5. Sydney
five
sydney
I’m not sure if I’m bored or a masochist, but I decide to scroll through the many texts that came in overnight. Some are trying to get me to answer them, clearly baiting or goading me with inflammatory comments, while others are just straight-up mean. Those don’t care if I respond—it’s more about the knife wound. I don’t know if I should delete them or report them, but when Dad picked me up for dinner last night, I didn’t even mention it.
Once I get through as many texts as I can stomach, I go back to the video. Since it was posted from the FSU gossip account, I have zero luck. There’s no indication of who might run it, and I don’t know enough about the school to even attempt a guess. Not that it would help.
The court of public opinion at FSU is currently strongly against me.
Social media is a nightmare, too. The video tagged me, which seemed to open the floodgates for other people to tag me in shit, too. People I’m not friends with are tagging me in shit-talking posts, memes, edited screenshots of the video where they enlarge certain body parts. There are hideous comments on most of my posts.
I absorb it all without an outward reaction, but inside, I’m boiling. I shouldn’t have come to FSU. I shouldn’t have gotten caught up in trying to figure life out here .
What I should’ve done was just leave. Get a job, take classes part time, maybe get a roommate or something. Now, I’m in too deep. What am I supposed to do, tell my father—who risked his own job to get me accepted—that I changed my mind? Thanks for the nice apartment, for funding basically my entire life for the last six months, for getting me into school without loans, but I’m out?
Not a chance.
A new text comes in, and I automatically click on it. Masochist, as I said.
Unknown
Just block them out.
That’s a new one.
And before I know it, I’m responding.
Me
I don’t know how.
Unknown
Someone will fuck over the football team and they’ll be the new spit-roasted pig over the fire.
If you can last till then, you’re golden.
I cover my mouth before I can laugh . It’s not funny—but that is exactly how I feel.
Part of me doesn’t want to respond and ruin it, because what if this is just a con to get me to admit something? Or… I don’t know. Maybe they’ll plaster screenshots everywhere as soon as something does happen to someone else.
Like, “Look! Sydney Windsor wanted this bad shit to happen!”
It’s been less than five hours since the video was posted, and I’m already fucking gun-shy. I haven’t even been out. To the restaurant with Dad and Perri doesn’t count, because we went to some nice place a town over in the opposite direction of St. James.
So, in the end, I don’t respond. I get out of bed and take my time getting ready for the day. My makeup feels a bit like armor, which steadies my hand.
Day one and I’m already starting off defeated.
But I put my backpack on and walk to school, gazing around like someone’s going to come out of nowhere and punch me. I make it to campus, through the coffee line—the barista seems bored, yes, but also older. They don’t recognize me, and I get the impression that they wouldn’t give a shit if they did.
Coffee secured, I find my first class and take a seat in the very back. It’s an economics class, which I’m taking to satisfy some desire to have an understanding of our world and marketplace, and not a huge room.
But, by some miracle, no one recognizes me.
I keep my head down and take notes, and when the lecture is over, I’m the last one out. I’ve got another one straight away, so I head for that. English writing class. I added it on a whim because it sounded vaguely interesting.
Arriving, however, I discover that this is absolutely the wrong one for me.
It’s not a traditional room with desks— there are four long tables arranged in a square, so we’re all facing each other. The professor is already at one of the seats, and four more are filled. Leaving six empty.
Shit.
I pick one at random, slinking down.
Tomorrow, I’ll invest in a hat.
Or camouflage.
“Good morning,” the professor says. “My name is Lucy Page, your illustrious guide through this writing course. You can call me Professor Page, Professor P, or just Lucy, whichever you prefer. Just don’t call me late to dinner.”
Some chuckle. I’m so anxious, I can’t even muster a smile.
There’s a shuffle of papers, and the person to my left—the tables have now filled in while I stared at my lap—slides a stack of class syllabi in front of me. I take one and pass the rest, finally risking a glance at the professor.
“A little about me,” she continues. “I’m an investigative journalist by day. I own my own company. My team and I work on longer pieces in the Greater Boston Area. I’m here ,” she drums her nails on the table, “because the professor who was supposed to run this class got hit by a car last week.”
Someone gasps.
“So, here I am.”
A girl raises her hand. “Um, Professor?”
“Yes. Name?”
“Andi Sharpe,” she replies. “You’re an investigative journalist, but the course description said creative writing?”
Professor Page smiles. She’s kind of sharp-looking. Glasses, short, white-blonde hair that just barely misses brushing the tops of her shoulders. Her light eyes seem to cut straight through the student she focuses on. “Do you think journalists can’t be creative?”
“No, um, I?—”
“We tell stories. Storytelling is the framework of our entire society. Hell, even politicians weave stories to suit themselves. Everyone does. Investigative journalism is just as much about relaying the story as it is about facts. If it’s not interesting, who’s going to read it?”
Silence.
“Exactly,” she finishes. “Not a damn person. Your challenge, therefore, is to write something worth reading.”
“Isn’t that in the eye of the beholder?” another girl asks.
The professor gestures to a guy on her right. “You don’t agree.”
