Lily
I haven’t seen her around. Plain, in her early twenties, she stands out in Rothford, where most girls tend to lean towards the typical California girl—except for my friends and me.
Still stressed out about Claire, though I heard she was reinstated, my mind’s barely even here. I’ve been in the library for two hours, trying to focus on my work, and failing miserably. I’m grateful for the distraction, so I smile at the stranger. “That’s me.”
“I’m Marina Towell,” she introduces herself. “I run Rothford Weekly.”
“Oh.” So she’s even more of a nerd than I am. “Nice,” I lie.
“Well, you see, a lot of our members have graduated last year, and it’s a bit of a struggle to find new ones. I was wondering if you’d be interested?”
I’m considering how to say no thank you politely when Marina launches into a pitch, taking my silence as a show of interest.
I mostly tune her out, because yes, it would likely be good for my CV, but I really don’t want to spend hours writing for a stupid college newspaper no one reads, until she says, “And it might help with your scholarship, too.”
I blink. “How so?”
If she’s already explained, she doesn’t seem to mind doing it again.
“The faculty loves when students participate in clubs. Say if you were short of the grade or rank you needed to reach; it wouldn’t matter if you were an active Rothford Weekly editor.
They’re far more lenient with people who are busy with Rothford clubs! ”
“Seriously?” So, if I’d been part of her stupid club last year, I wouldn’t have lost my scholarship when I ranked lower than I should have?
“Oh yeah. I’m a scholarship student too. It’s in the college handbook.” She already has her phone in hand, scrolling through it until she finds what she’s looking for. “There.”
She hands me her screen, zoomed in on one clear sentence in black and white.
Active members of demanding clubs may be exempt from ranking requisites.
I gape at it. “Fuck. What would I have to do?”
Not that I planned to slip again, but it would definitely help to no longer have that Damocles sword over my head.
Marina’s halfway through explaining the positions available at the newspaper when Olivia joins us. She immediately launches into her speech, but to save us all time, I tell her, “Rothford is less anal about our ranking for our scholarships if we’re good little team players.”
Olivia signs up immediately.
I’m glad to learn that the Rothford Weekly staff operates right here in the library, in one of the private rooms.
Marina has a bunch of ideas that she offers up, and some of them don’t even suck.
“I’ll take over the online presence,” Liv offers before I can.
I pout. I think most of the reason why no one bothers with Rothford Weekly is because it mostly distributes prints. No one in our generation actually read the news in paper.
“I think we all can; maybe on a different day of the week?” I say, reluctant to be stuck writing articles that no one will read.
Marina claps her hands together greedily. “Amazing.”
From what I understand, this year the entire staff is her and a freshman she managed to coax into handling photography with cookies. No wonder she was desperate enough to approach strangers.
The week flies by as I catch up with the previous issues in order to not repeat subjects already addressed over the last year, my classes, and trying to corner Claire for a good chat.
I see her once or twice, mostly at the café downstairs, and she seems fine.
I don’t miss the way she turns tomato red as soon as Keller’s mentioned.
I also do my best to avoid Cross like the plague he is, just as red as Claire at the very thought of him. I know better than to think I’m rid of him. I owe him a kiss and two blowjobs, and he’ll eventually collect.
By the end of the week, I’m wound up so tight I know I’ll explode if I don’t let go, so I bundle Olivia and Jack into Bertha and drive us to LA before they can protest. Potential kidnapping charges aside, I need to breathe, to relax, and to let my hair down.
I opt to drink just as much as my friend, and we check into a hotel for the night, crashing together on a twin bed, with my alarm set for five.
Driving back, the air in the car taste of stale beer and regret, but underneath the exhaustion, I feel better than I have for days.
Ever since I was reclined on a shark’s bed, legs spread, as he stood and dismissed me.
I know one thing with unexpected clarity: Cross isn’t done fucking with me yet.