Chapter Five
Of all the things Hayes Collins has ever done to me, this just might be the worst:
He’s started trying to make me laugh.
Then, he did it again. I was less swept up in the pageantry of the movie this time, because my teeth were starting to grind at the thought of how much precious class time we were wasting on films. So, I saw him scribbling.
He wasn’t as smooth on the delivery that time.
I caught his wrist before he slipped the note between the tissue-thin pages of my anthology.
(Which I was still dutifully bringing to class every week, despite Austen very much NOT being in it.)
He’d drawn the outline of five little stars and filled in one and a half. I noticed he always wrote in blue ink.
That movie was so bad I think it actually reflects poorly on you as a person. You LIKE THIS? Nova. Be for real.
I could’ve responded verbally, I guess. The movie was over, and so was the class period. Instead, I clicked my favorite red pen, which I always have on me, and responded the best way I know how: in writing.
I filled in one more star and the rest of the half. I didn’t write my own sentence, I just wrote over his. I added not in front of so bad, and then a period after. I scratched out poorly and replaced it with well, then marked through you as a person and added in Colin Firth.
That movie was not so bad. I think it actually reflects well on Colin Firth.
He laughed then.
I think it was the first time he’d ever laughed in my presence without it being at my expense.
And he just kept going. Not with the laughing, but with the notes. Which brings us to now. Today. We’re supposed to be in a group discussion about this week’s reading, which was our first foray into actual American Literature, and our first actual use of the anthology.
We’d read excerpts from the Federalist Papers—essays on government written by Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, and James Madison.
Or, some of us did. The two college girls in our four-person discussion group are clearly bullshitting.
I don’t even remember if the one who is currently talking started on topic, or if this has just been off the rails from the beginning.
$10 says we’re the only ones who read.
A yellow sticky note, blue ink. Stuck to the side of the table right in front of my open book. Presumably so no one else sees.
I laugh. Damn him.
My hand flies to my face, trying to pass it off as a cough or a sneeze or something. I can’t be laughing. The girl in front of me might think I’m laughing at her, and I’d rather die than make someone feel like that.
“Sorry.” I fake cough again. “Excuse me.”
Her face, which had turned suspicious, softens, and she keeps talking. I narrow my eyes and shoot Hayes a look that I hope screams Go to hell. He grins, of course.
Get it? $10? HAMILTON??
He took the sticky note back just to write that. That was risky. I’ve never really passed notes in class before. Texted, sure. But actually physically passing a sticky note back and forth is different. Not that Professor Lowry is paying the slightest bit of attention.
I dare to write back to him in red ink.
Oh so YOU did the reading? REALLY? I assumed you didn’t, given how little you’re contributing to this conversation. OR ANY CONVERSATION, EVER.
Hayes chuckles then. He doesn’t even try to pass it off as a cough or anything. Both the girls across from us smile at him. Of course he timed his chortle exactly right to seem as if he was laughing at a joke they just made.
Well, if defense isn’t working, I guess it’s time to play some offense. I reach over him to grab another sticky note from the pad, and I furiously scrawl with my trusty red pen. The words even look angry.
You and Hamilton have a lot in common, actually. Loud. Cocky. Never the president.