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He laughs again, and I’m ready. I jump and snatch my overnight bag from his careless hand. The jars clink together as I whirl on my heel and dash toward the door, desperate to get away from him. Desperate to hide in my room for the rest of fall semester, curled in the fetal position, waiting for the hammer to fall.
I’m almost to the door when strong fingers close around my arm. He tugs me, so I’m forced to turn around. Holds me in place, so I have no choice but to look up, into his eyes.
“We both know this shit is real. Tell me who you got it from, and maybe I’ll forget this happened.”
Blood roars in my head. “Is that a joke? I get it from class, because it’s a class project, like I said.” I throw his hand off my arm.
He grabs my upper arm again with stern fingers. His eyes are wide and blue. “Like I said, I don’t believe you.” His face hardens. “If I catch you dealing on campus again, I’ll make sure you get expelled.” He stares into my eyes. “Do I make myself clear?”
I nod mutely.
He looks me up and down, from my pink sweater to my ass-hugging jeans. “I’d never have guessed. Someone like you...” He rubs his forehead, appearing thoughtful. “You know you need to empty that bag before you leave.”
“Yeah, right!”
“Maybe I ought to talk to Milasy. Let her know what kind of person is managing her chapter’s books.”
I’m outraged, but there’s nothing I can do. Stupid Mr. Perfect could never understand this. Why I would do it. Why I can’t just have Daddy buy me a fifty thousand dollar SUV. All he knows is his stupid rules.
I open the bag, and he points to the nearest table.
I can feel my heart flutter in my throat as I place the first jar atop the faux wood. I line them up in a neat row, and then I stare at them in disbelief. I can’t leave them here. I think of the money, and I kind of want to screech.
My gaze finds Kellan, standing with his arms folded. His model-perfect face is cold, as if I’ve wronged him.
“So...” I want to leave, I just want to leave, but I can’t. I look into his eyes, then at my jars. Then back at him, with hesitation—because I don’t want to see his traitorous face. I don’t want to know what he’s thinking, though I have to ask. “Um, you’re not really going to tell anybody, are you?”
His wicked lips curve up on one side. It’s not a smile, but something derisive and mean. “Get out of here,” he says.
I tuck tail and go.
I’M SORRY TO REPORT, it’s been This Week Vs. My Self-Esteem.
What happened Wednesday night with Kellan Walsh... sucked. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it shook me up. The loss of product, the hawk-like way he just made off with it. I keep blaming myself for not pressing the issue more—for not insisting it was fake marijuana and fleeing the scene or something—but deep down, I know I didn’t really have that option.
Obviously, he’s an uptight, rule-following prick who would have told Milasy everything he knew. And Milasy would have looked into the situation to keep Tri Gam’s good name intact. Honestly, I’m pretty sure Milasy already knows I deal, but she looks the other way because I keep it discreet. Or I did.
It bugs the hell out of me that, since that moment, I’ve done nothing but worry he’ll tell Milasy. What would Milasy do? Would she kick me out? She would have to, wouldn’t she? And what about Kellan Asshole Walsh? Is he like, BFF with our college’s president, Dr. Walker? Could Kellan go to some administrator and just get me expelled like BAM?
All day Thursday, I’m haunted by these questions. And by my rapidly dwindling stash. Kellan jacked so much of my shit, I’m almost out, and when I call Kennard Thursday afternoon (almost in tears, though he doesn’t know that) he tells me he can’t get me more on such short notice.
Perfect.
I spend some time pacing my room, fanaticizing about kicking Kellan Walsh between the legs. I bet it would be easy to make my mark because the size of the target would be... My face burns. Why does he do this to me? Why am I so aware of his body when I know he’s a first-rate bastard? Perfect Kellan has no idea what it’s like to need money so badly you’d go to the blood bank and sell your platelets. I bet he never saw the back of his mom’s legs bruised from sitting on the same uncushioned wood bench for twelve and thirteen hours at a time, with just two bathroom breaks per day. He’s never felt hunger cramps, or forced himself to eat something he hated because the need for calories meant more than the food’s taste. Aside from his obvious case of silver-spoon syndrome, he’s also an idiot, with no understanding of societal shifts. If he was smarter, he would know marijuana is no big deal. It’s going to be legal everywhere soon. It isn’t a real drug. It’s just some stupid herb. I don’t even smoke it. Too boring. It just makes me fall asleep.
These are the thoughts clanging around in my head Thursday night as I study for a calculus test and worry about how many customers I’ll lose because of my dry spell. I’m chewing on the tip of my ‘I Sloth You’ pen when I get a text from Steph.
‘Break into my room n get my birth control! Nitestand drawer!!! Double d8 going gr8! Bring to La Femme. Gonna need it 2nite. Please x10!!!’
Who can resist an SOS like that? Not this bro. So I throw on my unwashed blue jeans and a red Fall Ball t-shirt and drive down to the little French place on the river. I pull my hair into a clip and start the sandy trek from the parking area to the restaurant’s wraparound deck. Dave Matthews Band strums through the humid river air. Moss dangles from the oaks over my head. Between tree branches, I can see the placid river: wide and shallow here, reflecting moon glow. The night feels saccharine and strange, a perfect picture from the book of someone else’s life.
As I step over the tree roots that are famous for tripping drunk La Femme patrons, I promise myself I’ll get in and out of here. No lingering, even if I see someone I know. I’m in a weird mood, and besides, I have studying to do.
I’m berating myself for being too withdrawn post-Brennan, for not being as close to Lora as I once was, or as tight with Milasy and Steph as I was last year, while I cross the crowd-packed deck. A cute guy with an eyebrow piercing pushes the restaurant’s back door open for me, and I step into the atrium dining area—the one with glass walls and ceilings.
As soon as I’m fully inside the candle-lit, plant-filled atrium, I spot Neda at a two-seater table. Across from her is... Brennan?
Holy hell, that’s totally him. Brennan is tall and lean, with burnt copper hair he wears all shaggy, down around his ears. I’d know the back of his head and his bony shoulders anywhere, including at a candle-lit table across from Neda.
