by Elle Kennedy
On New Year’s Eve.
Aren’t I the poster boy for good behavior?
My phone informs me of a dozen messages and missed calls. Dragging a hand through my messy hair, I roll onto my back and sift through the notifications.
My parents each texted at precisely 12:00 a.m. I can just imagine them sitting in their respective houses at 11:59, hands hovering over their phones like they’re preparing to slap the buzzer on Family Feud, each one desperate to be the first to get a message through. They’re so frickin’ competitive.
MOM: Happy New Year, sweetie!! Love you so so soooo much! This is going to be the best year ever! YOUR year! Woot woot!
Oh dear God. Mothers are not allowed to say “woot woot.” My dad’s text isn’t much better.
DAD: Happy New Year. We got this.
We got this? Got what? Parents trying to sound cool is a whole other level of secondhand embarrassment.
My friends’ messages are more entertaining.
HOLLIS: Where da fuck r u?? Patty’s just getting started
HOLLIS: *patty
HOLLIS: *parting
HOLLIS: Party!!!!!! FUCK THIS PHONE
GARRETT: Happy New Year!! Where’d u run off to, Colin?? (Still feel weird calling u that)
My old teammates Logan and Tucker send their New Year messages to our various group chats. Tuck and Sabrina include a picture of their baby, which prompts about a million heart-eye emojis from our friends.
Pierre texts something in French.
My teammates blow up our team thread with well-wishes and random videos, grainy and impossible to hear, of the various parties they attended.
One teammate’s name is noticeably missing from the group chat and my phone in general. Shocking. No word from Hunter.
I bet he was too busy to text anyone last night.
Busy, busy, busy.
I ignore the sharp clenching in my chest and force all thoughts of Hunter and his busy, busy night out of my head. I continue scrolling through my phone.
A girl I knew in high school sends a generic note. For some reason, she still has me in her contacts list, so any time a holiday rolls around I get a message from her.
Hollis sends a few more texts that make me chuckle.
HOLLIS: Yo. bar’s closing. where u at. assuming getting a bj or sumthin?
HOLLIS: after patty at Danny’s house. new buddy. u’ll luv him
HOLLIS: OK then
HOLLIS: gunna assume u ded
HOLLIS: hope ur not ded, tho!!! I <3 u, bro. new year, new us. word.
Oh man. Someone needs to confiscate that dude’s phone when he’s wasted. Still laughing, I click on the next message in my inbox. It’s from Dean.
My humor fades the moment I read it.
DEAN: Happy New Year!! Was hoping to talk to u before u took off. I need a huge favor, bro.
DEAN: Are u guys still looking for a 4th roommate?
5
Summer
Two Weeks Later
The assistant dean is putting on a fake British accent.
I’ve been sitting in his office for about seven minutes now, and I’m convinced of it. I want to grill him about where he grew up, but I don’t think Mr. Richmond would appreciate the interruption. He’s clearly receiving way too much enjoyment from this lecture.
“…academic probation,” he’s droning. His voice has a weird, raspy croak to it. Like if a frog could talk, that’s how I imagine it would sound.
A nickname forms in my head—Asshole Frog.
“…zero tolerance policy, given the nature of your previous expulsion…”
Or maybe Froghole. That has a better ring to it.
“Summer.”
He pronounces my name Sum-ah. I try to remember how Gavin used to say it. Gavin is the sexy duke I dated last year when I spent the summer in England. I don’t think their accents are comparable, though. Gavin’s blood runs blue, so he’d have that upper-crust accent only those in line to the throne have. Granted, there are about forty members of the royal family ahead of him in the line of succession, but that’s still a whole other stratosphere above Mr. Richmond.
Briar’s assistant dean is no duke. And his first name is Hal, which doesn’t sound very British. Unless it’s short for something? Hallam? Halbert?
“Ms. Di Laurentis!”
