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I’m five minutes late.

Deliberately.

Five minutes says I’m relaxed. Unbothered. Definitely not pinning my band’s future on passing one freshman science class.

It’s a lie, obviously, but a convincing entrance has carried me through worse situations.

I learned it from a press trainer called Jack when I was nineteen. He smoked about forty cigarettes a day and charged the label four grand for the privilege of listening to him cough.

Never arrive on time, Cal. On time is for fucking accountants.

I hung onto every word Jack said.

Money well spent.

I take the Hartley building steps two at a time. A guy coming the other way recognizes me—the double take, the widening eyes—so I give him the nod.

Yeah, it’s me. Be cool.

He keeps walking.

Thank fuck.

I stop outside room 207 and take a breath.

The door is open, and I realize that I know this room.

I’ve been here exactly once, during my first week, when I spent twenty minutes folded beneath a desk like a man in witness protection while two girls with camera phones hunted me through the building.

And there was a very feisty, cute woman in here too.

She’s here now, sitting at the front bench with her laptop open and a stack of printouts lined up so neatly it looks vaguely threatening.

Has she even left this room in months?

My tutor is the girl from the lab.

When I read the name Beatrix Walker, I’ll admit I was hoping for a fan. Someone susceptible to a smile, a signed album and the occasional extra hours help to make sure I pass this as fast as possible.

Instead, I’ve drawn the only woman on campus who looked at me like she’d rather claw my eyes out than help.

Fine. I’ve won over tougher rooms than this.

I am about to win over Beatrix Walker’s ass so hard.

I knock on the doorframe and lean against it, slow and easy, letting my sleeves pull a little tighter over my arms.

She doesn’t look up.

“You can come in,” she calls over her shoulder. Damn. She’s not at all interested.

I wonder what it takes to get Beatrix Walker’s attention?

No. Noooope. Shut that thought right down. Not happening.

Going anywhere near that thought is how I fail anatomy, lose the Trust, and destroy whatever remains of Atlas Falling. Besides, women who want something from me are easy. Sign the shirt. Take the photo. Flash the smile. Everybody leaves satisfied.

I have no idea what to do with a woman who doesn’t appear to want a single thing.