by Jordyn White
By the time the waiter asks if we’re ready for our check and we finally say yes, I know I’ve just made some fast friends.
When he comes back with the check, everyone starts pulling out their wallets so they can pitch in. I grab the ticket.
“How much do we owe?” Chloe asks.
“I’ve got this.”
“No, no, no,” they all start protesting at once.
“It’s the least I can do after what you guys did for me.”
They pause, assessing me. I’ve already told them about some of the times people have used me for my money, but I know that isn’t the case here. I think they have to understand that.
“Come on, please? Let me. We’ll go Dutch next time.”
They look at one another, faltering.
“Done!” Taking advantage of their hesitation, I toss the money on the table, leaving extra for a tip and start shoving Chloe down the seat so we can get out of the booth before they change their minds.
“All right, all right, bossy.” But she’s smiling and so am I.
We head for the door and Sam says, “Imagine her thanking us with fries when she could be buying us Porsches and shit.”
We all laugh, but no one laughs harder than I do.
Chapter 2
Damn near three years later
“Congratulatory cookies,” Mom announces.
She and I have been lounging at one of the pools at the famous Rivers Paradise Resort, and she’s just returned from a trip to the outdoor patio restaurant. She’s wearing a broad-rimmed sun hat, her short brown hair framing her face. She holds out two little white plates, upon which are the resort’s famous giant caramel brownie cookies. I inhale the sweet scent of chocolate.
“Mmmm!” I sit up, adjusting the strap of my swimsuit. I’m wearing a modest one-piece because I know what I look like in a swimsuit and don’t like how it draws in the guys. I kind of envy the girls who are comfortable flaunting it, but that’s just not me. I don’t like the extra attention I get from it. Kind of like my family’s excess money. “Congratulations for what?”
She hands me one of the plates, looking more radiant than she has in months. She recently finished her last chemotherapy treatment for uterine cancer and is finally starting to feel more like herself. We come to the resort every summer before school starts. We love the central California coast and Hartman College is only about an hour and a half inland from here so it’s a quick drive back to school, but this year, we’re also here to celebrate her recovery.
“This is for my future Harvard student.”
Oh man, don’t curse me.
Clear back in my sophomore year, I decided I wanted to get my master’s at Harvard. It’s one of the best places to be if you’re a biology nerd and want to research diseases, like I do. Every year, I think I want it just a little bit more.
Honestly, I want it so badly I can taste it.
That freaks me out because, come on, it’s Harvard. Getting into their grad program won’t be easy.
“I’m not a Harvard student yet.” Mom tends to go a bit overboard. I’m their only child, so she has no one else to fuss over.
“You will be. Look how high your GRE score was.” She smiles and waves the plate under my nose. I smile and take a cookie. It’s so fresh, it’s warm.
“It’s just the generals, Mom. I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”
She waves a hand dismissively and bites into her cookie.
Actually, it’s my hopes I’m trying to contain. The general GRE test was one thing. It’s my subject GRE in Biochemistry I’m stressing about. I want plenty of time to study up, so I didn’t schedule that one until November. In the eyes of the Harvard admission board, that’s got to be the test that counts.
I take a bite of the warm cookie and try to let it’s ooey chocolately goodness take care of the nerves I feel any time I think too much about this. Which is most of the time.
My phone dings and I dig it out of my bag to check it.
During school breaks, my Firework Girls and I keep up via an ongoing group message.
This latest one is from Sam: Jack says there’s a pre-school party Friday night. Will you be home in time to make it, Isabella?
“Is that Leo?” Mom asks. She’s been pestering me about him ever since we got here.
“No, it’s Sam.”
“Ah, that Sam. That girl needs to settle down with a nice boy, like you have with Leo. A good Catholic boy.” Leo’s family are Italian Catholics, so he’s practically liquid gold to my mother.
“Sam’s not Catholic.”
“But is that really her fault? She can’t help she was raised... what is it? Presbyterian?”
“Methodist.” Not that it matters. Sam’s not really the church-going type. Neither am I, for that matter. Not when I’m away from home, that is.
My mom tsks and says, “She’s a sweet girl anyway.”
I smile. Even around my mom, Sam is still Sam, but my mother has embraced my friends almost as much as I have. My phone dings again. This time it is Leo.
I get a familiar sinking sensation in my stomach. Sinking, because Leo and I have been seeing each other for nearly six months now, but things have been winding down, especially over the summer. This always seems to happen. Every single relationship I’ve ever been in, I swear. They just kind of... peter out. I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with me
Leo: The guys want to go camping this weekend. It okay if I see you on Monday?
We had plans for when I got back to Hartman on Friday. Well, sort of plans. I was just going to go over to his apartment after I unloaded my stuff. We didn’t really specify more than that.
“Still Sam?” Mom asks, glancing at my phone.
“No, it’s Leo.”
Mom beams, which only makes me more uneasy. “You should invite him to the house for Christmas, so we can get to know him better.”
Yeah, pretty sure Leo and I aren’t even going to make it to the end of the month, let alone the end of the year.
