Rory
People are chatting among themselves in small groups, everyone occupying the first three rows of the small theater that looks like it’s been dipped in dollar store décor.
I’ve never seen so many glitter hearts and paper Cupids in my life. It’s a maximalist’s love nightmare. And my personal one.
But our professor—if that’s what you can call him (I prefer sadist)—decided our midterm would not only be early . . . on Valentine’s Day . . . but also a cold read of Shakespeare’s most romantic plays.
Why? is the only correct response.
Not only is it something we’ve never done, but as an added bonus, he’s randomly pairing us up to act out these scenes for his sadistic entertainment . . . Onstage, under a fake starry sky, with a balloon arch that says, I love you beary much, and a spotlight.
I’m calling 911 is an understatement of my emotion.
Because not only am I single for this day of commercialized affection, but apparently I’m doomed to swap spit with the dumpster fire that are the guys in here on said day.
What did I do in a past life to deserve this?
I grumble next to my best friend, Cece, still internally blaming her for the tragedy about to befall my life as I roll my eyes at the paper candy hearts taped to the front of the stage.
They should all just say, Me too, because this whole day constitutes harassment.
“You’re in so much trouble for this,” I whisper. “I should’ve never listened to you.”
She chuckles, ignoring me.
But she knows I’m right. She swore this was the easiest of A’s.
Just a few weeks of analyzing plays. The kind of brain-off class that would allow us to soak up the last memories of college before our journey of adulthood .
. . blah, blah, blah. I knew better than to trust an English major, they’re too good at romanticizing everything.
Still, I followed her lead and registered. And look where that got me.
“Oh, come on . . . this could be fun,” she teases, nudging my shoulder. “I mean, maybe Cupid will shoot his arrow at one of us.”
My face whips to hers, and I stare, just blinking, before I say, “Cupid . . . in this class? Gaslighter. Now I see you for who you really are. You’re a monster.”
Another chuckle.
She can laugh all she wants, but this midterm is about to be my thirteenth reason.
I let out a heavy breath. “I swear to you, I will never forgive you if I draw Romeo and Juliet. I might even write a complaint to the school. What kind of midterm requires you to kiss a stranger? It’s gross.”
“I basically failed statistics, but what are the chances you get it? There’s only one script that has a kiss. What’s that, like, one in a thousand?”
“Are you serious? Cece . . . one in eight,” I deadpan. “And if I have to kiss one of these vermin, I might put cyanide in your cereal.”
This time she gives me a smirk. I hate it when she enjoys my annoyance. It’s so disrespectful. For god’s sake, she knows the gene pool of men we’re being subjected to. Forget R and J, these men are the true tragedy, and she has the audacity to say it could be fun.
No . . . I’d literally rather lick pavement than be up close and personal with any of them. I mean, come on . . . not today. Of all the days.
Of the seven guys in this class, three of them, at twenty-two years old, think that it’s funny to make erotic noises on the class Zoom calls as if nobody knows they did it. We know and it’s not.
Another guy, who asked my name today by calling me milady first, has the kind of halitosis that begs for a full diet reboot . . . Something else I don’t want to know about him.
Then there’s Flip-Flops . . . What kind of monster leaves his dogs out for the world to see? There’s so much hair on his toes that I will see it in my nightmares.
I’m already shivering just thinking about it.
But my least favorite male common denominators are bad facial hair and one-inch . . .
One-Inch is a guy I already know named Jaxon who has a bald eagle flag on the bed of his truck, a tattoo that says Freedom on the back of his neck, and lifts in his shoes. Hence his nickname . . . it’s that one inch that lets him lie about being six feet tall.
News flash, Jaxon, nobody cares you’re five foot eleven. That’s not what’s stopping you from getting some. It’s your personality, buddy.
“Wipe that face off your face,” Cece whispers, making me grin because she’s poorly quoting our favorite movie, Dazed and Confused. “I can always tell when you’re inner dialogue trash-talking.”
I turn toward her, my elbow hung over the top of my seat.
“It’s my fight-or-flight response to the trauma you’ve subjected us to. This is the worst day of my life . . . Have you even noticed the shirt Jaxon’s wearing?”
She snorts. “It says Stealin’ Hearts. What’s the big deal?”
“On the front, Cece . . . the back says Blastin’ Farts . . .”
She looks over her shoulder. “Oh wow.”
I nod, taking it all in. At least three guys are popping mints while one’s eating a tuna sandwich. The universe hates me. Hates, with a capital H.
