Page 17 of Lessons in Cruelty

My mouth is open because I want to argue, but the words wither on my tongue.

She’s not wrong.

Fuck knows if I actually have the guts to record something like that in there.

“Thank you,” I say as she pushes the book back toward my side of the table. “I appreciate the help.”

She flashes me another smile. “You got your textbooks yet? Mine only just arrived.”

“Textbooks,” I repeat woodenly.

What’s this dread feeling rising inside me?

“It’s on the printout,” she says, waving dismissively. She counts off on her fingers again. “Human Evil, Kathleen Taylor. Zimbardo’s Lucifer Effect.”

Well, that’s one mystery solved. Is it weird that I’m a little disappointed I won’t be delving into devilish hijinks this semester?

Melissa must have picked up on my sudden panic, because she taps a fingernail against her can a few times before saying, “Library might still have copies.”

“Yeah, good thinking.” I take a quick sip of soda to wet my dry mouth. “I mean, at least just to tide me over until mine arrive.”

She quirks an eyebrow at this and then jumps when her phone blares Taylor Swift’s Blank Space.

“Fuck this ringtone,” she mutters, already standing as she takes her phone out of her sleek, boxy laptop bag and glances at it. “And fuck this guy. Gotta go.”

I watch her leave and hurriedly look away when I realize I’m staring. She sways as if she’s wearing heels, but she’s in a pair of beige mules.

Even if I had the money, I doubt I could pull off an outfit like hers.

I’d get ketchup all over it.

I sit around for a bit, doing some sneaky people-watching and Kai-spotting as students file in and out of the cafeteria. I even try to write in the Activity Log notebook, but I’m hesitant to make a mark on the page.

Since I don’t know when my next class is, I don’t know if there’s enough time for me to go to the library and find the books I need for Rooke’s class.

I remember the receptionist from this morning, and jump to my feet.

A freshman walking past me nearly drops her tray of food in surprise.

I guess I’m not the only one who’s all jittery. Although judging from the massive takeout cup of coffee on her tray, caffeine’s a suspect.

The receptionist has her back to me when I hurry to the help desk. The front door of the university is still open, and there’s a warm breeze pushing against me as I rap my knuckles on the polished wooden counter.

She swings around in her chair, glancing at me over the top of her glasses before smiling. “Your ears must have been burning,” she says. “I was just talking about you.”

I laugh uneasily. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

“Just a slight hiccup with your enrollment form, but that’s for me and your folks to worry about,” she warbles.

Hiccup?

Folks?

I suppress the urge to burst into hysterical laughter, trying to ignore how my fingertips are tingling. “Anything I can help with?”

“Oh no. I just need them to fill out an extra form. They always forget to include it in the grant package, heaven knows why.” She pushes away from her desk to collect the sheet the printer just spat out and uses her heels to pull herself back to her desk. “I’ve left him a message, so don’t you worry yourself, sweetie. Unless you’d rather I call your mum?”

She left Dad a fucking message?