He straightens, the eyes of ten students and our professor suddenly on him. His dark hair is thick and curly, flopping down over his forehead, and he’s got a hint of shadow on his jaws. Attractive in a book smart kind of way.
“Brandon Moore,” he introduces. “Society often dictates what’s worth reading. Take the classics, for instance. Actually reading them nowadays, well, some of them are boring or hard to get through. Yet people insist, because they’re classics .” He pauses. “I think interesting and worth reading are two separate things.”
“Is a comic book worth reading?”
He tilts his head. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because… it’s entertaining.”
“Because it’s worth your time. So maybe there’s a correlation between entertainment and interest?” The girl who spoke flips her hair off her shoulder. “Miranda Summers.”
“Frankenstein was interesting,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
I draw gazes.
“Name?” the professor prompts.
“Sydney. And, um, I like classics. They stick around for a reason, right? Whether it’s a message or how they tell the story. Like Virginia Woolfe, her stream-of-consciousness writing is sometimes hard to grasp but it was groundbreaking. And Frankenstein continues to send a message, it can be picked apart in so many different ways…”
“Of course the SJU slut is in this class,” someone says under a cough.
Our professor straightens. “Excuse me?”
The first girl—Andi—leans forward. Her gaze burns into me. “She stole from our hockey team and sold us out to our rival, and then she has the nerve to transfer here? I won’t be in a class with her.”
“Then leave.”
I stop breathing.
Our professor looks around the room, then pauses on Andi. “I mean it. Get out of my classroom if you can’t be respectful.” She makes a shooing motion.
Andi seems a bit in shock, and she shoots me a withering glare as she shoves her notebook in her backpack. She leaves in a flurry of movement, slamming the door closed behind her.
“Now,” Professor Page says in the resulting silence. “Anyone else want to join her?”
No one moves.
“Good. Your first assignment is on the syllabus. I suggest you start working on it now… creative writing can be a tricky beast when you first start.” She rises. “See you Thursday!”
She leaves.
It takes us a moment to all get our shit together, and I’m once again the last one out. Except someone waits for me in the hallway.
“Brandon,” he introduces, extending his hand.
“Sydney.” I shake it.
“I hope Andi didn’t scare you off.”
I shrug, heading down the hall. I’m done with classes for today, thankfully, and I’m looking forward to hunkering down at home.
“What year are you?” he asks.
I twitch. “Junior.”
“Major?”
“Criminal Justice,” I lie.
He snorts. “Oh, I didn’t take you for a meathead jock.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know the old adage—the only people who major in Criminal Justice are the athletes who will never use their degree.”
“Maybe I want to join the FBI,” I say.
“Maybe,” he allows. “Do you?”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine, I think I’m going to major in English Writing. They’re giving me the semester to decide.”
There’s no way he can use that against me, right?
“Care to join me for lunch?” he asks.
Not really. But I find I can’t quite say no fast enough, because before I know it, we’re in the dining hall surrounded by a hundred other students with the same idea. I keep my head low and stick close to him, although using a stranger as a shield isn’t really a great idea.
This could be a trap.
My stomach flips, and I resist the urge to sprint away.
“You okay?”
“I, uh…”
He glances around. “I take it other people share Andi’s vitriolic opinion?”
I choke on a laugh. “You could say that.”
He makes a face. “Heathens.”
We get food and find a table in a back corner, and I breathe a little easier once we’re seated at a four-person table.
“What are you majoring in?” I ask him.
“Double majoring in sociology and education. It just so happens that I had an elective, and one of my first loves is creative writing.” He glances over my shoulder and waves to someone.
They set their plate and drink down beside me, dropping into the vacant chair. Girl. She’s tall, her shoulder at least a few inches above mine while seated, with long blonde hair and zero makeup. It isn’t until she’s fully settled that she looks to me.
Her jaw drops, and she faces Brandon. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Brandon Moore,” she hisses.
“I can hear you,” I murmur.
“She’s nice,” he says to her. “Sydney, this is Dylan. Dylan, Sydney. You have the y’s in your names in common.”
“Pleasure,” I say, sticking out my hand.
She stares at me like I’m a freaking bomb about to go off. There’s a thud under the table, and she jerks slightly. She takes my hand, squeezing tight.
“Pleasure,” she echoes. “Great.”
“Dylan is on the women’s volleyball team,” Brandon says in the wake of our awkward-as-shit introductions. “She likes to tell people she has an innate ability because she’s tall and talented, but really she practices more than anyone else.”
“Brandon,” she snaps again.
“And Sydney has some thoughts on what makes writing interesting,” he continues. “So she might have read your mom, Dyl.”
I straighten. “Is your mom an author?”
Dylan blushes. “Unfortunately, yes. She writes romance books. The kind with half-naked cowboys on the cover.”
I don’t want to say that sounds interesting, but I am intrigued. “No hockey guys?”
She snorts. “No.”
“That’s a bonus. So does she write under a pen name, or…”
Brandon bursts into laughter.
“Shut up,” she mutters. She offers me a small smile. “If you mention that to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.”
“That’s a sign of friendship,” Brandon explains. “As soon as the murder talk starts, you’re in.”
My smile fades at the idea of murder.
What if my mom hasn’t come home because she can’t?