College Ruled

seven

| 07 |
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SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY is filled with undecided Freshman, overloaded upperclassmen trying to fill an easy slot, and any and all students looking for easy A's. It's one of the reasons I signed up for it—to check off another elective that I don't have to think too much about.

      That was the plan, anyway.

      It was heavily falsely advertised by my academic advisor because I'm barely holding onto my seventy-nine percent.

      At the front of the lecture hall, Professor Barlowe is hunched over his MacBook, spewing soft-spoken curses toward whatever he's working on. Yasmine and Wren, the two girls who sit in the back of the class whispering and sharing everything from earphones, homework, and crunchy potato chips, lean into the standing grey desk in front of Barlowe and giggle about the kayaking trip he mentioned he was taking this past weekend.

      I weave my way to my usual spot—second row, last seat—and throw myself down next to quiet Kenzie, avoiding the feeling of Barlowe's tracking azure gaze (or more accurately, glare). Kenzie doesn't even glance my way when I drop my backpack next to her jittery, Van-covered foot.

      Twenty minutes into the lecture, right when Barlowe's about to hand out the quiz for the day, the door to the hall creaks open. Grayson Katz grazes inside, all lazy strides and plastered on smile, and beelines right to the seat in front of me.

      Like always.

      Barlowe doesn't so much as blink. I was late once this semester—the first week—and he practically bristled when I dared to interrupt his oh-so-urgent ramblings of the class syllabus. But hey, I'm just me. And I don't bring the school any bragging rights.

        Grayson collapses into his seat and leans down to grab something from his bag. He reaches a hand up to graze the back of his neck, his long, slender fingers fluffing into the ends of his tousled hair. He taps a pen against desk surface —once, twice, three times— and then he's shifting, turning—

        Don't do it.

        "Remedy, right?"

        And maybe—before—his memory had just been that bad. Maybe my face really is as forgettable as I figure, and maybe there were just too many names inside of his head for him to remember mine.

        But now he knows. Gone is the artificially innocent, boyish grin—the peaked eyebrows that always seemed a little... unsure. Now, there's an unyielding gleam swimming in his eyes. An icy sparkle that pierces and rolls with every shallow blink.

       Now, he knows just how much this pisses me off.

       My hand tightens around my mechanical pencil, and I grit my teeth. Don't let him win. "That's me." I shove a smile at him so intoxicatingly sweet (at least, I hope) he could choke on it.

    I catch the amused tremble of his lips when he moves to face back toward the front.

    But then, because my mouth has a mind of its own, I whisper a hissed, "Asshole" at the back of his turned head.

    And his shoulders shake with a short-winded, silent laugh.

    Barlowe clears his throat, and I stiffen as his eyes wander over the two of us. Damn those eyes; they see everything, and I'm always the one that takes most of the heat.