Rebooked For Us

Prologue

coupeville university, junior year

“Cane, nigga come out with us Friday. All you do is study,” LaDrake fussed when I dropped into my seat. He extended his hand, and we dapped up. I did the same to Carlos and Carter before they sat.

“Nah, the prodigy can’t come out…” Carlos kept talking, but I’d already checked out.

A flash of white caught my eye. It ran through a head full of curls as she stormed past our row, a tote bag banging against her hip. She looked one inconvenience away from cussing somebody out.

I watched her take a seat near the front and decided, immediately and without reason, that I needed to know her name.

“The first day of class just got a whole lot better. Who is that?” Drake leaned over, whispering.

“Out of your league, that’s who.”

“Here this hoe ass nigga go. You can’t have them all.”

“Los, don’t tell me you’re still on that shit with Bianca. I told you I’m not on her. Go for that if you want.”

Taps on the whiteboard pulled the room’s attention.

The entire class shifted toward Professor Luchinsky, but my focus stayed on her.

Her hair was already my favorite thing about her.

I adjusted in my seat and watched her check her red-tinted lip gloss in a compact mirror like she had nowhere more important to be.

“Welcome to Women’s History. I’m Dr. Luchinsky. I run a tight ship, so let’s establish a few things right away. Attendance is your responsibility. Participation is your responsibility. Learning is your responsibility.

I’m not here to hold anyone’s hand through the material.

I expect you to learn what you need to learn, and only you can determine what that is.

This course is not designed to be a support group, a debate club, or a place to air modern grievances.

We will examine historical events, movements, and figures in their own contexts.

I don’t care about the unfortunate plight of women. I care about the history.”

The room went silent. You could hear a pin drop.

Then, from the front, her soft voice cut through.

“And that’s why you shouldn’t be teaching a women’s history class. Is it too late to switch?”

Every head turned.

Nobody spoke.

Dr. Luchinsky blinked once before setting his marker down.

“You. Name?”

“Skye Campbell. Nice to meet you.”

“Ms. Campbell, perhaps you’d be more comfortable in a different course.”

“Probably. Is there one being taught by someone who actually likes women?”

A few snickers broke out around the room.

“Ms. Campbell.”

“What?” She looked around. “Y’all heard him. He said he doesn’t care about the plight of women. That’s a wild thing to say in a women’s history class.”

The snickers turned into outright laughter.

Dr. Luchinsky’s face darkened.

“If you’d like to teach the course, by all means.”

“If I wanted to teach the course, I’d at least start by caring about the subject.”

This time, the room erupted.

Somebody in the back slapped a desk.

Another student muttered, “Goddamn.”

Dr. Luchinsky held up his hand for silence.

“Ms. Campbell, you’re dismissed; please return with a better attitude.”

“Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings.” She still hadn’t moved.

“It’s like a man being an obstetrician. You know it’s odd.

Just because it can be done doesn’t mean it should.

The plight of women is exactly why we have women’s history.

If you aren’t discussing that, what are we actually talking about? ”

She stood and gathered her things with her spine straight.

The scowl was back.

“But I’ll gladly see myself out.”

Dr. Luchinsky watched, flushed, with nothing left to say.

A little troublemaker.

She walked past our row, causing me to shift. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t her eyes finding mine. She held my gaze for a beat, calm as hell, taking me in the same way I was taking her in, and then she was gone.

I watched the door close behind her.

“I can’t have them all,” I said, standing. “But I want that one. I’ll get up with you niggas later.”

I dapped them up and jogged out before the professor could get a word in. It was already too late for me. The siren had called. I had answered. It was reckless, and I did not care at all.

The hall was clear, so I picked up speed to catch up to her. When I finally pushed through the door outside, I spotted her and made my way over.

“That mouth is going to get you in trouble, Storm.”

She stopped walking and turned.

“Storm?”

“Yeah, because of the white spot. Or maybe I’ll call you Spot.” I reached out to touch the patch of white in her hair. She stepped out of reach, but she didn’t walk away.

“How about you call me nothing because I don’t know you. Do I look like a dog?”

“Look, I’m not Professor Luchinsky. Don’t bite my head off. I care about women’s history.”

“You clearly wanted this following me out here. I’m not in the mood today. Is that not obvious?”

“What would make it better? How can I help?”

“Stranger danger,” she yelled, not moving, just looking at me with those eyes.

I didn’t budge.

“You done?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes and dropped down onto the edge of the steps. I stayed where I was.

