Page 3 of Shut Up and Pass

But Analytical Chemistry might just kill me.

I drag a hand down my face and glance at the board, where Rogers is already erasing the curve he didn’t bother putting us on. No mercy. And it’s not like I can drop the class, I need it for my future job.

I’ve dreamed of being a Forensic Analyst since I learned what it was. I had stayed up watching crime documentaries when I was sixteen instead of going out on dates. It probably helped that I wasn’t interested in the girls that my friends were crushing on…I had been interested in my friends. Not that I even knew how to approach the subject back then. So watching those shows and seeing people in lab coats turn blood and dirt and ripped clothing into something that solved crimes was fascinating. Back then (and now if I’m honest) solving crimes sounded like the coolest thing a person could do with a brain and a pair of gloves.

But if I knew it needed so much Science, I might have picked a different career. Coaching. Training. Literally any major that doesn’t require me to pretend I speak fluent equation.

As it is now, I don’t have many options. Keep the class. Pass the class. Get my degree at the end of the year. Or don’t and spend the rest of my life explaining why the hockey player washed out of the crime lab before he ever saw one.

My knee bounces under the desk. I flatten my hand on it, forcing my foot flat.

Two rows up, a guy in a dark hoodie is already packing his bag as if this was an easy warm-up lap. Headphones down around his neck. Glasses. That same focused frown I walked in on the first day when I murdered his blue liquid all over our dorm room.

Quinn.

The sight of him hits me in the chest. I bet he passed the test. He’s smart enough to do science experiments on his own. He could probably teach this class. He could probably solve a crime.

Roger claps once as students start to pack up. “Office hours are posted. If you scored under sixty, I suggest you use them. Or find a tutor. This will only get less friendly.”

Shit.

A tutor.

I glance at the folded Scantron again. Then at the back of Quinn’s hood as he stands, slides his notebook into his bag, and leaves without talking to anyone.

As quickly as I can, I shove the test into my backpack and stand with everyone else, cutting through the aisle before I can talk myself out of it, weaving past backpacks and chairs and out of the classroom after my roommate.

He’s crossing the lawn when I push through the doors. Headphones on. Shoulders a little slouched, as if he’s trying to take up less space than he is. I jog to catch up.

“Hey, Quinn.”

He keeps walking, and it feels like the first day all over again. This guy really likes living in his own little world. I reach out to touch his arm.

He startles hard, his hazel eyes wide behind his glasses, as if I just appeared out of nowhere. He needs to work on his situational awareness.

“Quinn. Hey.” I pull my hand back and shove both of them into the front pocket of my hoodie. “I saw you in Rogers’ class. That test was crap, huh?”

He stares at me like he’s still loading my name. And I’m a half second from re-introducing myself when he opens his mouth.