Andie sighs, dreamy. “God, I wish I got paid to have feelings.”
“Same.” I pause, thinking about Professor Thomas in the White House, reading something bleak and gorgeous to a room of bored dignitaries. “He’s kind of overqualified for this place. We’re just a small college in the Midwest. What’s the potential Poet Laureate doing here?”
She nods. “Maybe he’s running from something. Maybe he murdered someone in a big city somewhere, and now he has to lay low and teach us until the heat’s off.”
“That’s more plausible than him wanting to spend his life in Minnesota,” I say. “There’s nothing here but deer, bad weed, and ice hockey.”
“Hockey is a lifestyle, not a sport,” Andie says, all mock serious. She sits up, crisscross applesauce, and grabs my arm. “Listen. You’re gonna ace your next essay, I know it. But you have to promise me that if you haveanychance to speak with Liam Thomas, you take it. Because you never know, it might be fate.”
I try to match her optimism, but my insides are a slow-motion train wreck. “Sure. Fate. Or a Title IX violation waiting to happen.”
She lets go, suddenly soft. “I mean it, Simone. Don’t let them grind you down. You’re better than you think. And if you get desperate, I’ll write your paper for you. I can fake American Lit like nobody’s business.”
I smile, for real this time. “You’d do that for me?”
She flips her hair like a shampoo commercial. “I’d do anything for you, roomie. But you won’t need me. You’re a genius.”
I look at the ruins of my desk, the bloodless blue of the screen, and the shadows that stretch and shift with every flicker of the lamp. For a second, I almost believe her.
Then I remember Thomas’s voice, the dark undertone of hunger, and the way I’d wanted him to see everything.
Maybe Andie is right. Maybe the wanting is the only thing that matters.
I get up, stretching, and stare out the window. The quad is empty, slick with rain, and the lights of the science building glow like a spaceship in the dark.
“Hey, Andie,” I say, staring at the wet glass. “Do you ever wish you could just start over? Like, wake up and be someone else, somewhere else?”
She thinks about it, chewing her lower lip. “Sometimes. But then I remember I’d have to make all new friends, and that’s a lot of work.”
I laugh, because it’s so her, and turn back to the room that smells like cheap candles and flowery lotion. Andie’s already burrowed into her blankets, eyes closed, smile still on her lips.
I stay by the window a minute longer, watching the storm swirl over the campus, and let the silence fill me up.
Tomorrow will come, whether I’m ready or not.
At exactly 2:17 a.m.,my laptop dings. It’s a gentle sound, but in the hush after our laughter, it might as well be a gunshot. I freeze mid-scroll through my Instagram feed, thumb hoveringover a photo of a bulldog in a tutu. The screen pulses with a new notification—“1 Unread Message”—glowing against the battlefield of unfinished essays and existential dread.
Andie stirs, eyes slitted. “What is it?” She sounds more curious than concerned, a kitten detecting catnip.
“Email,” I say, voice gone paper-thin. I don’t want to open it. I really, really don’t.
But I do.
The sender is “Liam Thomas.” The subject line is “Office Hours / Grade Inquiry.” The body is polite, clinical, and terrifying:
Miss McCall?—
Please see me during office hours tomorrow regarding your progress in my class. If you are unable to attend, let me know a time that would suit you.
Best,
Liam Thomas
I read it once, then again, searching for a threat or a lifeline or a hidden code. There’s nothing, but my skin prickles anyway, as if the words are a virus working through my bloodstream. My heart thuds so loud I’m sure Andie can hear it.
She sits up, blinking blearily. “Did you get doxxed or something? Is it the police?”
I just hand her the laptop, too numb to filter my face.
