When class was finished, I tried to make a beeline for the exit, but Stanwick stopped me.
“Caterina?” she called from behind the lectern. Her voice was as uptight as her look, with her hair pulled up into a bun, small readers perched on her perfect nose, and a fitted suit hugging her lithe body.
“Yes?” Wary, I held in place, not wanting to approach.
“Come here, please,” she said as she beckoned me.
Taking my time, I trudged down the stairs to the front of the lecture hall as if I were walking the plank, and I sort of was. She’d probably seen me with Blane on Tuesday night, and wanted to make an issue of it.
“Caterina, who was that boy here earlier in the week? I called the paper and they said there was no such article, so naturally I was concerned. Fortunately, I saw the two of you leave together.”
“Um, I tripped and ran into him—”
“Enough of that. I know who he is. Remember, I have a son on this campus. That was Blane Steele, and I want to know how he knew where to find the movie seminar.”
“He was curious. I don’t know him well. I ran into him and it slipped out in conversation, and then he wanted all the details.” My mouth ran like verbal diarrhea, every last detail purging straight from my lips.
“I see. And when you left, what did he say?”
“Honestly, not much.”
She gave me the stink eye over her readers. “Caterina, I hope you’re not falling for that boy. I know the type, and no good can come from it. Especially for a girl like you.”
What the heck is that supposed to mean . . . a girl like me?
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Don’t get involved. I did once, and look what it got me. A son your age and no man to help, but this isn’t about me. You have brains and the power to stay on course. Stay focused, Catie. Don’t be a lamb going to slaughter. Don’t let him ruin your life.”
“I don’t like him like that, Professor Stanwick,” I lied. “We barely know each other. I appreciate you looking out for me, but I didn’t realize we were this close.”
She laughed, loudly and boldly. It rang throughout the now empty lecture hall. “I see everything that goes on in my class and my department. You are my business. I’m graduating future female leaders, not love-struck temptresses who date jocks.”
“Um . . .” Stunned, I lost my words. I couldn’t make a sentence if I tried.
“Besides, according to my son, Steele is off the market.”
“Yes, he certainly is. Thank you for the warning, but I’m all good.”
“You can go now, but know I’m watching, Caterina.”
And like that, I was dismissed.
I ran back to my room as fast as my short legs would allow, tore off my leggings and sweatshirt, pulled up my hair in a messy bun, wrapped myself in a towel, and hit the shower across the hall.
After a quick rinse off, I padded back to my room and dressed to go to the music fest. I put on jeans and ankle boots, hoisted my boobs into a navy racer-back bra, and slipped on a layered shirt—the bottom was a black camisole covered by red lace.
In front of my small mirror, I ran my fingers through my curls with a little bed-head solution. There was no way it was going to cooperate and lay flat, so I went for the opposite look. I dipped my finger into a few pots of eye shadow and made my eyes look smoky and sensual, and then lined them in black liner before adding a healthy dose of mascara.
Hey, I was from New Jersey, not Kansas.
I grew up on my mom blaring Springsteen and Bon Jovi, and I might be all about equality for women, but in my world . . . this was how women dressed. In fact, in high school, I’d secretly dreamed one of the Jonas Brothers picked me out of millions of girls who asked for any one of them to go to their prom. In reality, I went with Billy Reynolds as friends, but a girl can dream.
Sonny might be forcing me to stay behind the scenes, but I didn’t go out much and this was the music fest. It was a big deal in the middle of central Ohio where there was nothing to do, and it was something I could legally go to and have fun. There would be a roped-off area for legal drinkers, but the main drag, College Avenue, would be closed for everyone else to enjoy the music and food.
As a final touch, I spritzed myself with Marc Jacobs Water Perfume, a Christmas gift from Clara. Then I grabbed my backpack purse and went to meet Tess.
As I approached her door, she stepped out in worn and ragged skinny jeans, a tight white long-sleeved T-shirt that emphasized her cleavage, an Army-green jacket left open, and high-topped Chucks. Her hair was a wild blond mane. She looked like Manhattan, which was where she came from, the Upper West Side. Her parents were new money, but she tried to look like sexy grunge.
“Hey, girl! Look at you,” she said with pink-glossed lips.
I touched my own lips and realized I forgot lipstick.
“Wait! I have the perfect color for you,” Tess said without missing a beat. She opened her door and came back with a tube of fire-engine red lipstick.