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Freshman year is hard enough; doing it a freshman a second time is practically like getting a catheter. A catheter may be less excruciating.
Everyone has sort of gotten into the swing of things already. They have a rhythm, formed their cliques, and decided what clubs they're going to pledge to for the year.
Rothwell is no different.
Raw energy pulses through the centuries-old building. Most of these students have lived in Rothwell their whole lives, so it’s not an exaggeration to say I stick out like a sore thumb. The fact that I’m lost, yet again, doesn’t help my case.
A couple is flirting in the hallway. The massive jock type and his tiny giggling cheerleader. The cliché makes me want to roll my eyes.
Still, it’s either I ask them where the hell I’m supposed to be right now or continue wandering for the next god knows how long. I approach them and clear my throat, but that doesn’t seem to get their attention. “Excuse me,” I attempted.
The guy sticks his tongue so far down the girl’s throat that I’m surprised she’s still breathing.
“Excuse me!” I try a little more forcefully.
“What?” Storm-gray eyes beneath a heavy frown meet mine, and I’m struck by the rage swimming in them. His chiseled jaw ticks and his breathing is ragged. I’m momentarily blinded, though, by how good-looking he is. Like, a solid ten out of ten and then some.
“I…er…”
He frowns. “Spill it!” The brashness in his tone is a little unnerving. I look between him and the cheerleader, who is now scoffing at me, sizing me up like a bug she wants to squish.
“I need to get to the atrium hall. I’m new….”
“That way,” he points behind me, then turns his back to me dismissively.
“Uhm, thanks. I guess,” I mutter and spin on my heel, hightailing out of there. Was it even necessary for him to be that rude?
When I reach the lecture hall, I’ve long forgotten the grouch and his little princess, lost in the world of Shakespearean literature 101.
“So, how is it so far?” I’m sitting with Marcy, Dylan, and a couple of their friends at lunch. If I stuck out like an outsider before, I’m now whatever is worse than that. Around this table are most likely the most gorgeous people I’ve ever seen in my life. I must constantly remind myself not to stare. What’s worse is they’re all coupled up. It's intimidating sitting amongst them, a tiny hobbit surrounded by ethereal elves in Rivendell.
“Fine. I’m getting the hang of things. Classes are great.”
“That’s awesome,” Marcy says, leaning over to kiss my cheek. I flush. She’s only two years older than me, and she’s been treating me like a little kid. I love my cousin and aunt, but the babying becomes a bit anal after a while. “Ash here is a brilliant writer.”
“Marcy!” My eyes widened. She read one short story she begged to get her hands on, and now she thinks I’m the next big thing.
“She is. I read that story you gave Marcy,” Dylan pipes up while munching down on a burger the size of my head. My cheeks flame. I had no idea she let him read it.
“You should sign up for the school paper. I could read some of your work, and you’ll be as good as in. I write the gossip column.” Georgia says sweetly. I'd have been concerned if she hadn’t added that last part.
“I wouldn’t say brilliant. It’s mostly just journaling, putting down my thoughts.”
“She’s being modest,” Marcy says. “I’ll make sure she submits something.”
I pick at my salad. I don’t know when it happened, but the shift in the air was almost immediate. The heat behind me made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Ryder, finally! Where the fuck were you?” Dylan asks someone behind me, raising his hands up in greeting. I turn, and hard, stormy gray eyes stare at me.
“You’re in my spot,” The guy named Ryder, aka corridor make-out guy, says coolly.
“Excuse me?” I frown at a guy who I decide must be what the Greek gods truly looked like, despite his rudeness and unjustified dislike for me.
“My seat. You’re in it. Scram.”
“I don’t see your name on it,” I bite back even though my heart is racing a million miles a minute. He’s entitled and arrogant, with an attitude that sends my haunches up. I’m not supposed to even find him remotely attractive.
“Just sit over there, man,” Dylan chuckles, pointing to a seat next to Georgia. The perky blonde brightens up at the idea, patting the seat while wiggling in her chair. I turn back to my unappetizing salad, not bothering to give the asshole behind me another second of my time. Who the hell does he think he is?
