by Ney, Sara
I refuse to glance down the aisle to see if she’s looking at me.
That would be a total rookie thing to do, and I’ll not be led around by my cock for a girl with a stunning face but a cruel heart.
“…every fifth person will be in your group,” the professor is saying as her TA hands around the syllabus. “Go ahead and start counting off, starting in this first row, then reorganize yourselves into your new groups.”
I begin mentally counting seats to see who’ll be in my study group, glancing down the row to find the girl glancing back at me—she jerks her head forward to avoid my gaze.
Bollocks.
The last thing I want is to be stuck in a fucking group with her for an entire semester.
She thinks I’m ugly.
Thing is, I know I’m not friggin’ ugly. Plenty of women hit on me. She wasn’t the first—though hers was a jest—and she won’t be the last. And it’s not like I’m a choir boy. I’ve had plenty of fucks.
I guarantee you none of them were out of pity.
The point is, I don’t suffer from self-esteem issues, and the last thing I would have expected was for some naff of a girl to single me out at a party to make fun of me.
“Once you’re in your groups, turn to page four of your syllabus and go from there. Today will just be a warm-up and introductions, then we’ll begin coursework on Thursday.”
I flip to page four of the stapled leaflet and groan.
Introduce yourself.
Give a fun fact.
Major, city you call home, hobbies.
Bloody hell, what is this—a playdate? I have to be stuck in a class where we grab arse the entire time? When will we be doing actual work?
The teacher’s assistant is now pointing out spots around the room for the new groups to gather—ones go here, twos go there, and so on and so forth, until everyone is standing and collecting their things to shuffle about the lecture hall.
I stay put, rooted in my spot.
They want me to join their group, the fives can come to me.
I can tell who the fives are because the four of them that congregated in the spot where the TA put them are whispering and pointing my direction; clearly they recognize me, and clearly they’re having a debate about how to proceed.
The girl still hasn’t risen either; that would require her to squeeze past me to get down front, and she looks determined to avoid me.
Good.
Let her stay trapped there.
Below us, the fives seem to have reached a consensus and are once again gathering up their things, filing up the steps toward me one at a time.
Reluctantly, the girl at the front of the line says, “Are you a five?”
“Yeah.”
She glances over at the girl, Georgia. “Is she?”
I nod. “Pretty sure.”
If she has questions, she doesn’t ask them, instead plopping down in a seat next to mine, leaving one spot in between, the other three doing much of the same. The two blokes go to the row in front of me, sitting and twisting their bodies around to face me.
Georgia rises and shuffles over, dragging her feet.
Literally.
I can hear the soles of her sneakers scraping the hard concrete floor.
“Hi guys.”
Her hair is in a low ponytail today, large gold hoop earrings twinkling from each lobe.
She’s cute for being such a little shite.
The Indian girl sitting nearest to me shuffles her syllabus. “It says we’re supposed to make introductions.” She has an American accent. “I’m Priya. I’m a business major with an emphasis on public relations. My hometown is Chicago, no I’ve never lived in India, yes I love mehndi and use henna on my hands, yes I speak Hindi.”
Okay then.
“What are your hobbies?” the guy in front of me asks.
“Shopping and reading. I’m also getting my pilot’s license.”
“Whoa, that’s awesome” they all seem to murmur breathlessly.
Priya flips her long, glossy black hair. “My father is a pilot and it’s just something I’ve always wanted to do, so last year I started taking classes. There’s a small airport nearby. I take my classes there.”
More impressed oohs and aahs.
“So that’s me.” She shoots me a pointed look. “What’s your story, Mr. Tough Guy?”
Mr. Tough Guy. Ha.
“My name is Ash,” I begin. “Ashley. Go ahead and have your crack of fun.”
People usually have something to say about my name considering in America it’s primarily a woman’s name, but in Britain, it’s a man’s name that goes back centuries.
But no one in this group laughs, so I clear my throat and go on. “I’m obviously not from here.”
This time, they laugh, and I tick off a few facts about myself, counting them off on my fingers as I go.
“I play rugby. Senior. Surrey, England. Fish and chips.”
“You forgot to tell us your major,” Priya reminds me.
“Business. Will probably go to grad school, but I won’t get that degree in the States—I’ll do it back home. We’ll see.”
Surprise raises the brows of two of them.
They wait for more, but there is none.
Everyone turns to face Georgia.
She clears her throat self-consciously and blushes. “Hi, my name is Georgia. I’m from a tiny town in Texas, and this is my first semester here. They cut my scholarship for track so…here I am. Uh. My major is business, like most of yours, and I’d love a career in public relations.” She pauses a few seconds whilst she thinks. “I’m on the track team and run hurdles. I love baking and can’t function without caffeine. Uh…I love Target?”
The girls in the group giggle.
“That’s me. That’s it. I mean, I could talk for days, but I’ll stop, ha ha.”
Fuck she’s cute.
“Wait—if you’re a transfer student from Texas…do you live in the dorms or are you in a house off campus?”
