A female who was the brunette equivalent to Amy turned her head from the group of girls who looked like they were dressed for some high-fashion magazine photo shoot. Wasn’t I in Oregon, home of Birkenstocks and polar fleece? My jeans, sneakers and plainness were clearly going to stick out here as much as they had back home.
“Come help me get the new girl situated. You can catch up on your daily gossip later.”
“Really, I’ll be alright,” I said, dreading being sandwiched in a tiny dorm room with her and her friend.
Amy raised her hand at my face, silencing me, before turning to Paul. “You can’t afford to miss Organic Chem if you want to pass the MCAT’s this spring.”
Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I can skip.”
“Don’t be silly,” Amy interrupted, grabbing the box he had in his hands. She pinched it with the tips of her fingers and curled her nose. “This way Bryn will have a chance to make a couple new girlfriends.”
Paul’s eyebrows peaked; mine followed suit.
“Grab a box, Mel,” she instructed, once her friend sauntered her way to us. Amy shoved Paul with her hip. “Off you go.”
“Alright, alright” he said, taking a step back and looking at me as if still undecided. “I’ll catch up with you later, Bryn.”
“Okay,” I said, knowing the only time I’d see him again would be in passing. Guys like Paul didn’t seek me out. They avoided me like ordinary was contagious. “Thanks for saving me from this nasty curb,” I said, stubbing my foot against it.
“Anytime,” he said, making an exaggerated bow. “At your service.”
Amy rolled her eyes, her back now to Paul.
I pretended not to notice and headed over to the passenger side to pull out another box. When I turned around, Amy was right in my face, her eyes sparking with anger. She took a step forward and crossed her arms. “You must think you’re so clever.”
My face contorted with its confusion. I didn’t understand how I’d offended this girl so much just by showing up today. She couldn’t possibly think I was a competitor in the dating arena she traversed. She was a ten, I was a five . . . maybe a six on a good day.
“It takes a heck of a lot more than some lousy damsel in distress act to hook Paul Lowe.”
I was too bewildered to respond, but something told me she wasn’t interested in whatever my response would have been.
“Take a number and get it line,” she sneered, her eyes narrowing into slits before she dropped my box at my feet.
“Like the rest of us.” Melanie giggled. Amy spun on her heel and grabbed her friend’s hand as they marched off together, leaving behind their warm welcome.
“Thanks for the advice,” I whispered, stooping down to pick up the box, reminding myself that I wasn’t here to make friends.
I was here because I’d stood over an atlas of the United States that last night in my Ivy League dorm room, and with my eyes closed, crashed my finger down on some fortuitous location. When I opened my eyes, I found my index finger crushing the state of Oregon, right over the top of Corvallis, home of the OSU Beavers.
I was here to waste away a few years of my life, until I had to go onto something else where I would waste away a few more years. This was all just some crappy cover—I already knew who I was and what I’d done. I didn’t need the whole college experience to better define me.
CHAPTER TWO
WILLIAM
Professor Roberts slid last week’s quiz facedown and patted my desk, as if trying to ease the shame of the grade circled in red pen. If I was lucky it would be a D, but since I was never lucky, it was likely an F; F for flunking, failure, forget-about-law-school.
I’d squeaked through winter quarter an eighth of a grade point above academic probation, but only two weeks into spring quarter, I doubted I’d make it another two before having my student file tagged with the dreaded term. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“You’re on the Welcome Wagon Committee, right?” Professor Roberts asked, drawing my attention from the quiz where I was still debating if I should turn it over to inspect the damage.
“Yep,” I answered automatically. I was on every and any committee, team, group, or club that would have me. I was desperate to fill every waking second with something to keep my thoughts from wandering to that night nearly six months back, and since my academic aptitude had taken an extended vacation, I’d signed up for three intramural teams with varying degrees of a ball and racket, an outreach program for disadvantaged children at a local elementary school, chess club (I didn’t know how to play and was the only female, but the guys at least didn’t treat me like I was a mutated form of the bubonic plague), and I mucked out stalls twice a week at a local horse rescue shelter.
“I was just assigned a new student who is starting next week and requested a tour of the campus.” Professor Roberts was my academic advisor too, although since he hadn’t even known how many credits it took to graduate when I’d ask him, I’d consider the title advisor a stretch.
“No problem,” I said, shoving my quiz in my bag without peeking at the grade. If I didn’t look, I could live in a state of denial that I’d outdone myself by earning a C. “I’ve got Monday afternoon open.”
“Actually,”—he cleared his throat—“the student requested the tour for this evening.”
I stood up and swung my bag over my shoulder. “It’s Friday, there’s three dozen parties taking place tonight if the new student wants to get a feel for college life at OSU.” I, however, hadn’t taken part in any of these college rites of passage yet. I was a bonafide freak-of-nature by my college-aged peer’s standards. “I’m sure it’s not that big of a deal if we wait until Monday.” I was irked someone would think they were so important to need a tour on a Friday night with a few hours notice, and even more irked I didn’t have anything planned to have an excuse to fall back on.