I chuckled dismissively. “You don’t even know me.”
“Sure I do. I know that you’re strong. That you’re resilient. That you’re smart—probably smarter than both Brett and me. You’re obviously beautiful.” He reached over to tug my ponytail. “And I know that you’re coming to my party on Saturday with me.”
The butterflies were back, though they were flying now as though they had pebbles for wings. This was everything I’d wanted, everything I’d hoped for. A date with Weston King. And all the murky, confusing feelings going on inside right now were probably just related to going to The Keep for the first time since Theo.
Yeah, that had to be it.
So. Smile. Nod. “I guess you do know me after all.”
But how could he when I was only just starting to figure me out for myself?
Five
Audrey: Dad won’t make stuffing if you aren’t here.
Me: Then make the stuffing yourself.
I moved my eyes from the chat box in the corner of my computer screen back to the Excel spreadsheet I was working on for Statistics. It was early Thursday afternoon, two days before Weston’s party, one day after he’d invited me to go with him, and I was still vacillating between so many emotions about it that all I felt now was anxious. My sister’s efforts to try and get me to buy a last minute flight home for Thanksgiving were not helping.
Another message popped up.
Audrey: But I don’t know hoowwww!!!!
Like a true teenager, my sister was as dramatic in her chats as she was in any conversation.
Me: You’re 13. Stove Top is cinch.
Audrey: But who’s going to put olives on their fingers and make olive monsters with me?
A notification showed up on the top of my laptop saying I had a new item in the Academic Portal.
Me: Put olives on Bambi.
Okay, Bambi was the dog. But seriously. I had homework to do. And homework to follow up on.
I clicked over to the Academic Portal and found that the new addition was to my Intro to Business Ethics folder. My corporate strategy and ethics awareness assignment that Donovan had said would be up this week. I opened up the scores and grades document and waited for it to load.
Audrey: Very funny. Come hommmmmeeee!!!!
Me: Aren’t you in class right now or something?
I hit return and then froze. There, on my screen where my A should be there was a big fat F.
No way.
Not possible.
I’d never gotten an F in my life.
I opened up the remarks for details. Student’s conclusions disregard the corporation’s economic responsibilities to its stockholders. Student speaks of moral high ground with poetic sentiment without considering how suggested actions will be funded. The student does not have a firm grasp of the concept of corporate strategy.
Goddamn, Donovan.
All I could see was red. I understood the concept of corporate strategy. It was Donovan who couldn’t understand the concept of an opposing opinion.
And this wasn’t just my pride hurt. This counted for more than half the class grade. I wouldn’t be able to get higher than a D if this wasn’t changed and my scholarship required a B average.
No. Whatever beef Donovan had with me, he couldn’t fuck with my grades.
Within a couple of minutes I’d looked up Velasquez’s office hours and found that he should be available for another hour. The weather was great for November—there hadn’t been any recent snow. I could make it if I hurried. If he looked over it, I was certain he’d see that my paper deserved to be re-graded and that Donovan was a fucking asshole.
The chat window dinged again.
Audrey: It’s study period.
Me: I have to talk to you later, Audrey.
I closed my laptop and headed across campus to fight for my grade.
Thirty-five minutes later, I stood outside Velasquez’s office. I’d tried to calm myself down on the walk over so that I could present all my points rationally to my teacher, but instead, I’d just gotten more worked up. The paper had been fifteen pages long. I should have gotten a C just for turning in the required length. As for my disregard to shareholders—I’d attached a detailed financial plan. If my math had been wrong, that should account for a point or two, but not entire letter grades.
It was obvious this wasn’t about my work—this was about Donovan. Why was he doing this to me? Part of me wondered if I should be going to The Keep instead, if it should be his door I should be banging on.
No. I wasn’t playing games. Velasquez would fix my grade and if Donovan got in trouble for giving me a bad score then he deserved it.
The door was closed, but I could see the light on through the frosted glass. I knocked and bounced my hip impatiently while I waited for my professor to respond.
“It’s open.”
I turned the knob and stepped into the office. It was the size of a shoebox, lined with mismatched library-style bookcases, so cramped that the door wouldn’t open all the way, and I had to shut it behind me to see Velasquez’s desk.
Then, fuck, it was Donovan sitting behind it in his place.
Goddammit all to hell.
The son of a bitch didn’t even look up from his laptop. “How can I help you, Sabrina?”
My hands were shaking. I stuffed them into my coat pockets. I couldn’t talk to Donovan. Not like this. Not when he’d already written me off. “Where’s Velasquez?”
“You have to schedule an appointment to see him.” His dress shirt was crisp white and his muscles bulged tightly against the fabric.
I’m not looking at him. “I’d like to do that then.”
“You can schedule online through the portal.”
Jesus. Of course.
I put my hand on the doorknob, ready to leave.
“He’s here on Fridays at three,” Donovan said to my back.
I did a mental scan of my schedule. “I have class then.”
“Then you’ll have to skip class. Or you’ll have to talk to me.” Finally, he looked up at me—caught me, caged me with those sharp, piercing eyes. “What can I help you with, Sabrina?”
I didn’t want to talk to him. And I didn’t want to leave.
“My grade,” I said.
He cocked his head, as if he had no idea what I meant, that asshole motherfucker. “What about it?”
Anger gave me courage. I pulled my hands out of my pockets and stepped toward him. “It’s not fair, and you know it. I understand that you don’t agree with my conclusions, but my reasoning was fair and sound, and I referenced many credible and reliable sources—”
He nodded to the chair facing the desk. “Sit down, Sabrina. You’re awfully worked up.”
He didn’t even ask me to sit. He told me. It was patronizing and infuriating. “I’d like to stand.” I was getting hot, though. I unbuckled my pea coat and threw it on the chair instead. “My paper was not ‘F’ work.”
He nodded and ticked his jaw a couple times as though considering. After a beat, he said, “I care to differ.”
“This is not subjective!” I yelled.