My head snaps up. Froghole’s expression is as sharp as his tone. I’d zoned him out, and he knows it.
“I understand that rules of conduct and academic policies aren’t the most exciting subject matter, but you, of all people, should be paying attention to this. The remainder of your college career could depend on it.”
“I’m sorry,” I force myself to say. “I don’t mean to be rude or ignore you on purpose. I have, um, attention problems.”
He nods, eyes on my file. “ADHD, according to this. Are you on medication for it?”
I bristle. I’m not, but that’s none of his frigging business.
Right?
I make a mental note to ask my parents, who are both lawyers. But I’m fairly certain a student doesn’t have to disclose to the school the medications they’re on.
I brush past the question in a way that would make my father proud. “I’m sure your file also mentions my writing issues?”
The distraction works. Froghole glances back at the file, shuffling a few pages. “Difficulties with written expression—yes, that tends to be a symptom of ADHD. Your advisor at Brown recommended alternate assessment methods for you if possible. Extra time on tests, extra tutoring, and oral exams to reduce the amount of writing. Are all written assignments a problem for you, or just longer essays?”
“Most written work is an issue.” My cheeks are on fire. It’s so frigging embarrassing sitting here talking about how stupid I am.
You’re not stupid, Summer. You just learn differently.
Mom’s voice floats through my head, reciting the same encouraging words I’ve been hearing my whole life. But although I love my parents dearly, their support doesn’t make it any less humiliating that I can’t organize my thoughts on paper. Hell, I can barely hold on to those thoughts for five seconds before my mind wanders somewhere else.
Other people have learning disabilities, I know that. But when your parents and two older brothers all got into Harvard Law and you’re the fashion major who has trouble writing one measly paragraph, it’s a little hard not to feel…less than.
“We’ll try to offer the same academic assistance you received at Brown, but not all your professors will be able to accommodate you.” Froghole flips to another paper. “Let’s take a look at your schedule… I suspect you’ll only have to worry about written assignments in History of Fashion, and Fundamentals of Color and Design. The rest of your courses seem to be more hands-on.”
I’m unable to hide my relief. Along with the two classes he just named, I’m also taking Textiles, which I’m excited about. Sewing and Tailoring, not as excited for. And an independent study that requires I design a line and debut it at the end-of-semester fashion show. All three are almost entirely practical. I fulfilled most of my degree requirements during my first two years at Brown, the awful ones like Lit and Sociology and Gender Studies. That’s probably why I was always on academic probation there. I barely passed any of those.
“But as I mentioned before, there are no strikes here. No second chances. If you cause any trouble, if you can’t meet the minimum academic requirements and maintain your GPA, you will be expelled. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I mutter.
“Brilliant.”
Argh. That accent is fake. I’m certain of it.
“Hey, Mr. Richmond, if you don’t mind me asking, where exactly in the UK are you from? You kinda sound like my friend Marcus, who’s from—”
He interrupts with, “Your attention issues are quite concerning, Summer. You never did say if you were on medication…?”
Oh fuck off.
We have a stare-off that lasts a couple of s
econds. I clench my teeth and ask, “May I go now?”
“One last thing,” he says, a snide edge to his voice.
I force myself to stay seated.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed that your schedule doesn’t list the name of your advisor.”
I hadn’t noticed, actually. But, sure enough, there’s a blank space after the academic advisor line.
“That’s because I will be looking after you personally.”
A rush of anxiety courses through me. What? Is that even legal?
Well, I’m sure it’s legal. But…why would the assistant dean serve as the advisor for a fashion major?
“It’s not a role I would normally take on. However, given the circumstances under which you were admitted to this university—”
“Circumstances?” I cut in, confused.
His dark eyes gleam with…I think that might be spite? “I understand that your father and the dean are longtime friends and golf chums—”
Definitely spite.
