Chapter 4
GETTING READY
SIMONE
My desk is a sprawl of textbooks, coffee rings, Maybelline carnage, and the suspiciously orange smear of Cheetos fingers past. I sit on the bed, cross-legged and braless, and try to will myself into academic mode.
I fail. I stare at the closet instead, hung with an evolutionary history of my bad decisions—vintage thrift, half a dozen Victoria’s Secret Pink hoodies, three dresses that would get me thrown out of Mass.
I need an outfit, but what’s the right vibe for “I want you to save my grade but I’m also insanely attracted to you”?
There’s a tap at the door. Andie comes in, a towel wrapped turban-tight around her hair. She’s eating cereal straight from the box and already in her comfort zone: “You going somewhere, or is this a suicide mission?”
I hurl a crop top at her, which she dodges. “Don’t you have a field hockey game?”
She makes a face. “It’s not until four. Besides, watching you stress-shop your own closet is, like, more entertaining than TV. What’s the occasion, Simone?”
“I have to go meet with Liam Thomas. The professor.”
“Office hours on a Saturday?” She slides onto her bed and fluffs a pillow behind her back, eyes bright. “Do I need to call HR?”
I toss a black skirt on the bed, then shake my head. “It’s not like that, Andie. He said I could get extra help on my paper if I wanted. I want.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Do you want, or do you want want?”
I glare, but it’s mostly for show. “It’s not a sex thing, it’s a GPA thing. Can you focus please?”
Andie sets down the cereal. “I’m focusing. You just stress me out when you do this. You act all chill and then two hours before, you’re hyperventilating in the stairwell.”
“I’m not hyperventilating,” I say, already out of breath from squatting to find my tights. “I just don’t want to bomb out and get sent back to West Texas because of a literature essay.”
“Yeah, but isn’t Professor Thomas, like, obsessed with you?”
I feel my face go pink. “No, Andie. He’s obsessed with Herman Melville. And maybe with failing me.”
She shrugs. “Every girl in the class says he’s a dom. Like, the way he stands at the podium? It’s a vibe.”
I roll my eyes and drop a stack of bralettes on my bed. “That’s just a rumor.”
“So is the thing about him knocking up some co-ed last year,” she says, picking at her cuticles, “but the rumor persists.”
I groan. “Andie. Please.”
She spreads her hands. “I’m just saying, if you come home pregnant, I’m not helping you pay for raising a child. Not unless it’s a girl, and not unless she’s as cute as a ladybug.”
I snort, because she’s incorrigible. “If I get pregnant from a writing tutorial, I’ll personally eat all of your secret Lucky Charms stash.”
Andie laughs, and for a second, it’s not so heavy. She flops back on the bed and sighs. “You know, you could just wear normal clothes maybe? Like, jeans? A t-shirt? And not, you know, whatever outfit you’re constructing right now.”
But I’m already holding up two options: the miniskirt that’s short, but not too short, with a baby blue sweater, or a red plaid skirt with a tight white tee. Both hint at “sexy,” but I don’t care. I’m playing for keeps.
Andie gestures lazily to the blue set. “That one. It’s wholesome. Like you’re trying, but not trying to get arrested.”
“Fine.” I grab a bra—white, lacy, and most importantly, clean—and wriggle it on under the sweater.
My nipples pop through the thin fabric, and for a second, I wonder if it’s too much.
But then I remember who I’m seeing, and how he looked at me in class, and the thought turns the nerves in my stomach into something molten and fiery.
I shuck off my sweatpants and pull the skirt up over my hips. It’s short but still decent, and shows off my long legs. I check the mirror and suck in my tummy, then smooth my hair into a ponytail so high it’s almost satirical.
Andie makes a low whistle. “If you don’t get an A, I’ll eat a field hockey stick.”
I smile, finally. “Thanks, babe. If I’m not back by six, call the police.”
She grins. “You want a condom, or you want plausible deniability?”
“Surprise me,” I say, and stuff my phone and keys into my purse. The clock reads 1:34. I have twenty minutes to spare. My heart is pounding, my legs are shaking, but all I want is to walk into Thomas’s house and see if the rumors are true.
I spray perfume on my wrists—one, two, three, just in case—and take a deep breath.
Andie watches from her bed, her expression suddenly serious. “Hey. Be careful, okay?”
I give her a half-smile and a wave. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Andie pauses for a moment, weighing her answer, and tries again. “Well, like I said, you heard those stories, right? About Professor Thomas knocking up some girl? There might even have been more than one girl.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re the one who keeps telling me, Andie.”
She shrugs, suddenly unsure. “Yeah, but what if it’s, like, true? What if it’s not just rumors?”
I slip my hands up under my skirt, adjusting the waistband of my thong, and watch her watching me. “What’s the worst that happens? He gives me an F? I already have an F.”
“You could get hurt,” my friend says, and her voice is so honest it almost breaks my surface tension. “Not everyone’s as tough as they look, Simone.”
For a second, I almost feel the warning. Almost. But then the nerves in my stomach start spooling into something hot and bright, and the memory of Thomas’s stare—cool and furious, like a wolf sizing up a rabbit that might bite back—makes my thighs tighten in anticipation.
“It’s not a date,” I say in an even tone. “He’s just going to help me with my essay.”
Andie looks like she wants to say something but then gives up, flops back onto her pillow, and raises her hands in surrender. “Okay. But I’m keeping my ringer on, in case you need me to rescue you.”
I smile sweetly. “Who says I want to be rescued?”
She smiles back and giggles. “Noted, girlfriend. Have a good time and write a great essay.”
I slip out into the hallway, feeling every eye on my bare legs, every scuff of my shoes on the grimy dorm floor. The air outside is bright and cold and full of possibility.
I walk to the parking lot, each step louder than the last, my body tuned to the day like a wire about to snap.
I get in my car and drive, hands tight on the wheel, heart already ten miles ahead of me.