Chapter 5 Clover
Clover
I make it to Mariner Hall for my Intro to World Lit class with two minutes to spare, which means the only seats left are in the front row.
After Mom lost her job and I switched over to public school, I had no interest in building social circles.
The only thing I spent my time building was my college application, taking as many honors and dual credit courses as possible, so I’m able to jump right over first-year English classes.
Even though it’s only a year’s difference, I feel like the youngest, most inexperienced person in this lecture hall. Because I am. Of course, sitting in the front row by myself like an eager little teacher’s pet who is awestruck by her surroundings isn’t helping anything.
But I’ve wanted to be here at Wexley for so long, and now it’s finally a reality.
Haystack Hall may be the oldest dorm on campus, but Mariner is the oldest academic building, and according to the campus tour I took in the spring, the ceiling beams are rumored to be from a shipwreck found just below the bluff.
It’s the sort of place that makes you feel like you’re in another time and another world, and it is one of the reasons I fell in love with Wexley.
The building has a large courtyard in the middle and the first time I visited here with Bennett and his mom, Sydney, during an alumni weekend, she told us a ghost story about the basement.
Supposedly it’s haunted by Beatrix Hallowell, one of Wexley’s founders.
The story goes that one day she walked into Mariner Hall and was never seen again.
It was love at first ghost story for me.
After world lit, I have a break until pottery, which I am dreading.
Growing up, I was around money. I had expensive things.
We lived in a stunning guesthouse just behind the Graves family home.
Mom drove nice cars thanks to her job as the live-in personal assistant to Sydney Graves.
I went to a prestigious school. All those things cost money. Money that was never really ours.
So, I am here at Wexley University to get a degree that can make money. My own money.
I wish I had the brain for engineering or computer science.
Both prelaw and premed seemed like a circle jerk of ego stroking, so those are out too.
However, after living around Sydney Graves for most of my life, I learned that rich people are happy to make money with almost anyone.
But they only trust a select few to handle that money, and that trust comes at a price.
When my adviser saw my stacked course schedule, she encouraged me to hold off on economics until next semester in favor of knocking out an elective. With my work schedule and other classes already firmed up, my options were limited to Intro to Theater and Pottery 1.
After taking advantage of my pricey meal plan and grabbing a sandwich at the cafeteria, I get to class early to claim a seat at the back of the room, which has rows of tall tables and stools.
The class, housed on the third floor of Bachrach, fills in quickly when a herd of art majors file in looking exactly like … well, art majors.
Just before the professor—an older woman with long gray hair pulled back into an intricate braid—closes the door, a tall golden retriever of a boy steps inside and seats himself directly next to me. He is also very hot.
“You look as uncomfortable as I feel,” he says.
“Oh, um, I sort of got forced into this class.”
“Elective?”
I nod. “It’s my first semester, and my adviser didn’t make taking an elective feel very … elective.”
Golden retriever boy grins, his chin dipping down as he laughs quietly. “Yeah, it’s like they want us to be well rounded or something.”
My stomach flutters at his easy charm. What can I say? I’m living with Bennett. The bar is low.
He is an overgrown Ken doll but with warm chestnut eyes instead of blue, a square jaw, and an open smile.
The only things he has with him are a beat-up notebook and golf pencil.
He is clearly the kind of guy who is completely unconcerned with making himself unnoticeable even as he strides into class nearly late on the first day.
His stool is a little too close to mine, and normally I would find the manspreading and the constant brushing of his elbow invasive.
But he’s watching me with this loose smile that makes me feel like we’re old friends, and the golf pencil does make me laugh.
“We should make some sort of pact,” he says.
“What were you thinking?” I whisper as the professor begins to pull up the syllabus on her screen.
“You stop me from getting brainwashed into an art major, and I’ll do the same for you.”
“A united front,” I say.
“Exactly.” He grins and wags my hand up and down before giving me a sly little wink.
For the rest of the class, my tablemate mutters commentary under his breath, and I have to cover my mouth several times to hide my smile, especially when the pottery examples we are shown take a turn for the phallic.
