Chapter 5
College is supposed to feel like freedom. That's what everyone says—your chance to reinvent yourself, to shed your past like an outgrown skin. But something about Blackridge feels more like a cage with each passing day.
Aside from yesterday, the next odd thing happens Tuesday morning. I'm organizing my desk before class, shifting through the pile of sheet music I was working on last night. Something feels wrong. The pages are too neat, corners aligned. It’s nothing like my usual organized chaos. Each measure is perfectly visible, not a single page dog-eared or slightly askew like I left them.
"Hey." My roommate's voice breaks through my spiral. She's propped on one elbow in bed. "Do you wanna go get lunch?"
"Did you..." I hold up the sheet music, feeling ridiculous. "Did you straighten these? Clean my desk?"
"Haven't touched your stuff." She yawns, then seems to really look at me. "You think I touched your stuff?"
"No, no. Uh, sorry. No, I don’t think that." I shove the pages into my folder.
"Well, do you want to grab lunch? We could go to the dining hall and check out what they make on Tuesdays."
I almost say no. The dining hall means people, means eyes, means that crawling sensation I can't shake. But Kiah's smile is genuine, and we live together. I can’t say no.
The morning air holds that perfect September crispness as we cross the quad. Students mill about, clutching coffee cups or books. Kiah chatters about her English professor's obsession with metaphors, and finally, everything feels normal. People smile at us as we walk past. A few wave. It’s nice to be acknowledged. Maybe I could fit in here and feel at ease.
Then I see the group of girls from my composition class, huddled by the library steps. The one who made the janitor comment spots me and stares. I square my shoulders, refusing to shrink. I wink at her before cutting the corner then I chuckle.
"What’s funny?" Kiah asks as we enter the dining hall.
I shake my head, glad that life here finally feels normal. "I just winked at the mean girl."
She grabs my arm, laughing. "That’s hilarious. I love it."
The dining hall is busy with students. The smell of tacos fill the air as we check in and grab a plate. We claim a corner table, and I position myself to see both entrances. Just in case the mean girl decides to walk in.
"I thought it would be tacos," I chime.
"Taco Tuesday." Kiah dumps hot sauce on her plate. "So, why do you already have a bully?"
I pick up the taco and take a bite, trying to focus on her voice instead of scanning the room.
"Because the professor played my piece on the piano and the claws came out." I widen my eyes and take another bite.
"Messed with the wrong girl," Kiah laughs. "God, this taco is delicious."
I laugh. "It is!"
This is just what I needed. Some time with a new friend at our new school. But that feeling creeps in again— like spider legs on the back of my neck. Someone's watching. My eyes dart around, but there are too many faces, too many angles.
"Okay, what's going on? What was that?" Kiah finishes off her taco, wiping the hot sauce from her lips. "You've looked around a hundred times in less than a second."
I’m searching the room now, desperate to find who the hell it could be. Now Kiah starts looking around and then she turns smug.
"Those are the football players."
I catch where her eyes are and then I sigh.
"Very athletic. And very hot." Kiah pours more hot sauce on her taco.
I pick up my second taco and chuckle. "Give me some of that hot sauce."
She hands over the bottle. "I knew you needed some spice in your life. But seriously, is something going on with the football team?"
I put a few drops onto my taco and laugh. "Never would I ever."
She’s smiling and nodding, a teasing look on her face. "You totally would! Look at you blushing."
I grin and ignore her to take a bite of my taco. Even though I’ve been paranoid someone’s been watching me, being with her makes it feel lighter.
Then a guy drops into the empty chair beside Kiah. "Ladies!" he grins, dark eyes bright. "Please tell me you're coming to the art department party Friday. They're turning the studio into some kind of neon wonderland."
"Like I'd miss it." Kiah throws a napkin at him. "Lola, you in?"
I should say yes. Should grab at this chance for normal college fun. Instead, I mutter something about practice and assignments.
The rest of Tuesday passes in a blur of classes and paranoia. But Wednesday brings worse moments. I'm early to my practice room, eager to lose myself in Bach's Cello Suite No. 1. The door is unlocked.
I stand frozen, key in hand, staring at the handle I know I locked yesterday. Inside, everything looks normal—music stand in place, spare rosin on the windowsill, chair positioned exactly how I like it. But something feels off. Like the air itself has been disturbed.
My hands shake as I unpack my cello. The familiar weight grounds me, and I throw myself into scales, arpeggios, anything to drown out the whispers of fear. An hour passes, then two. The music wraps around me like armor.
