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“The class is called ‘Outsider Collaboration Studies.’” She observes without answering my question. “It meets on Wednesdays from two to five.”
“What is… an outsider collaboration study?”
She scribbles on a few lines, then separates a page of yellow paper from the old-fashioned carbon copy stack and holds it out toward me.
“Hand this to my assistant on your way out,” she sniffs.
I stand, taking the piece of paper. What choice do I have? This frigid professor isn’t really giving me a lot of leeway.
“All right, thank you,” I murmur politely.
“Don’t fail,” she adds, instead of saying goodbye. “And close the door behind you!”
The door has that solid wood sound as it slides closed, and the handle clicks back into place. I guess I got when I came here for, so I shouldn’t complain. Would it have killed her to be a little bit more friendly about it? I guess so.
And now it makes a little bit more sense, really. That smirk Hillby had on his face when he told us what we needed to do. We put off electives until the end. Who doesn’t? Something always comes up, something interesting. Or it doesn’t, and you settle for whatever leftovers there are.
Now, all of a sudden, the team is doing really well and so the players are all up for academic review to make sure that nothing funny happens before the playoffs. It would be really embarrassing for our little college to blow away the rest of the schools in our division, and then find out a few of us weren’t even eligible to play.
But Zeke, Trevor, Diego, and me, we’ve got something special. We’re not gonna lose. And we’re not going to fail either.
How hard can one art school class be, anyway?
With the transfer paper in my hand, I look around for someone who looks like she might be the dean’s assistant. The exterior door opens and an undergrad comes through, curly hair flying. Her cheeks are red, as though she ran here. She has that startled look of somebody who is late for class, late for work, late for a date. Someone a little bit off-balance.
I kind of like that, almost as much as red lipstick. It triggers my chase instincts.
“I’ve got the paper here,” I announce, holding it toward her.
Her eyebrows go up, the same bunny-colored shade as her soft, curly hair. She has wide, deeply brown eyes. Everything about her says Velveteen Rabbit. Soft and textured. A little bit frightened.
“The paper?” she repeats.
I hold it out to her again. “Take it, I’ve got to go.”
“But I don’t—”
“Jesus, take it, would you?” I finish, pushing it toward her.
Assistants. Undergrads. Damn.
“Yeah, okay…” she answers uncertainly.
She’s cute. Definitely cute. But apparently some kind of art major without two brain cells to rub together. I like them dumb, but not that dumb.
On my way out of the building, I see the sign that points to the new art center. Beyond that, our frat house. It works out to be pretty convenient, after all. I see why Hillby set it up this way.
And it will be fine. Failing is never an option.
Chapter 4
LINDY
The way that he’s looking at me, I feel like I must be in trouble or something. He shoves a piece of paper at me again.
“Take this,” he growls in a decisive, impatient voice.
Is this why I’m here? With trembling hands, I reach out and take the piece of paper from his fingers and he rushes past me, dousing me in a cloud of aftershave, laundry detergent, and intense male hormones. I feel my body go taut and responsive, like I am a violin string just plucked.
