—
If she can’t find aparking spot in the next two minutes, she might have to burn the entire school to the ground.
This is the third lot she’s tried. The university gave her a parking permit with access to any of the lots on campus, and though she didn’t ask, she has a feeling most students don’t get the same privilege. She goes up and down each row, mentally cursing out each one of her enemies. None of them have anything on whoever designed this parking lot.
Andthere, fucking finally, a spot that looks just her size next to an ancient Toyota Prius that’s the same color as the gunk that builds up in her shower drain when the cleaners haven’t shown up in a while.
Ramona swerves her Range Rover—and she must misjudge the distance, because there’s a harsh scrape of metal on metal as she pulls in.Shit.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she mutters. Right after she got her car back from the shop. She takes a moment to readjust, then eases herself into the spot without hitting the other car this time.
When she gets out to inspect the damage, she sucks in a lungful of air. The Prius got the worst of it, a long crooked line dragged through the copperish, silverish paint. She really can’t tell what color it’s supposed to be.
For a moment, she considers finding another spot. Pretending none of this ever happened. The car’s beat-up, anyway—what are the odds the owner will notice?
Yeah, no. She’s not that much of a dick, so she gets back in hercar and goes to work searching for a piece of paper to write her number on. An apology note so the owner can contact her. She recalls DeeAnn doing the same thing when they hit a parked car on the way to an audition once.
Except—is there really no paper in here? No stray receipts from Starbucks or Del Taco? The dealership must have cleaned it all out when she brought it in for its scheduled maintenance. She digs through each compartment. Upends her purse. Evidently she didn’t think a paper notebook would be useful on her first day of school.
Once again, she weighs her options. Imagines this stranger coming back and leavinghera note, because of course they’d have paper in their car. They might be reasonable—or, once they realize who she is, might milk this for far more than it’s worth. Is that a thing? She has no idea, but she doesn’t want to take the risk.
So. She’s an asshole after all, she supposes, grimacing as she backs the Range Rover out of the spot and starts hunting again. Karma, strike her down. If the Prius is still there after class, she’ll come back and write the most apologetic note in the history of car accidents.
She’s late getting to the main office for some paperwork and her student ID. Grateful when the registrar doesn’t blink twice at her name. Psychology is up first, and then marine biology an hour later, because she’s mystified by most people and loves most animals, and it might be nice to learn why. Then Philosophy 101 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just to really round out her desire to understand what the fuck is going on around her.
Obviously people do this, trade in their celebrity for a normal life. An actor who played the love interest on one of her favorite TV shows retired and became a lawyer. A musician she once played a festival with is now an EMT. Maybe none of them werehousehold names, but the transition still couldn’t have been an entirely smooth one. And plenty of famous people take breaks and go to college. Maybe the parking lot debacle rattled her, but she isn’t unique, she tells herself.
This is what she wanted—to be a normal fucking person.
Normal fucking people do not awkwardly loiter inside the bathroom of the psychology building, waiting for their first class to start, and yet here she is.
“Pull it together,” she urges herself. “These are college students. Not critics or label execs.”
The moment she opens the classroom door, the low chatter and rustling of backpacks turn to frantic whispers before dropping to a hushed, agonizing silence.
Even with the baseball cap, every part of her suddenly feels like it’s on neon-bright display, these strangers’ scrutiny a living, breathing thing. Or maybe that’s just the sound of her own lungs, struggling to keep her body from shutting down. She’s played in front of thousands of screaming fans, but these twenty-five people are about to level her.
Before she can overthink it, she grabs an empty seat in the second row, next to a dark-skinned girl with box braids and a cute cardigan vest. Exhaling, Ramona slides her bag to the floor and takes off her cap. Smooths her hair.
Slowly, the chatter starts back up, and she tries to pretend most of it isn’t about her.
“I really like your music,” the girl next to her says softly, without even turning her head.
“Oh—thank you. I like your vest.”
The girl gives her a bashful smile. “We’re lucky we got into this class. The professor is supposed to be amazing.”
And that’s it. No drama, no fanfare. She can totally do this. Ramona lets her shoulders relax as she shifts back and forth in the too-hard seat, trying to get comfortable. This classroom could use a few upgrades.
“Ramona fucking Wilder?” A voice a few rows above her cuts through the quiet. “I thought you were in rehab or something. Did they let you out early? Did a teenage girl somewhere need a new song to cry to?”
Her cheeks blaze to the sound of murmured laughter. She let her guard down a moment too soon. The nerve, to joke about rehab when she’s seen some good people struggle with addiction. Even though every cell in her body is telling her not to, she whirls around, finding the guy who called her out. A lanky white boy with an ugly-ass Stewie Griffin tattoo on his forearm. Figures.
“Nope,” she says with forced cheerfulness, “I came here just so I could listen to your thrilling commentary on a topic you don’t know shit about.”
A handful ofoohs.
A girl next to him gives him a nudge. “Be nice, Trev. She was like, my whole childhood.”