“Milkshakes always help,” I said.

She looked up at me and shook her head. “Stranger, you need to identify yourself before we share anything. Name. Blood type. Credit score. Go.”

“So, I got a shot at sharing something with you?”

She started walking off, and I shook my head.

Who was this damn girl?

“Aye, slow down,” I said, jogging to catch up. “Ducane Simmons. O-negative.”

“You know your blood type?”

“Universal donor.” I shrugged. “If you pass out or something, I got you.”

She stared at me.

“Is this you flirting?”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

The corner of her mouth twitched.

“Look, Skye, I’m just trying to get to know you. I ain’t on bullshit.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Oh, I’m sure Miss Opinionated will. Give me an hour.”

She smiled and shook her head.

“Fine, but I want a big chocolate milkshake with a lot of whipped cream.”

“I’ll even ask for sprinkles.”

I grabbed her tote bag and slung it over my shoulder as we headed toward The Diner on the corner.

“I can’t believe you know your blood type.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Actually, no. About a third of Americans don’t know theirs.”

I looked over at her.

“You just got random facts loaded and ready to go? Is this your way of flirting?”

She laughed.

Finally.

The Diner had been a Coupeville staple since before either of us got there. Booths with red vinyl, a counter with spinning stools, Millie behind it, who had seen every version of every college student who had ever walked through that door.

She looked up when we came in.

“Your booth is open, I’ll be right with y’all.”

I led Skye to the booth in the back and slid in.

“You must come here often if you have a booth. I’m new here.”

“I already figured that, love. But I helped Millie’s son, so free milkshakes and cheese fries for life.”

Another grin.

“I’m from Silverrun, Colorado.”

“And what the hell brought you here?”

She turned and looked out the window, giving me the impression she didn’t want to speak about it. So I approached it another way. “Is that why you’re having a rough day?”

“Yeah, but I’d rather not talk about it.”

Millie approached with a wide grin on her face. The chatter of the diner was so loud, but Millie was louder.

“Your usual Cane?”

“Yeah, and the kitchen sink milkshake for her. Cheese fries?” I asked, eyes on her.

“Jalapenos?”

“Loaded,” Millie responded.

“Yeah, add cheese fries.”

Millie wrote it down without looking up and disappeared.

Skye folded her hands on the table and looked at me.

“Ducane Simmons,” she said. “That’s a name.”

“It’s the only one I got.”

“What are you studying?”

“Pre-law.”

“Of course you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“The redirect when I looked out the window.”

I tried to hide my smile, but it didn’t work.

“Damn, maybe I’m not as good as I thought I was.”

She laughed. Caught herself. Looked away too fast, pulling back, sinking into the booth.

“Skye Campbell,” I said. “What are you studying?”

“Everything.” She shrugged. “I change my mind a lot.”

“What does your gut say?”

She paused. The question caught her off guard. “Communications, maybe. I like people. I like figuring out what they’re actually saying underneath what they’re saying.”

“So, you read people.”

“Everybody does. I’m just honest about it.”

Millie set the milkshakes down. Skye wrapped both hands around hers immediately, took a long pull through the straw, and closed her eyes for half a second.

“Good?” I asked.

“Perfect,” she said without opening her eyes.

I took her in. The white streak wasn’t the only thing; it just made it easier to find her in a room.

A pale patch swept from her temple down across her cheek, standing out against her deep brown skin.

Her face was all clean lines and soft curves.

High cheekbones. A small nose. Thick brows. Long lashes.

Her eyes were probably my second favorite thing. Dark and almond-shaped, they seemed permanently narrowed in suspicion.

Then there was her mouth.

Full lips that looked better suited for arguments than apologies. I knew that much already.

Dark curls spilled over her shoulders, and even sitting across from me in an oversized university sweatshirt, she was hard to ignore.

“So,” she said, opening her eyes and bringing me out of my thoughts. “Ducane Simmons. Pre-law. Still may be stranger danger. What else?”

“What do you want to know?”

She considered that. “Why did you follow me out of class?”

I looked at her across that table and told her the truth.

“Outside of just wanting to, I guess I’m waiting to find out.”

She swallowed and sat back.

The conversation shifted after that. She talked about her sister, Airalynn, who had everything figured out since birth.

She dropped more random facts, hated peas since she was four, loved thunderstorms, and had strong opinions about things that had nothing to do with anything.

She was funny without trying to be, and I let her run because she clearly needed somewhere to put it all.