Georgia blushes again. “I’m in the dorms. Orientation for track two weeks ago was only the second time I’ve been on campus, so…” Her shoulders rise up and down.
“That sucks,” Priya announces. “Which dorm?”
“Lucas Hall—I think it’s mostly older students? I think. I’m not sure, I don’t pay attention to anyone.”
“Yeah that’s mostly older people,” the other girl clarifies. “I have a friend who lived there last year. It’s not totally horrible.”
Georgia gives her a grateful smile.
All heads swivel to the bloke directly in front of me.
“I’m Jamal. Junior. Second baseman on the baseball team. Major is economics, I’ll probably study contract law.”
Baseball team?
I knew I recognized him.
We fist-bump.
“I’m from Jacksonville, Florida. Like comic books, sports, grilling out.” Jamal shrugs, ending his introduction. “That’s about it.”
On to the next dude.
“What’s up, I’m Brian. Canton, Ohio. Political science except I’ve changed my major twice so I won’t be graduating any time soon and my parents are going to kill me.”
Sucks to be Brian.
My mum and dad would flip—no tolerance for extending my stay, though they’ve been gracious enough not to row with me about moving from the UK to America. Not yet, anyway.
I know if it took me longer than four years to earn my degree, they’d have something to say about it, and that something would be less than charitable.
Yup, sucks to be Brian.
He better get a move on. No sense in dallying.
What’s his holdup? He trying to be in school the rest of his life? I like it here, but dang—I’m not staying any longer than I have to.
“I’m Nalla, and I’m local. Well, sort of local—I grew up about forty-five minutes from here. I used to live on campus, but now I commute so I can work after class. I work for my parents. The
y own a printing company, do mostly clothing. I don’t love it, but whatever.” Nalla shifts in her seat. “My major is mass comm and marketing. I love drawing and art museums and graphic design.”
We all look around at each other, done with the task and the introductions.
“Now what?” Nalla says. “Do we just sit here, or…”
Georgia scrunches up her face. “I think the professor said once we were done we could leave and then we’d pick up on Thursday with the actual assignment? We’re supposed to read page blah blah blah in the syllabus.”
Did she just say blah blah blah instead of actual page numbers?
The fives rise up around the same time other groups begin to finish, saying goodbye and peace out, see you on Thursday.
Only Georgia and I are left standing in our row.
“Do you…” I can hear her clear her throat. “Should we get coffee or something?”
“No.” I hoist my backpack up off the ground and shove my papers inside.
“Please? Let me take you for a coffee. Or a sandwich? Everyone has to eat, right?”
Yes, but not with each other. “Stop trying to make this better.”
I turn and walk away, leaving her standing there staring after me.
Three
Georgia
Thursday
I brought him cupcakes.
Cupcakes I made from scratch, which was almost impossible to do given the fact that I live in the dorms.
I had to beg a favor from Tamlin, who lives off campus in a not horrible house with three other girls and a not horrible stove.
She had muffin tins, too, which helped.
Baked goods.
That ought to thaw Ashley Dryden-Jones’s loathing for me.
Ashley.
An old, romantic name for such a huge goliath of a guy.
It suits him in a way—not that there is anything romantic about him. Still, it’s a contradiction, and I like it.
He’s not terrible, just…
Not friendly toward me.
He was perfectly pleasant—even cheerful—with the rest of the fives in our business class, but there was no love lost for me.
The tension was real.
I felt it every time he glanced in my direction but looked right through me instead.
Ouch.
That did hurt.
I didn’t mean to hurt him the way I did; who would have thought a big guy like him would be so sensitive? Which just goes to show: I know absolutely nothing about guys.
He felt slighted, as if I meant to humiliate him in front of my friends. And sure, maybe things would have looked that way from his point of view, but surely it wouldn’t kill him to hear me out!
If he freezes me out during this class—during this group project—it’s going to drive me bonkers.
So what are you going to do about it, Georgia?
Will he ever forgive me?
I have an entire semester to try to earn his trust, beginning with these cupcakes, which honestly should be muffins since it’s early in the day and probably not the right time for sweets.
They’re even in the cutest little box, one I scrounged up in the dorm’s recycling center and covered in cute wrapping paper before plunking the baked goods inside.
Lovely little presentation.
I’ve done my hair today, taking a flat iron to practice so I could tame my locks afterward—even adding mascara and lip gloss. More makeup than I had on Friday night, not that he was paying me one bit of attention.
Dolling up is a strategy that could backfire on me, of course—the last thing I want is to look like ‘one of those girls.’ The snooty kind who flirts and teases and plays games.
The high-maintenance kind who judge people by their appearance.
That is exactly what you’ve done, Georgie.
Exactly that.
Stop reminding me! I tell myself.
Ashley Dryden-Jones is in the same spot he occupied during the last class: fifth row from the back of the room, fourth seat in. I had to climb around him to get to my seat Tuesday, but today, I ease my things over before settling into the second seat in.
Not too far and not too close.
Close enough to talk if he changes his mind about me.