Until I notice the markings.
They're subtle—light pencil scratches on my composition, suggestions for tempo and dynamics. The graphite catches the light as I tilt the page, showing changes I definitely didn't make. My stomach lurches.
"Looking good, Kemper."
I nearly drop my bow. Professor Schweig stands in the doorway, nodding at my sheet music. "Those adjustments will help with the flow. Third movement was a bit rushed yesterday."
"I..." The words stick. "These weren't..."
"Keep working on it. I expect to hear the changes next week."
He's gone before I can protest, leaving me with marked-up music and too many questions. Did he come in earlier? Make the notes himself? But I had the only key, and the faculty practice rooms are on a different floor.
That night, I triple-check the lock before leaving. It doesn't help.
Thursday morning brings a new kind of unease. I'm reorganizing my backpack—a habit from years of protecting my few precious possessions—when I notice my books aren't in their usual order. The psychology text is before calculus, theory notes mixed in with English.
I look up at the ceiling dramatically and let out a long sigh.
"Seriously?" Kiah's voice makes me jump.
I fix my posture and pinch my eyes. "Fuck… I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there."
She's watching me closely. "Is something going on?" she asks, now suspicious.
"Nothing, I just—"
She sits on her bed and looks at the mess in front of me.
"You'll think I'm crazy," I admit. She’s giving me the look like I need to explain it to her.
"Try me."
"It's little things." The words tumble out. "My sheet music being too neat. Practice room unlocked when I know I locked it. Books rearranged. Like someone's been in my space, touching my stuff, but I can't prove anything." I sigh. "I always feel like I’m being watched. I swear someone is there and then I turn and no one’s there. I’m starting to think I’m going fucking crazy."
"That's not nothing." Her voice sharpens. "Have you told anyone? Campus security?"
"And say what? Someone might have touched my stuff but also might not have?" I laugh, but it sounds hollow. "I'll sound paranoid."
"Or they'll—"
A knock makes us both jump. Kiah’s eyes widen as she answers.
The guy who invited us to the art party walks in with three coffee cups and a paper bag. "Breakfast of champions!" His smile fades when he sees our faces. "Y’all okay?"
"Nothing," I say, just as Kiah says, "Lola's being stalked."
"I'm not being stalked." But even I don't believe it anymore. "It's probably just rich kid hazing. Testing the scholarship student. Could be the mean girl from class." Or my father. The thought crosses my mind, but that man would never waste his time on me.
"Screw that." He sets the coffees down with unusual force. "Want me to walk you to classes? I'm free Tuesdays and Thursdays."
"I don't need—"
"He knows martial arts," Kiah interrupts. "Actually knows what he's doing, unlike half the wannabe tough guys here."
Something warm blooms in my chest. These people—this girl I've known a week, this boy I barely know—ready to help without question. It's so different from the trailer park where everyone was too busy surviving to look out for each other. Or even high school. High school was a complete shit show.
"Thanks." I grab one of the coffees. "But really, I'm probably just being paranoid."
"Still." Kiah grabs her bag. "We're kidnapping you today. Farmers market downtown, then this amazing bookstore café. No arguments."
For a few hours, I almost feel normal. Devon is his name, and he has horrible puns. Kiah's running commentary on everyone's fashion choices make me laugh despite myself. The autumn air smells like apples. We get lunch at a tiny Vietnamese place where the owner calls everyone "honey" and serves portions big enough for three meals.
But Friday brings what I've been dreading all week.
I'm in the library, supposedly studying for psychology but really hiding from the world. My textbooks spread across the table like academic camouflage. The spot I've chosen lets me see down three aisles at once, back against the wall, everything in view.
I glance into my bag, and my heart stops. There, nestled between my theory notes and calculus homework, pages I know I just checked an hour ago, lies a cream-colored envelope I definitely didn't put there. My name curves across the front in elegant calligraphy, the paper so thick it feels like silk against my trembling fingers.
What the hell is this?
My hands shake so badly. It takes my fingers forever to break the seal of this envelope, each attempt making my pulse race faster.
Inside, I find a single card, heavy and expensive. The envelope feels wrong in my hands—too expensive, too deliberate. An invitation to a party, written in the same flowing script. Just an invitation for a party tonight. Not a threat. Not a warning. But my racing heart knows better— someone didn't just slip this into my bag; they chose me.
I wasn't imagining anything this entire time.
Someone watched, waited, chose their moment.
I glance around the empty library.
Who the hell was it?