Page 128 of 72 Hours of You

She’s so close, the clock is so bright. Christ, she’s got more sprinkles on her ice cream than a three-year-old.

“Where’s that poetry partner of yours?” Her head swivels, the clock flickering.

“Peter? I don’t know, actually.” My eyes involuntarily sweep the cafeteria again.

“I’m glad you two are paired up for this project.” She smiles at me as a drop of melted brown ice cream drips off her spoon and onto her left tit.

“That makes one of us,” I mumble.

“I know you prefer to do your projects alone,” she says. “But—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” I scramble. I’m not usually the kind of person who talks back to a teacher, or talks to them at all really, but Ms. Jegstrup’s imminent demise must’ve killed my adult filter.

“It’ll be good for you,” she says. “And when the two of you ace this project, it’ll give me something extra to put on your college recommendation letter. Because I’d love to be able to say that not only are you brilliant, you also work well with others.” She gives me a pointed look. But that look is all she’ll be able to give me, because by the time this project is due, she’ll be six feet closer to earth’s molten core.

“Thank you, Ms. Jegstrup,” I say, hoping that will end the conversation.

It doesn’t.

“Are you still planning on applying early decision to the University of Alaska Fairbanks?”

I nod.

“I saw your SAT scores from junior year. You could apply anywhere. You could probably get into an Ivy. I don’t understand why you’d—”

“It’s my top choice,” I cut in. Even with my teacher filter, I am not in the mood for this conversation. Especially not with her.

She pinches her lipsticked mouth together. “It’s so cold … .”

“I like the cold,” I say. I fucking hate the cold. But the thing UAF has going for it is that it’s remote. Like, moose and elk (unless they’re the same thing?) remote. There’s a chance I could go four years without ever seeing the neon pink that is currently hovering over me. But I can’t tell her that. I can’t tell anyone that. “Plus, they have a great philosophy department.” The department is great—if you count the fact that it exists at all as an overwhelming positive.

She looks at the Heidegger book I’m white-knuckling. “If it’s philosophy that you’re into, the N—”

“UAF has an eleven-to-one student-to-faculty ratio,” I interject. I’m already fully aware that NYU has the best philosophy department in the US. It also happens to be located in a city with a population of nearly eight million. Which amounts to a lot of fucking dead people. “So that’s another plus for UAF,” I say. “Small class sizes.”

“Very small, I imagine,” she says.

She looks like she has a mouthful of other things she wants to say, wisdom she’s just itching to spew all over me, and hell, maybe I should let her. This could be her last chance to think she’s Making A Difference.

“I just know you’d thrive at NYU. You’re so creative. Those poems you write! And you’re so industrious.” Industrious. A compliment every teenage girl loves to hear.

Fuck it. “You think so?” I say, making my voice sound all vulnerable and open.

“I really do,” she says. She looks like she wants to reach out and touch my shoulder in some “O Captain! My Captain!” kind of moment. “You’re a special girl, Sydney Hoffman. You have a depth that not many your age have.” Shit, the compliments are kind of working on me. “You’re a city girl at heart,” she says. “I know it.”

The city is an actual pulsing nightmare. But I pause, look down at my book and then back at Ms. Jegstrup with my eyes just a little rounder. “Actually …” I say, slowly, thoughtfully, really selling the whole thing. “I think you’re right. I’ll apply to NYU.”

Her entire face lights up like a Vegas slot machine. “Really? Sydney, really?”

“Yeah,” I say, gearing up for the finale. “It’s just … nice to have someone believe in me, you know?”

She lets out a tiny gasp and I swear to god, she gets actual tears in her eyes. “I’ll have Ms. Hendrix get you some pamphlets.”

“I look forward to it,” I say. I look forward to throwing them away later.

The bell rings and she skitters away in her rainbow Crocs. I know it was all bullshit, and maybe it’s the residual concussion symptoms talking, but for the first time since Liam died, I actually feel, like, a tiny shred of happiness.

It almost lasts five minutes.