After class, my neighbor steps in front of me and holds a hand out to help me up.
Like everyone else in my life, he is tall.
I can’t really say how tall because when you’re short, there is a single binary: eye level and definitely not eye level.
But he’s probably close to Bennett’s height. “I’m Tate, by the way.”
“Clover,” I tell him.
“That’s a good name,” Tate says, and then his expression lights up. “Have I seen you at the Cannon Beach Country Club before?”
I opt for a noncommittal shrug. “Years ago, maybe.”
He nods to himself. “I went to a boarding school back East, but I’m sure I saw you there during the summer or something.”
Tate hands me his phone with a blank contact form open.
“In case you’re having a moment of weakness and need someone to talk you off a ledge before you change your major to performance art or comparative textiles.
” He has a smooth sort of confidence that flows so easily I don’t even realize he’s successfully asked for my number without even posing the question.
I fill in my name and number before passing his phone back, and his fingers wrap around mine, warm and firm, before the moment is gone.
He winks and then calls back to me as we part ways, “See you soon, Clover.”
After class, I find a missed call from my mom and decide to call her back.
“Hey, you,” she says on the second ring. “I’m just walking back in from my lunch break but wanted to see how your first day was going.”
“Well, I haven’t failed anything yet.”
“That’s my girl!”
I snort and the very cool, hot girl passing by me looks at me like I’m contagious. “I’ll let you get back to work,” I say more quietly. “Nothing to report here.”
“Okay, all right,” she tells me. “I get it. You got college-girl shit to do, but I just wanted to—we didn’t really talk about this before you left, but you know Benny is at Wexley, right?”
“Oh.” Uh, yeah, if she only knew he was living in my dorm.
“I don’t want you to be caught off guard is all.”
I want to tell her. She would be upset … confused, even. I don’t think she would be mad. But this will all be in the past the moment the semester is over. “Thanks.”
We say our goodbyes and by the time I hang up, I’m nearly back to Haystack.
Even though Bennett sort of trapped me into going to the dorm orientation, I am a little bit excited.
However, as I walk into the common room, I truly regret cornering Bennett into showing up because my brain conveniently forgot that we would be forced to keep this charade going in front of the entire floor. But I hold out hope that he will flake.
As promised, Daisy collects me from my room a few minutes before, and Briar drags her body behind us.
In the common room, there are three seats left: two together and one by itself.
It feels weird to split up the two roommates, so I head off to sit by myself next to a crowd who are all dressed like Adam Sandler and reek of weed.
The room is filled with mismatched couches, a few random armchairs, and old wooden folding chairs that look like they survived World War II.
On the walls are things like Wexley felt pennants, informational posters, and a few framed photos of the school mascot over the years, the fighting bear.
Directly above the older television—in a place of pride—is one piece of sketch paper tacked to the wall, edges curling, with an impressively hand-drawn and very muscular bear with huge balls.
School spirit, it would seem, is alive and well.
Dylan the RA walks in looking like a brooding snack.
He hops up on the counter and just waits for people to shut the hell up with this bored expression on his face.
He’s the kind of guy who can do that. Like when a teacher feels a class is getting rowdy and they stand at the front of the room with their arms crossed until each student one by one realizes they’re all in trouble.
A hush rolls through the crowd, except for the guy behind me who is quoting lines from some old Will Ferrell movie. Someone swats the back of his head just as Bennett jogs in, his hair a little damp, wearing workout shorts and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
Every girl on the floor plus a few guys are practically drooling as he flashes a dimpled smile and a shy wave. Shy, my ass.
They’re all crestfallen as he strolls across the circle to me and plants a kiss on my cheek.
The absolute rage I feel at the innocent touch burns. He’s technically doing me a favor. At the cost of my pride, sure. But I still have to remind myself. He is doing me a favor. He is doing me a favor.
“We’re all out of chairs,” Dylan says. “You’ll have to take the floor or stand against the wall.”
“Sorry about that,” I tell him with a sweet smile.