“—and I’m quite aware of the numerous donations your family has made to this school. With that said, I’m not a supporter of the I’ll-pat-your-back-you-pat-mine mentality. I believe that admission to this college—to any college—should be granted based on a student’s merit. So…” He shrugs. “I feel it would be prudent to keep an eye on you academically and ensure you’re conducting yourself according to the rules and policies we just went over.”
I’m sure my cheeks are redder than tomatoes, and I hope my two-hundred-dollar foundation is doing its job. It is absolutely mortifying knowing my father had to call in a favor with Dean Prescott to get me into Briar after the Brown fiasco. If it were up to me, I’d be done with college for good. But I promised my parents I’d get a degree, and I hate disappointing them.
“We’ll meet once a week so I can evaluate your progress and guide you academically.”
“Sounds great,” I lie. This time I get to my feet without asking permission. “I have to run now, Mr. Richmond. Why don’t you email me our meeting times and I’ll add those days to my calendar. Thanks so much for all your guidance.”
I’m sure he didn’t miss the sarcastic note in that last word—guidance—but I don’t give him a chance to respond. I’m already out the door and waving goodbye to his secretary.
Outside, I inhale the chilled air. Normally I adore the winter, and my new campus looks particularly magical covered with a layer of white frost, but I’m too stressed out to enjoy it right now. I can’t believe I’m being forced to have regular contact with Richmond. He was such a jerk.
I take another breath, adjust the strap of my Chanel tote, and start walking toward the parking lot behind the administration building. It’s a beautiful brick building, ivy-covered and incredibly old, like pretty much everything else on campus. Briar is one of the oldest and most prestigious universities in the country. It’s produced a couple of presidents and a ton of politicians, which is impressive, but only in the last decade have they begun to offer cooler, less academic-based courses. Like this Fashion Design program that’s going to give me a Bachelor of Fine Arts.
Despite what some people might think, fashion isn’t fluff.
I’m not fluff.
So take that, Colin Fitzgerald!
Bitterness rises in my throat, but I gulp it down because I’m not a bitter person. I have a temper, yes, but my anger usually comes out in a fiery burst and then dissolves almost instantly. I don’t stay mad at people for long—who needs that kind of negative energy in their life? And I certainly don’t hold grudges.
Yet it’s been two weeks since New Year’s Eve, and I still can’t let it go. The stupid, thoughtless, mean-spirited comments I overheard at the bar refuse to leave my mind.
He called me fluff.
He thinks I’m surface level.
Forget him. He’s not worth the mental anguish.
Right. So what if Fitz thinks I’m superficial? He’s not the first to think that, and he won’t be the last. When you’re a rich girl from Connecticut, people tend to assume you’re a materialistic bitch.
Says the materialistic bitch with the silver Audi, an inner voice taunts as I reach my shiny, expensive car.
Ugh. Even my own mind is trying to make me feel bad about myself.
It was a gift, I remind my traitorous brain. A high school graduation gift from my parents, which makes the car three years old. That’s like a senior citizen in vehicle years. And what was I supposed to do, refuse the present? I’m my dad’s baby girl, his little princess. He’s going to spoil me whether I like it or not.
But having a nice car doesn’t make me surface level.
Having an interest in fashion and being part of a sorority doesn’t make me surface level.
Forget him.
I click the key fob to unlock the car door. But I don’t get into the driver’s seat. Something keeps my boots planted to the asphalt.
I believe that something is called: oh sweet baby Jesus, I don’t want to go home and see the guy who thinks I’m fluff.
It’s hard to believe that two weeks ago I was excited about seeing Fitzy.
Now I’m dreading it. My unicorn is no longer a unicorn. He’s a judgmental donkey.
I press the lock button. Screw it. Maybe I’ll grab a coffee from the Coffee Hut first. I’m not ready to see him yet.
Coward.
I quickly unlock the car. I’m not a coward. I’m Summer Heyward-Di Laurentis and I don’t give a flying hoot what Colin Fitzgerald thinks about me.