I don’t have the heart to tell my mother. The past couple of months have been rough on everybody and I don’t want to ruin her trip. She adores Leo and for some reason is convinced he’s the one I’ll end up marrying. Then again, maybe when we see each other things will heat up again? After all, the sex was good at first.
Kind of.
“I’m sure he’d rather be with his own family for the holidays.”
“Doesn’t he want to get to know your family?” she presses. “If you two end up getting married...”
“Maybe he wants me to meet his family,” I say, knowing how she’ll react.
She straightens and frowns. “You should be with your family for the holidays.”
I try not to smirk. I love my mom, but that shut her up. She puts her empty plate on the little table between us and gets into lounging position. Done with my cookie as well, I do the same.
With my phone still on my stomach, and still open to Leo’s text, I look out over the crystalline water. There are a few other people out here, but it’s a big pool and well-designed so it feels private enough. The wind rustles through the palm trees, which are scattered about the beautifully-manicured grounds.
I tap my phone, thinking about Leo’s text. We haven’t seen each other in two months, yet he wants to delay our reunion even more? I’m hurt, wishing he wanted to see me more than that, even though I’m not particularly excited about seeing him either.
I exhale sharply, frustrated with both of us. I hate this disappointed feeling. This feeling of failure. This feeling that I’m spinning my wheels in the love department and I don’t even know why.
“Don’t you think this would be a great place for a wedding reception?” Mom asks. “I just love their ballroom.”
I roll my eyes and dismiss Leo’s text. I’ll reply later. I have a notification for a new email and open it; it’s from Dean Jennings. He wants me to come to his office ASAP. The first Tuesday of the semester, he as
ks?
Even though I have a good relationship with the Dean, I get a nervous twinge being called to his office like this. It sounds important, but I can’t imagine what it’s about.
I still remember the first time I was called to his office.
Sam had convinced me to report Justin Kirby to the Dean of Students, which I finally agreed to do. Much to everyone’s disappointment, things didn’t get very far. We had no hard evidence, only hearsay. His frat brothers closed rank and denied any wrongdoing on his part. Since he hadn’t actually managed to rape me that long-ago night during my freshman year, that was as far as the dean had been able to take things.
He’d pulled me aside later and told me, confidentially, that he believed my story and to stay away from that particular frat house. (Aside from one little excursion there with my girls and a box of illegal fireworks, I’ve pretty much complied. One little revenge prank was more than fair, I thought, and we got ourselves a nickname out of the bargain.)
I’ve had a handful of interactions with the Dean since then, all for better reasons, thankfully. Once was for a dinner he and his wife hosted at their home last spring, in honor of the Claymore scholars, a semester-long fellowship for biology majors. There were just five of us.
I sometimes wonder if Dean Jennings doesn’t feel a little fatherly toward me after the way we first met. Some students complain he’s a hard ass (Sam included) but it’s usually after they’ve gotten in trouble for something legitimate (Sam included). As for myself, I like him.
Though his email has me wishing, not for the first time in my life, that I wasn’t the kind of person to feel like I’m in trouble even though I know I haven’t done anything wrong.
I don’t know which bothers me more: that I’m feeling in trouble even though I always try to be the good girl... or the fact that I always try to be the good girl.
“But... I tested out of English 101 freshman year.”
I’m sitting in Dean Jennings’s office, across from his desk.
He nods his snowy white head. He’s not much older than my mother, but he once told me he turned white in his thirties, poor guy. “Yes, but you didn’t get credit for the class. That just gave you permission to skip that requirement and take a humanities credit of your choice instead.”
I drop my head on my hand, looking at my schedule resting on his desktop. I can’t believe no one’s caught the oversight before now, but there it is. “Can’t you make an exception?”
“I’m afraid not. You need to decide which one of your classes you want to drop this year. If you want, you can talk to your advisor about this first. Get her advice about which one to cut, maybe...”
I’m going over my schedule, considering each class in turn. I can’t imagine giving up any of them. This is the year I’m supposed to be making myself as desirable as possible as a master’s candidate.
“Dean Jennings, I need all these classes.”
“You can drop one and still have enough for your majors, but you have to have another humanities course, Isabella. I can’t change the graduation requirements. Not even for you.”
I frown at the paper.
“However,” he says slowly.
I look up hopefully.
“What I can do is give you permission to take an extra class.”
“Done!”
“Hold your horses.” He holds up his hand. “Before you agree, keep in mind we have those credit caps for a reason. It can be more difficult than many students realize to take on extra course work, especially when you already have such a heavy schedule.”
I’m nodding, trying to look like I’m taking his warning seriously. I’d rather put in the extra work than drop a class in my major.
“And keep in mind,” he continues, “you’ve got your scholarship to consider and you’re currently on track to graduate summa cum laude. I’d hate to see you lose all that over a dropped GPA.”
“I won’t drop my GPA. I don’t have to take an upper-level humanities course right? Can’t I just take an introduction to something and be done with it?”
He gives me an appraising look.