I exhale my words like a sigh. “You realize we’re the closest they’re ever getting to a woman. This class is basically prison.”
She looks back, rolling her eyes. “You’re so dramatic, and you wonder why I chose drama as our last college elective.”
The back of my teeth grind together before I give her a dirty look and level, “Our friendship is over. Is that dramatic enough?”
I snatch a pink heart off the chair in front of me and rip it. It makes her laugh before she shoves my shoulder.
But I add, “Listen, if you want to keep me in your life, then you’re buying drinks tonight. All night. Maybe if I black out, I won’t remember today.”
She shrugs, popping a piece of gum into her mouth, offering me some while mumbling, “Deal,” before her eyebrows draw together. “Maybe we should chew two pieces just in case we get Hal-Olive-Garden-Tosis?”
“I fear today will become ingrained in my mind like a permanent B-roll of cringe. Here to haunt me for the rest of my life.”
Still, I take the two pieces. Better to be safe than sorry.
“Ooh, ooh, game time,” she whispers, making me shift to stare at the professor.
His little curly head is barely visible as he calls for everyone to sit, waving his hands up and down.
“Okay, players . . .” he starts. “What a semester it’s been. You’ve dug deep into each of these plays, and now you get to turn all that research into a moving performance. Remember, forty percent of your grade is based on this exam, so really let those acting chops shine through.”
I cut my eyes to Cece, who smiles sheepishly.
“Anyone brave enough to volunteer before I draw names from the hat?”
People look at each other nervously, the room silent.
“Oh, come on . . .” he prods like a true hater.
I groan quietly, shoving my hands into the pocket of my well-worn hoodie, whispering to Cece, “I hate you.”
But she winks before grabbing my arm, trying to tug it free. What in the . . .
“Volunteer,” she rushes out. “It’ll be over faster. And then I’ll go after you.”
Panic rises in my chest as I shake my head, using all my upper body strength to keep my hand inside my hoodie.
“Noooo, why do you hate me? What have I done to you?”
She giggles. “Just raise your hand, you big baby. The humiliation is inevitable.”
“Then you volunteer.”
The idea of being on that stage with one of these stooges makes me desperate, so I reach across and grab her hand, trying to lift it over mine, but she fights me, making us play tug-of-war with our arms as my eyes grow wider and her laugh gets louder.
“No,” she quietly squeaks, still trying to make me raise my hand. “You first.”
“Stop it.” I grunt-laugh in return. “Or I’ll literally tell everyone I see that you have syphilis. I’ll make flyers and put them up around campus.”
Before she can counter with something equally threatening, Professor Torture’s voice booms.
“Two volunteers! Wow. Fantastic.”
Oh. My. God.
We’re frozen, staring at each other, Cece looking at me, and me looking at her, our pulses a matched version of Nooooo. Because our effing around has doomed us to the finding out.
“You’re dead to me,” I whisper to her smiling face.
But then suddenly Professor Tate douses the threat with, “Let’s have Cece come up first.”
I inhale a deep, audible breath, my face lit with amusement. He called her name.
“Yes, let’s,” I let out, wringing my arm out of her grip with a Cheshire grin on my face. “You’re up, Cece.”
Her face goes blank and slightly gray as she swallows. And it takes everything inside me to stop the laughter that’s bubbling up from my chest.
That’s your karma, I mouth as she stares back at me with humorous shock.
“And you can pair with Peter . . .” the professor adds.
This just keeps getting better and better.
Peter has bad facial hair. He’s a skinny guy with unironic tattoos and a poorly grown beard. It has patches in it like a German shepherd in the summer or a kid still waiting for puberty.
Cece bites her bottom lip as she stands, and I sit as smug as possible. Peter walks up next to her and winks. Actually freaking winks. Now the laughter I’ve held inside indelicately escapes.
When her head whips sharply in my direction, I do the decent thing and lean forward, offering, “Okay, chemistry. Looks like Cupid’s shooting that arrow . . .”
She pushes my face back with the palm of her hand as she walks past, her body language screaming, Get me out of here. But there’s no running from fate.
I watch them take the scripts from the professor, wishing on a prayer that the universe really does love me the most.
“How does Romeo and Juliet sound?” he offers them.
And she does love me. So much.
My hands shoot from my hoodie, pointed in their direction, before I start to clap. Heck yeah. Cece lets out a whoosh of breath, looking at me for a life raft, but I hope she drowns in her consequence.