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“Oh my god.” I laughed softly and turned to my friends. “Thanks, guys. The cake looks awesome.”
“We managed to convince one of the RAs to let us in this morning,” Michaela explained, hurrying over to the desk. She produced a large knife from her coat pocket and raised a brow. “Want a piece now?”
“Sure! Thanks.” I tilted my head. “Have you been carrying that knife around all day?”
“Guilty as charged. Thank god we didn’t get pulled over and searched by cops on our way here,” she said with a grin. “Imagine trying to explain that one.”
She handed me a slice of cake—banana, my favorite—and cut herself and Tate a piece as well.
“Wait a sec.” Tate lifted a hand, signaling for her to put his piece back down. “There’s one more surprise.”
“Oh?” I raised my brows. “What is it?”
He produced a plastic card from his pocket and held it out to me. “Fake ID,” he said, eyes glimmering with mischief. “So we can hit all the bars. It has your real name and address, but it says you’re three years older than you actually are.”
“Half the places around here don’t even card,” Michaela added. “But it’s always helpful to have a fake, just in case.”
“Wow, thanks.” I briefly scratched my ear and smiled. “It looks so real.”
Tate frowned. He must’ve caught the split-second of uncertainty on my face when I first laid eyes on the card. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “It looks awesome.”
Michaela glanced over at the fake driver’s license and huffed. “Tate, you forgot!”
“Forgot what?” he asked, looking helpless.
Michaela snatched my new student ID off the welcome pack on my desk and dangled it in front of his face. “Remember?” she said. “She’s Sienna McConville now. Not Sienna Holland.”
Tate’s face fell. “Shit. Sorry. I totally forgot you changed your last name.”
“It’s fine.” I waved a hand. “No one’s going to see this fake ID except for a few bouncers, so it really doesn’t matter.”
“True.” He stooped to pick up my suitcase and dumped it on the bed. “All right. I’ll get started on this one. You two can unpack the bags.”
I raised a hand in protest. “You guys don’t have to help me unpack. Seriously.”
“The sooner you’re done here, the sooner we can show you the best stuff in the dining hall,” Michaela said. “Also, I’m way better at organizing things than you. I’ve watched every Marie Kondo episode ever made.”
I smiled and laughed softly. “Fine. If you insist. But you guys have to let me pay for your food later, okay?”
“Deal.” Tate’s eyes lingered on my admission pack as he placed my laptop charger on the desk. “How’s your class schedule looking?”
“Not bad. I managed to fit all my lectures into three days.”
“Lucky you. You should try doing forensics.” He grimaced. “I’m in back-to-back lab classes five days a week.”
Michaela lifted a palm. “Um, if we’re doing the whole Suffering Olympics thing, then you should award the gold medal to me. I’m doing a double degree.”
“Yeah, in politics and international relations. So at least there’s no lab work,” Tate said.
“It’s still hard!”
“I know. Just messing with you,” he replied with a grin. He looked back over at me. “You know, I was really surprised when you told us you enrolled in journalism.”
“Me too,” Michaela said.
“Why?” I asked.
