“Three hours isn’t that far,” his mother said. “And this will be good for you. To learn from an actual college professor? It’s pretty cool.” She grinned.
“Um, sure.” Mattie tried to be positive. He did. But how was he supposed to? Everyone he knew was at home, spending their summer on the lake. Including Derrick. Who was to say Derrick wouldn’t just forget him? Who was to say he hadn’t already?
Who was to say Mattie didn’t deserve it?
Mattie swallowed hard. He knew was kind of being a jerk. Sure, he had to take another stupid psych course, but he got to spend his summer in a mansion so big, it had actual wings. And there was a butler to open the door, and a whole team of maids came three times a week.
Things could be worse.
But still . . .
Mattie’s shoulders tensed.
His mom gave him a little squeeze on the arm and disappeared into the bedroom.
In his pocket, his phone vibrated. He pulled it out. A text from his dad: Have fun!
Mattie texted him back, and noticed a red 1 notification on his Facebook app. He opened it, and the first thing he saw was Derrick. As in his boyfriend, Derrick.
The next thing he saw was Aaron Rodriguez. (Who happened to be Derrick’s ex.) Derrick’s ex who definitely wanted him back. It was obvious, the way he was always following him around and sending him Snapchats of his stupid bull terrier (but hopefully nothing else).
The third thing he saw was Aaron’s arm. Which was firmly around Derrick’s shoulders.
We’re just friends, Derrick had promised. Aaron’s totally harmless.
Mattie sucked in his breath, and suddenly his chest hurt. If he’d never cheated on that test, he’d be home. And he’d know.
Kinley
Friday, June 5
Week one.
Third class.
Professor: tough, but fair. But really, really tough.
Chances of me getting an A: 100%
“What are you writing?”
Kinley jumped, just slightly. Tyler Green—who everyone he had ever met knew was bad news—was talking to her.
People didn’t talk to her. They just . . . didn’t.
Especially boy people.
She covered her paper with her hand, and she felt her face heat up. “Um. Nothing.”
Tyler winked. “Let me see. I won’t tell.”
“I would,” she said, “but see . . . you’d have to be able to read to understand.” She shrugged and shut her notebook. “Sorry.”
Tyler laughed. “You’re sort of funny for a narc.”
Kinley lifted a shoulder. Everyone said she was a narc, ever since the time she ratted on the middle school point guard for smoking weed on school grounds. But she didn’t care. Kinley just did what everyone else was scared to do, and what was wrong with that?
She was always prepared to go further than everyone else. Always.
That was why she was here early. She wanted to get some face time with Dr. Stratford before class started again. The first couple of classes . . . well, Dr. Stratford clearly didn’t understand who she was. He treated her like everyone else—with disdain, stopping just short of pure hatred.
He needed to realize.
She was the best student. Always. In every class.
She was Kinley Phillips. She had a reputation. A good reputation.
But Dr. Stratford was nowhere to be found. The only person she was getting face time with was Tyler Green, resident burnout. The kind of guy who did not give girls good reputations.
“Why are you in this class, anyway?”
Tyler flipped a yellow number two pencil through his fingers. “Trying to make up some credit.” He shrugged. “I need to graduate.”
Kinley raised her eyebrows. They made a crooked line across her forehead. “You’re still eligible to graduate?”
Tyler smirked. “I’m not stupid. I’m a delinquent.”
“There’s a difference?”
Kinley felt daring all of a sudden. She was talking to a guy. An actual guy. She was almost flirting.
She had never done that before. It wasn’t exactly in line with her goals.
Tyler put the very tip of the eraser in his mouth. “Obviously. Stupid is easy. Delinquency . . . is an art. It’s all about the things you do wrong versus the things you’re caught doing wrong.”
Kinley’s lips pursed. It made an odd sort of sense, actually.
Around them, the other students started to file in. Because it was a course that could be taken for college credit, they’d been assigned one of the larger classrooms—one that could fit almost forty students. The administration had assumed that a college-level course would attract a few more students looking to pad their applications. With the added fact that the class was taught at the high school, thirty minutes away from the college campus, it was a win-win.
Almost.
There was a catch: it was a Stratford class. Everyone knew about Stratford, which meant only fifteen students had actually signed up.
Fifteen brave, stupid souls.
One—a tiny, mousy girl Dr. Stratford had picked on—hadn’t shown up since the first day.
So fourteen. Fourteen total students.
Hardly any competition for Kinley Phillips.