“I really, really do not want to give up any of these classes.” I jab one finger on my schedule. “I need to show Harvard what I can do.”
Even though it was his suggestion, I can see he’s still pondering the wisdom of it.
“Come on Dean Jennings, you know I can do this.”
“Well,” he says, “yes, I think you probably can, but I thought it was only fair I warn you.”
He grabs the course catalogue from the corner of his desk and starts to flip through it. “Let’s see what we can get you into. But if it turns out to be too much, we may have to revisit this plan.”
“Okay.” I grin. “Deal.”
This actually isn’t such a bad turn of events. Having a double major, I’ve felt almost too focused on science at times. Science is my passion, which is why I’m not willing to put any other classes in its place. But really, as long as I don’t have to give up my science classes, I’m kind of excited to learn something new.
“You have to promise to come to me if you’re having trouble.” Dean Jennings is apparently still nursing some concern about our deal.
“I promise.” I hope it’s a promise I can keep. I’m not always the best judge of when I’ve gotten in over my head.
He flips to the desired section and scans a few pages. “This would be a good one. It’s a lot less reading than a lit class, so it shouldn’t take up too much time. It has an A and B semester too, so it’ll cover you for the year.”
He shows me the book with his finger on the aforementioned class: History of Early Education in America. Fine by me. I’m about to agree when my eyes land on a listing on the opposite page.
“Ooh. I want that one.”
He looks to where I’m pointing.
“Introduction to Philosophy? There’s a lot of reading in that class. The material can be pretty dense at times, too.”
“I almost took it freshman year but thought I had my humanities credit and wanted to take Cell and Developmental Biology instead. It sounds fascinating.”
“It is fascinating, but it’s going to take up a lot more of your time.”
I read through the descriptions of the two courses. They both have A and B semesters and both sound interesting enough. I’ve always wanted to learn more about the ancient philosophers, though. The chances of me doing that outside of a classroom setting after I graduate are pretty slim.
I give Dean Jennings an innocent smile and bat my eyelashes dramatically.
He laughs. “Oh fine. Take what you want as long as you can keep up. Check with Ms. Mason. She’ll tell you if there’s any room left.”
By the time I go out to Ms. Mason’s desk, I wonder if I shouldn’t take Dean Jennings’ advice. My regular course load will keep me more than busy. Why make things more difficult on myself than I need to? It’s just a credit. Why not take the easier road?
Ms. Mason looks up both classes. The education class has plenty of room.
“But,” she says, looking over her glasses at me, “there’s only one spot left in the philosophy class.”
I hesitate for two heartbeats. “I’ll take it.”
“Of course you will,” Dean Jennings calls from his office.
I smile at Ms. Mason as she prints out my new schedule. “It starts in two minutes.” She looks at me pointedly. “You’d better hurry.”
Chapter 3
I’d almost rather miss the first class than show up late, but with both Ms. Mason expecting me to go and Dean Jennings most likely overhearing her telling me as much, I hustle across the green anyway.
It’s been a few years since I’ve been in Old Main, one of the oldest buildings on campus and where several of the humanities classes are held.
I glance at the schedule. “Introduction to Philosophy. Professor Brooks. OM - Room 205.”
I’m not familiar with this professor and hope he’s not too fussy abou
t punctuality. I check the time on my phone. Class started a minute ago. By the time I’ve crossed the green, climbed the stairs, and located the proper room, the class started some seven minutes before I walk in the door.
Approximately twenty-five heads swing up as I make my entrance. Everyone is either already taking a quiz or, more likely, filling out some pointless beginning-of-the-year questionnaire for the professor.
Said professor is standing behind the podium at the front of the class. Or... he would have been standing had he not been bending over to remove something from the podium’s lower shelf.
Nice ass.
Two words, I guarantee you, I have never used when describing any of my professors’ rears. I consider the likelihood of thinking “nice ass” when Old Professor Baggy Pants bends over and nearly burst out laughing right then.
The man by the podium straightens and my breath catches in my throat. No wonder I was checking out his ass. He’s fucking gorgeous and isn’t old enough to be the professor.
At least, I don’t think he is. Is he a student?
We stare at one another for a moment and I at least have the wherewithal to realize my mouth is hanging open. I close it.
His eyebrows slowly raise, apparently taken aback by the sudden intrusion into the class. He blinks and shakes his head a bit, as if to clear it. “May I help you?”
A student assistant probably. That has to be it. Hartman College is known for small classes taught by actual professors, not underlings like a lot of the bigger universities. But there are a few of the larger undergrad science classes that are exceptions. Freshman year, my biology class had a hundred and fifty students. The professor gave the lectures, but if you had questions afterward, that’s what his student assistant was for.
My brain is trying to work out the possibility of an Intro to Philosophy class with only twenty-five students requiring a student assistant, but I’m really rather distracted by Student Assistant What’s-His-Face.
His gorgeous, gorgeous face.
And I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone rock a blazer the way this guy’s doing. Aside from his age, he looks the part of a professor. The only thing his blazer is missing are the elbow patches.