“Must be a bit,” someone else says. “Getting in character for a movie or something.”
“Aren’t you a little too old for college? You’re what, thirty?”
Don’t engage, don’t engage.
The first guy, Trev, takes the lead again. “This is just what we need. Budget cuts all across campus, and now there’s acelebrityin here taking resources away from legitimate students.”
Well, fuck her all the way to Saturn. She thought her biggest threat would be an overzealous fan, and she’d have to gently say that she was there to learn when asked for a photo.
She didn’t once stop to consider that her classmates might actually resent her.
But what is she supposed to do—sit back and take it?
“Right,” Ramona says as she gets to her feet, nodding vigorously, as condescendingly as she can. “Because they’re better used on misogynists who feel the need to overcompensate by pretending they’re so much smarter than everyone around them. We should really save those precious resources for this dipshit with a micropenis—”
“Hell-o, fall quarter!”
The voice rings out in a confident timbre, belonging to a broad-shouldered man in khaki pants and a pale blue button-down, a messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder.
Professor Nicholas Navarro, according to the schedule they printed for her at registration.
Behind slim circular glasses, his eyes snag right on her.
“A little feisty already, are we?” he addresses the room with a half laugh. “Careful. We haven’t even gotten to Freud or Jung yet.”
Realizing she’s still standing, Ramona shrinks back into her seat. Jesus Christ, her professor just heard her insult another student in the most immature way imaginable. She’s usually so careful with her language—her years of media training taught her better than this, even if she was prone to the occasional outburst. And sure, the guy was the one who started it, but it’s not the first impression she wanted to make.
It probably isn’t too late to switch classes.
“If Ms.Wilder is finished distracting everyone,” Professor Navarro continues, this time without a glance her way, “I have a psychological dilemma for all of you. Don’t worry—you won’t be graded,” he rushes to add as a few people reach for notebooks orlaptops. “Behavior and the Brain is an introductory-level course. This is just a warm-up exercise for me to get to know you.”
A warm-up. Okay. Ramona pulls her hair over one shoulder, ends clutched tight between her thumb and index finger, trying her best to relax.
This guy looks more like an ad for J.Crew Outlet than a professor, with the clean lines of his shirt and the well-worn loafers that could easily transition between seasons. She blames the past twenty-six years of her life for her hyperfocus on what other people are wearing. His age is a mystery; he only has a few grays, or maybe he’s behind on dye jobs. Then again, she’s not sure even the most skilled stylist could match the deep russet shade of his hair. A lovely color, actually. Too bad the blue shirt is all wrong against his tan complexion—True Autumns can’t do pastels.
Still, she decides he’s hot, in a work-in-progress kind of way, but much too clean-cut to be her type. Everyone she’s dated has had a bit of edge to them, even her first boyfriend, herGreta Life!costar who had a penchant for sneaking liquor into his dressing room. The kind of men who look like they could bite.
She catches herself before she goes any further. This is her professor, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t matter whose type he is.
“Let’s say you go to unlock your car in the parking lot after a morning meeting,” Professor Navarro continues, “and you notice there’s a scrape along one side. The space next to yours is empty. There’s no note. No way of contacting the other driver. Do you think the person who hit your car is inherently a bad person?”
For a split second, Ramona blacks out.
No.It has to be a coincidence; she can’t have hit her professor’s car. Surely the universe wouldn’t do this on her first day.
But it wasn’t the universe—it was her idiotic self. Who this class is now, apparently, going to put on trial.
The girl next to Ramona raises her hand.
“Yes,” Professor Navarro says, approaching their row. “What’s your name?”
“Callie.”
“I’m Nick. Great to have you in class, Callie.”
“Thank you,” she says, just as timid with him as she was with Ramona. “So, well, I think I’d want some more information first. How bad is the scrape, exactly?”
Professor Navarro—Nick—gives her a firm nod, as though appreciating her interest in the details. Now that he’s a little closer, Ramona notices a thin gold hoop through one ear. Huh. Maybe not so clean-cut after all.
