bionic hearing as well.
“Is somebody in need of assistance?" he questions, immediatly jumping from his seat and tucking his laptop under his arm. "King Jorge to the rescue!”
Jorge is already my favorite freshman. Not only does he work his butt off and help out in all realms of the paper, his advice column is the best one we’ve ever had. It’s freaking hilarious.
During our first meeting introductions, he insisted that his column be called “Dear King Jorge”. When we asked for a much-needed explanation, he claimed it was his nickname all through high school because he wore a jeweled crown for picture day each year. When we asked for yet another much-needed explanation, he said he wanted to make sure his classmates “knew who was in charge”.
Yeah, you could definitely say the guy has a big personality.
He straddles the chair next to Jessica, angling her computer so it's facing him. “What’s the problem, fashionista?”
As soon as they start brainstorming possible titles, I zone out and continue typing away.
Twenty minutes later, I’m done and decide to take a quick break before working on the soccer piece. I type in the URL for the website I’ve visited over a hundred times the last few weeks: the internship application page. At this point, I’m confident I could recite the application rules and regulations in my sleep, but that doesn’t deter me from reading through them again.
The deadline is December 31st, so it’s perfect timing for me to get everything situated after the article goes live in mid-November. If everything goes well, I’ll be spending next summer working at their headquarters.
And if everything goes really well?
I’ll be starting my senior year with a secured job immediately after graduation.
Hell. Yes.
A thunderous burst of laughter from Jorge stirs me from my daydreaming.
“What is wrong with the people on this campus?” he mumbles, head shaking slowly in disbelief.
Everyone else in the room lifts their heads, wondering what the hell he's talking about.
“The emails I get from these wackos are priceless.”
He begins reading off of his screen.
“Dear King Jorge,
There’s something seriously wrong with my roommate. She wears all black, never sleeps, and only drinks red liquids. Yesterday, I opened the blinds and she screamed in agony, collapsing to the floor as if she was melting. Is this bitch a vampire? If so, do you have any suggestions?
Love,
PlzDon’tBiteMe”
Some of us laugh while others shudder, memories or current issues with shitty roommates flashing through their minds.
He clears his throat before reading another one.
“Dear King Jorge,
The other day I overslept and was late for class. In my rush to get to campus, I accidentally forgot to put on pants. Imagine my horror when I walked into the classroom and looked down to see my boxer shorts with little bananas and oranges all over them.
The worst part was my unfortunate footwear selection. I had to throw on the first pair of shoes I came across: my roommate’s Crocs.
Have I ruined all chances with the ladies in the class? Should I drop the course? Or should I show up in this outfit everyday to display my confidence?
Thanks,
CrocsAndSocks”
We're all cracking up at the image when the classroom door slams open. The atmosphere in the room goes ice cold as Dani storms in, snarling as she glares at us.
“I’m assuming everyone’s done with their columns and has submitted them to me for review. Because I just can’t comprehend the thought that you would be laughing if you weren’t finished.”
Jess rolls her eyes at me, and I grit my teeth in response.
The fun police is back on duty.
Whoop-Dee-Doo.
Dani begins walking around, scrutinizing everyone’s work from behind their shoulders. She hovers over Jessica and reads her title out loud. “’Ketchup with Fall’s Trendiest Color: Mustard’. Clever.”
Her tone is dull and her expression remains in her usual resting-bitch-face, so I don’t blame Jess and Jorge when they exchange glances of confusion. It can be impossible to read Dani’s reactions sometimes.
When she approaches my computer, I quickly exit out of the internship application and open the golf article. I watch her as she skims it, attempting to gauge her opinion, but her eyes are stoic as they dart over the page.
Finally, she speaks. “Show me the soccer piece.”
Thanks for the constructive feedback.
I pull it up and lean back in my seat, allowing her to examine what I have so far.
Before she can make a comment, my phone vibrating on the table catches the attention of both of us.
New Text Msg: Vaughn Steel
He sends a bunch more, and Dani’s lips twist up in the smallest of smiles.
“Nice to see you two are getting along. I imagine it won’t be long before you have that extra information we talked about.” She speaks low enough that only I can hear before walking away.
Shit.
I was really hoping she’d forgotten about that.
My stomach lurches, nausea rushing through me as I consider it. Though at first I was gung-ho with the plan, the moment we finished that first interview at the Treehouse I began to have my doubts. I mean, there are so many other interesting, positive stories and tidbits of information to fill the article with, I don't think taking the piece in that dark direction is even necessary.
And I don’t want to manipulate him. At Café Cappuccino, I was thisclose to pryin
g further when his troubled high school years were brought up, but in the end I just couldn’t get the words out. Not with the pain I saw flooding his eyes. Because the more time I spend with him, the more I don’t think it’s a good idea.
But there's still a small part of me that's absolutely certain it'd be a one-way-ticket to the top of the applicant pool at StadiumScore...And that is my number one priority right now...
I push the thoughts from my mind and decide to figure everything out down the road. At this point, I’ll continue focusing on the season and Vaughn’s future, not his past.
I open up his texts and laugh when I see a dozen picture messages, each one of a Calculus problem I attempted to solve.
Last night when I arrived to watch his practice, he called me down to the edge of the bleachers and dug out a packet of papers and graphing calculator from his soccer bag. He told me to work out as many of the math problems as I could before practice finished, and he'd take it home and “grade” them for me. I managed to complete the majority of them, but based on the amount of red ink he scrawled all over my work, I don't think I got a single one right.
I’m reading through his corrections, and I can’t stop smiling at his ridiculous markings. He’s got arrows pointing to some of my work with “WTF r u doing here?”, “JFC”, and “FFS” chicken-scratched above it; his method is definitely unorthodox compared to the TA corrections I’m used to seeing.
But most of his other comments are extremely helpful. It’s obvious he took the time to explain the steps as clearly as possible for me. He even wrote out a 'Tips and Tricks' portion on the last page and it's incredible—simplifying concepts my professor took hours to poorly explain into something I can actually understand.
I text him my appreciation.
Me: THANK YOU!!
Me: Seriously, you’re a lifesaver.