I lock the car.
Because clearly I do care what he thinks.
I unlock the car.
Because I shouldn’t care.
Lock.
Unlock.
Lock.
Unlock.
“Okay! This looks like fun!” exclaims a highly amused voice. “Let me guess—your ex’s car?”
I jump in surprise. I was so focused on the stupid key fob that I didn’t even notice the girl approach me. “What? No. It’s mine.”
A pair of dark eyebrows furrow at me. “Really? What’s with the maniacal clicking, then?”
I’m equally confused. “Why would it be my ex’s car? What did you think I was doing to it?”
“Draining the key battery so he wouldn’t be able to unlock it later. I figured you stole his keys and were looking for a way to screw him.”
“Are you kidding? That sounds like the most exhausting payback scheme ever. I’d have to stand out here for hours to drain this thing. If I wanted revenge, I’d just slash a tire or two. Fast and effective.”
“Tire slashing? That’s insane and I love it.” She nods in approval, causing her thick chestnut-brown hair to fall over one shoulder. “Anyway. Enjoy whatever the hell it is you’re doing, crazy girl. Later.”
The brunette starts to walk off.
“Hey,” I call after her. “You need a ride somewhere?”
Awesome. I’m offering rides to complete strangers now? The level of dread Fitzy has instilled in me is off the charts.
She turns with a laugh. “Thanks, but I’m going to Hastings,” she says, referring to the nearest town. It’s a short drive from campus and also happens to be my destination.
“I’m going there too,” I blurt out. It’s a sign—I’m not supposed to go home yet. The universe wants me to give this chick a ride first.
She slowly walks back to me, shrewd brown eyes studying me from head to toe. I’m fairly sure I couldn’t appear any more harmless. My hair is thrown up in a messy bun, and I’m wearing a cream-colored pea coat, dark-blue skinny jeans, and brown leather riding boots. I look like I stepped off the pages of a Gap catalogue.
“I won’t murder you,” I say helpfully. “If anything, I should be worried about my own safety. Those heels look lethal.”
Actually, she looks lethal. She’s got black leggings on, a black coat, and black boots with those deadly four-inch heels. A red knit hat covers her head, with her dark hair streaming out from under it, and
she’s wearing bright red lipstick even though it’s only noon.
She’s such a badass, and I think I love her.
“I’m Summer,” I add. “I transferred here from Brown, and I just moved into a townhouse in Hastings.”
She purses her lips for a moment before answering. “I’m Brenna. I live in town too.” She shrugs and marches to the passenger’s side door. “Unlock it for real this time, crazy girl. I’ll take that ride.”
6
Summer
“So, not that I’m complaining—trust me, I’m happy not to pay for an Uber or campus taxi—but do you always pick up random chicks in parking lots?” Brenna asks cheerfully.
I snort. “No. And FYI, this isn’t a pick-up. I mean, you’re gorgeous, but I like men.”
“Ha. I like men too. And even if I did like women, you wouldn’t be my type, Malibu Barbie.”
“You’ve got the wrong coast—I’m from Greenwich, Connecticut,” I shoot back, but I’m smiling because I heard the humor in her tone. “And no, I don’t usually invite stranger danger into my life.” I decide to be honest. “I’m doing everything in my power not to go home.”
“Oooh. Intriguing. Why’s that?” Brenna shifts in the passenger seat, angling her black-clad body so she’s better able to study me. I can feel her eyes boring into the side of my head.
I keep my gaze on the road. It’s two very narrow lanes, and there’s a dusting of snow on the ground, so I’m driving carefully. I already have two fender benders on my record, both of which happened while driving in winter weather, when I didn’t give myself enough room to stop.
“I moved in a few days ago,” I tell her. “My roommates have been out of town—they went on a ski trip to Vermont or something. So I’ve had the place to myself. But they texted this morning to say they’re on their way back.” I suppress a nervous shiver. “They might even be there now.”