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I DON’T CARE
PAST
“How’syiayia?” I ask my little sister, keeping my phone pressed to my ear so I don’t miss her response as I make my way through a group of people crowding the campus main office.
I didn’t think summer semester would be busy, but it seems like more students desired to live and breathe the New York City life all year round. I just want to hurry up and graduate so I don’t have to keep worrying about the dwindling amount of money in my savings account.
“I haven’t talked to her,” Denise answers, and I have to bite down the urge to call her out for being an asshole.
“She isn’t getting any older,” I offer instead.
“Or any wiser, apparently,” she mutters.
“Don’t be a fucking asshole.” A few people glance at me and I pull my phone away from my ear. “What?” I ask them, my eyes wide and my patience already thin. Having to deal with drunk Miley the night before as she puked into the early morning was not my idea of a good time.
When they turn away, I press my phone back against my ear in time to hear my sister’s response.
“Takes one to know one.”
“You do realize I’m not too far from Boston to come knock some sense into you, right?” I threaten, spotting Miley’s flirtatious grin from across the street. How she had the energy to flirt, let alone be standing upright, was beyond me. But her eighteen to my twenty-one felt like eons sometimes.
I took my time and saved up before I came here. And because of that, the dating pool is more like a kiddie pool. Overcrowded and full of piss.
“Promises, promises,” she tells me before letting me know she has to get ready for work.
“Call me tomorrow, okay?” I try to remind her, but she’s already hung up the phone. I hitch my bag over my shoulder as I look both ways, crossing the street to check on Miley before my second class of the day. The guy she was talking to is nowhere to be found and she’s scrolling through her phone when I approach her.
“Bitch, how are you alive?” I give her a onceover and she smiles, her lips together and her eyes squinting up at me. Her makeup is flawless, not a dark circle in sight, not a blemish to be seen.
“Oh, to be young again,” is all she says, and I roll my eyes.
“Keep it up and you’ll be buying your own liquor from now on,” I warn her.
“Have you heard about the new professor yet?” Miley asks, ignoring my weak threat, flipping her hair over one shoulder as she looks around.
She’s impressive, her raw energy making me admire her in a way I never had the chance to admire anyone else before. Not when I didn’t have many women to look up to in my life.
“No,” I answer, as I notice even more students start to fill the quad area. “What does he teach?”
“He’s a director, so something about movies I guess,” she tells me, waving her hand as if that detail isn’t important. “But he did that last Tristan Kane movie.”
I recognize the name. He’s up there with Brad Pitt and Colin Farrell. Sexy and serious roles.
So some famous director is teaching a class here for the summer semester. No wonder the campus is such a shit show.
“What’s his name?” I ask, but some guy is entering our bubble, a big grin on his face, his eyes on my friend. “I’ll see you after class.”
My words fall on deaf ears as I step away, realizing I don’t have much time before my next class, halfway across campus.
“Shit,” I mutter as I adjust my messenger bag over my shoulder and speed walk through the crowd of other students. As I approach the building my class is in, I notice the mass of bodies crowding the doorway and groan.
“Excuse me,” I offer a few times as I push my way through. Inside the building is no better and I stop being polite and start shoving people out of my way. Somehow, I make it inside the room everyone is crowding, the door shutting behind me with a loud bang.
Everyone looks up at me and I press my lips together as I make my way down the steps of the lecture hall, toward an empty seat.
The problem is, the room is packed. And as I scan each row, walking down the aisle of seat, a male voice in front calls out, “If you just walked in, you’re in the wrong class.”
“Excuse me?” I spit out, hitching my bag closer to my body, hating that everyone is now looking at me. I can’t see him from behind one of the students who just stood to grab the bag they’d left on the floor next to their seat.
