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It sounds like he was stolen out of a Barbie movie. He would make a fantastic Ken in alive-action,and any girl in this house can confirm that theory.
However, contrary to popular belief, this guy is a class A jerk with whom I take the worst class in the world: chemistry. The same course that had me locked in the apartment, surrounded by a thousand papers. We have a test at eight in the morning, and he’s in this place drinking.
I can sense the unpleasant scent of alcohol present in his breath when he leans in near my ear.
“We have chemistry!”
That sounds fucking weird to anyone that can hear him without the proper context.
“Nooo,seriously?” I reply with sarcasm, trying to step away from him.
Stanley scoffs, but a smile reaches his lips and points at me with one hand. In the other, he carries a bottle of beer.
“Yeah, it’s definitely you. I wouldn’t forget that resting bitch face.”
Excuse me?
I inhale deeply, asking whatever omnipotent force is above us to give me the patience to deal with him.
“Can you let go of me, asshole?” I ask, dropping my gaze to his hand, and raise an eyebrow.
“I have to ask you something,” Stanley announces and lets me go. However, he looks hesitant about freeing me, probably fearing that I’m going to run away.
I step back. Only a small step that keeps a prudent distance between his body and mine. The reek of beer no longer asphyxiates me, and I can think clearly; the venom dances on the tip of my tongue, wanting to be released. Slowly, I let out a breath as I’m close to kicking him in the balls.
My patience is limited.
“Thank you, but I’m not interested in doing crystal meth with you, because that’s clearly what you’re doing.”
“You’re funny,” he says, and I disagree, but I let it slide because I have no interest in continuing this discussion. Why is it so hard for the world to take what I say seriously? “I want to ask you something important.”
“Are you going to die if you don’t ask the question?” I quip.
Stanley hesitates.
“No…”
“Then the answer is no, Stanley.”
He raises his thick brows, surprised by the fact that I know his name, but honestly, who doesn’t? The guy is a celebrity on campus. It’d be impossible not to know his name when my email is filled with his face every damn time the athletic department sends a sports promo.
“Listen to me, please,” he begs, pouting.
I swear his green eyes shine in the light. I cringe, squirming. Is that supposed to make me feel something? I want to poke them. He can make thatPuss in Bootslook all he wants, and it’ll lead him to the same place with me: nowhere.
“Nope.”
It must be a life or death petition because he ignores my response.
“Can I copy from your test tomorrow?”
If I had been drinking something, I would’ve choked on it. I don’t know what I was expecting from him, but this certainly wasn’t it.
Should I slap him now or later? Or nowandlater?
What does he have in his head? Because I’m pretty sure it’s not a brain.
Not only is that imprudent, but it’sfucking impossible.Professor Byrne—the Harpy, as people tend to call her— makes at least four different tests and gives them out in random order. Somehow, she manages that no one surrounding you has the same paper as yours. It’s a pain in the ass because her exams are already complicated enough.