The other members of our group file in one by one, joining us by filling in the seats behind us and in front.
The two guys greet me and the other girls but fist-bump Ash.
Typical.
In the seat in front of me, Brian twists around, his eyes straying to the cupcake box on my lap.
“Sweet, are these for us?”
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to slap his grasping hand away from my box when he reaches for it without waiting for an invitation, greedy fingers already going at a cupcake. You know those claws in a game where you put money in and try to extract a stuffed animal with a mechanical hand that drops from the ceiling?
Like that.
“Sorry, no.” I jerk the box back, out of his reach.
The entire group stares expectantly at me.
Nalla licks her lips. “Who are they for?”
“Um…” I glance around nervously, gaze accidentally flitting to Ash before I can stop it, giving myself away.
They dart over to him again.
He who ignores me and pretends I don’t exist.
“Yeah, who are they for?” Brian echoes.
“I made them for a friend.”
“What friend?”
Oh my god, Brian, what do you care who they’re for?!
While Brian is arguing, Jamal is doing a count of the cakes and announces, “There are six of them, and we’re your friends,” making me want to bang my head against a desk. “These should be for us.”
If there were a desk nearby, I would bang my head on it.
My intention wasn’t to share; my intention was to hand them to Ash in a feeble attempt at amends, and now the whole plan has gone to shit thanks to these nosey groupmates of ours.
Ugh!
Why is nothing working out for me the way it was supposed to? Why has everything gone to shit since I moved here?
My so-called “friends” who turned out to be bullies and who I’m stuck with until I make new ones.
This boy who hates my guts and won’t even look at me.
The cupcakes remain on my lap, a total magnet for Brian and Jamal, who have made it their mission to ignore the professor at the front of the room and attempt to get them off my lap.
If I set them down, they’ll be gone.
But if they see me handing them over to Ash at the end of class, they’re going to think I’m…in love with him or something, bringing him treats when I wasn’t willing to share with them.
Down in front, someone dims the lights—probably the TA—and the projector glows to life, the size of a small movie screen down in front.
“Ways we are terrible. At. Communicating,” Professor Drexler says, marker squeaking the entire time she’s writing on the board next to her projector. The slide shows a list of ways we need to communicate to effectively navigate in business, but she wants us to list the ways we’re bad at it. “Go ahead and work this through in your groups, and then we’ll go around the room and see how many we have that overlap and seem to be common themes.”
The lights flip back on, though let’s be honest, it probably wasn’t necessary to dim them to begin with.
“We suck at communication because we’re always on our phones.” Nalla kicks off the discussion. “Should I write that down?”
“I nominate Nalla to take notes,” Jamal teases, shooting her a wink.
She rolls her eyes but opens her laptop and clicks open a new document with nary a sigh. “What are some others?” She glances up at us through the lenses of the computer glasses she’s got perched on her nose.
“Lack of eye contact,” I blurt out, shooting a sharp glance at Ash, wondering if he’s making the connection or if it went right over his head.
“Lack of directness,” Priya says smartly with a nod. “No one says what they mean—it’s nothing but guesswork.”
She’s not wrong.
“Social media’s given everyone a case of the dumbs.” That from Jamal, and he’s also not wrong. “Get off your damn phone.”
“How about—underexplaining,” Priya adds.
“Totally.” I’m nodding. “And overexplaining. That’s horrible too.”
“Agreeing with something you disagree with. Is that bad communication?” Nalla nibbles on her bottom lip.
“I think so, because isn’t agreeing with something you disagree about dishonest? Plus, if you can’t speak up or can’t speak your mind, that’s a breakdown in trust.”
Beside me, Ashley Dryden-Jones snorts through his nose.
A loud, obnoxious snort.
Everyone looks at him.
“Dude, what was that?” Brian asks him.
“I find it ironic that she’s talking about a breakdown in trust when she does shite all the time she doesn’t agree with.”
Of course, he says all this in a swoony British accent that has both Priya and Nalla melting a little. And, not going to lie—my insides get a bit warmer.
All heads swivel to me.
Cupcakes still in my lap, I pop the top and offer them up to the group. “Brian, would you like a cupcake?”
Ashley’s nostrils flare. “I thought those were going to be for me.”
Ha! As if. “Why would you assume they were for you?”
“Coz you’ve been trying to kiss my arse since Friday.”
Kiss his arse? Please!
I’ve been trying to be nice. I haven’t…I…
Fine. I’ve been trying to kiss his ass—I feel horrible, and there’s nothing wrong with trying to make amends.
Brian takes a cupcake before the chance slips away; so do Jamal and Nalla, who licks her fingers clean before resuming taking notes on her laptop.
“Where’s mine?” Ashley wants to know.
“I changed my mind.” The lid snaps shut.
Our groupmates make mmm and nom-ing sounds while they lick frosting and bite into the moist cakes.
“So a girl can shite on a bloke then he can’t catch a fairy cake? Got it.” He leans back in his chair, crossing muscular arms.
