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“Same,” Mandy echoed. “I’m in Children’s Fiction with Professor Hasselbach.”
Ethan sat back in his chair. “Children’s books aren’t literature. It’sall mooning over vampires and dystopian contests to the death and wizards and cute talking animals. There’s no substance.” He took a long, slow pull from his protein shake.
Glaring, Mandy tightened her top knot of brown curls like she was preparing for a fight. “Since you clearly only have fourth-hand knowledge of kid lit, I don’t think you get to have an opinion.”
“Also,” Allison piped in, “it’s not like those things can’t be found in ‘serious’”—she used some violent air quotes around the word— “literature.Dracula’s got mooning over vampires,there’s plenty of kid-on-kid violence inLord of the Flies, The Lord of the Ringsis full of wizards,andAnimal Farm,well, it’s got all the talking animals you need.”
“Yes, but the treatments are entirely different.” Ethan tipped his chin, another lecture poised on his lips.
Mandy waved her hand like she could bat him away. “What about you?” she asked Allison. “Who are you working with?”
“Wendy Frances. British Literature’s Greatest Hits.” Allison cringed when Colin butt in to add, “Me too.”
“Does she have two sections?” Link asked.
Allison shook her head. “It’s a big class.”
More chair-screeching commenced as Colin dragged his seat to the other side of the table to better insert himself into the conversation. “It’s going to be awesome. Allison knows everything about medieval lit.” He kept his gaze trained on the rest of the group as he said it.
Allison tensed. What was he doing? First the mention of the croissant. Now this. Was he seriously trying to play nice? After everything?
Thankfully, the talk began a moment later, giving her an excuse not to respond.
Though she tried hard to pay attention, her mind spent the next half hour replaying Colin’s words. The Colin Benjamin Allison knew was more competitive than an Olympic athlete. He turned everything into a game to be won: grades, writing papers, shopping, you name it. Once he’d challenged her to a race at brushing their teeth when they were late for class. His obsessive need for rivalry had been the causeof their breakup. So what did it mean that he’d just conceded to her, admitted she was better?
Allison fisted her hands in her lap. He had to be messing with her. It was the only explanation.
No way was she letting him get in her head.
As soon as the reading was over, she slid back her chair. “Time for class,” she whispered, already on her way to the door. She needed air—and space from Colin—before her first session as a TA.
So of course he followed her into the hallway. “Want some company?”
She absolutely did not. “I was hoping for a few minutes to myself to order my thoughts.”
“What thoughts? We’re going to be sitting off to the side listening to the lecture.”
Allison pursed her lips. “Maybe. But I’d like to make sure I have things to add if Professor Frances wants us to contribute.”
A shit-eating grin spread across Colin’s face. He always looked like he was fighting to hold back a delicious secret, and that smile only made it worse. It was the natural uptick of his mouth and the perpetual narrowing of his eyes. If only Allison had a permanent marker, she could rearrange his expression. It slid under her skin like a needle and plunged something acidic right into her veins.
When they reached the exit to Haber, he held open the door. Allison crossed her arms and waited for him to pass through first. His gallantry could, as her grandmother used to say, “go fly a kite.” She would not fall for this nice-guy routine.
Though he shook his head, Colin obeyed. Of course, that didn’t stop him from keeping a hand pressed to one of the glass panels until Allison grabbed the door’s handle. She refused to look at him as she passed by.
Instead of taking the long way to Litvak, where British Literature’s Greatest Hits was held, she cut through the center of campus, a four-cornered courtyard framed by the library, main administrativebuilding, gym, and student center. Without shade from any trees, the early autumn sun beat down against her face and arms, making her long for the chill of a breeze.
Nestled on the southern border between East Providence and Barrington, Rhode Island, Claymore was a blip of history in the middle of suburbia. Unlike most universities that built up new, futuristic structures among the older campus buildings, whoever designed Claymore’s renovations had worked hard to maintain the original Gothic design. Everywhere was ornate stone and high-arched windows and flying buttresses and gargoyles. A wrought-iron fence wreathed with ivy enclosed the school, separating it from the town and further underscoring the stark clash between the campus and the tiny hipster restaurants and SoulCycles and artisan breweries that had infested the blocks around it.
As Allison walked, the early lines ofBeowulfran through her head. Most of it was about heroism and masculinity andblah, blah, blah—so boring she’d barely been able to come up with some sample lesson plans about the section for her first recitation (which she’d sent to Professor Frances between episodes of Sophie’s witchy drama on Friday). Still, she needed something insightful to say. Just in case. She hadn’t been lying to Colin about that.
A small stone collided with the back of her calf, pulling her from her thoughts. There, ten paces behind her, was Colin.
She shouldn’t have been surprised. Not once had he ever listened to a word she’d said. Like that time she’d come down with an awful flu and asked him for toast and ginger ale. He’d shown up with tomato soup (and zero carbs), insisting it was the more restorative option.
A scream formed at the pit of Allison’s stomach, but she maintained her brisk pace. “What are you doing?” she called to him over her shoulder.
“Walking to class.”
