1
Charlotte
“Wakey, wakey sunshine!” a chipper voice says from above, throwing the bedcovers off of me.
I blearily open one eye and peer up at my best friend and roommate, Becca, who has a smile on her face that is way too cheery for this early in the morning. What in the world is she doing in my room at... I glance over at my bedside table to see seven forty-three displayed on my alarm clock. Wow, I rarely stay in bed that late. My eight a.m. class on Tuesdays and Thursdays means I can’t sleep till noon like most every other college student seems to, save Becca. She’s got more energy than she knows what to do with.
As I pull the covers back over my head to get just five more minutes of blessed rest, suddenly the reason for her waking me hits me like a ton of bricks.
“Oh my God!” I screech, sitting fully upright. “I’m going to be so late!”
I scramble out of bed and rush to the closet, desperate to find anything clean to wear.
“My Psych midterm is happening in fifteen minutes! I can’t believe I slept through my alarm. What is wrong with me?” I grab a shirt and jeans and stumble into the bathroom, where I attempt to brush my teeth and change my clothes simultaneously. It only ends with ruining a perfectly good shirt with a glob of toothpaste, though.
“I know, sweetie,” Becca says from the doorway. “That’s why I came in to wake you.” She gazes at me with a look of motherly affection, which I both appreciate and go slightly crazy from. Being the oldest of four, she can’t seem to get rid of that instinct to watch out for me, even though we’re the same age. An only child myself, I sometimes feel smothered by her attention, but on days like today, it can really come in handy.
“Why didn’t you wake me earlier then?” I catch notice of myself in the mirror briefly, eyes wild and slightly bloodshot. “You know how I get stressed out by exams.” I generally do well in my classes, but I’m a bad test taker. Something about knowing I only have a finite amount of time sets my nerves on edge. I’m infinitely better at writing papers, where I can take as long as I need.
“I think I understand what you asked, and thank you for spraying me with toothpaste, by the way,” she says, wiping the back of her hand across her face, even though there’s no way I got her from that distance. “I just got back from yoga and saw your bike was still by the door.” She comes over and arranges my hair in a messy bun while I swipe on deodorant. Her short, blonde bob, green eyes, and tanned skin are in direct contrast to my long, dark hair, brown eyes, and paleness. “Do you need me to give you a ride?”
“Yes, please, that would be amazing. It’s way too far to bike there in time.” I don’t have a car since we live so close to campus, which usually isn’t a problem. I can bicycle anywhere close by. But there’s no way I can make the twenty minute bike ride in time to Hawthorne Hall, the building where my Psych exam is taking place today.
“All right, well let’s get going, sweet thing!” she calls out as she spins around and heads to the door, bouncing on her heels. Maybe I need to start doing yoga with her if it gives me the same level of energy.
“I’m right behind you!” I rush back into my bedroom and grab my backpack, Psych notebook, and phone from my desk. I can squeeze in about five minutes of studying on the drive over. Obviously not as good as the half hour I had planned this morning for a final review of what should be on the exam, but I’ll take what I can get at this point.
Becca’s in the car by the time I make it outside, and she hightails it out of there as soon as I’m buckled up. I pour over my notes, trying to will the terms to stick to my brain, but all I can focus on is how mad I am at myself for sleeping in. I tossed and turned all night, worried about this exam, which must have been why I slept right through my alarm.
Intro to Psych is only an elective for me, but I still need to maintain a B average to keep my scholarship. Without it, I won’t be able to attend Suncoast University full time, and I already know I have a big chunk of my foreseeable future left in education if I plan to go to grad school to get my Ph.D. in Literature when I graduate in two years.
We pull up to Hawthorne Hall, and I jump out of the passenger seat, yelling, “Thank you! Pizza’s on me tonight,” as I start running toward the lecture hall. I glance at my phone and the display reads five after eight. Hopefully, Dr. Novik isn’t a crazy stickler for time and will have mercy on my poor soul for being just a few minutes late. I’ve heard of professors who lock the doors during big exams, and if you’re not there when it starts, oh well, you fail.
I slow down as I approach the room and feign calm as I walk into the nearly silent auditorium, hundreds of students hunched over their desks, the sound of pencils scribbling against paper filling my ears. I approach one of the teaching assistants, prepared to give him a fake sob story about how I was in a terrible car accident or my beloved grandmother died just this morning. Anything to make him pity me enough to let me take the exam, even though I’m late. To my relief, he doesn’t seem to care.
“Student I.D.?” he asks in a bored voice.
“Oh yeah, I have it here, hold on.” I rummage around in my backpack until I find my wallet. Pulling out my card, I hand it to him and he gives it a quick glance before looking back up at me.
“Charlotte Turner?” His monotone is killing me.
“That’s me.” I smile nervously, suddenly afraid he won’t believe it’s me. Does that actually ever happen at these exams?
But all he does is hand over the exam papers and scantron, telling me to go find a seat. I rush to the first empty one I find, not wanting to waste any more time searching for a spot in the back of the lecture hall where I normally sit. I pull a pencil out of the bottom of my bag, thanking past Charlotte for having the foresight to pack one. As I settle in, prepared to begin, I finally take stock of my surroundings and notice the guy sitting to my left.
Oh my God, it’s him. The guy I’ve been looking at twice a week for the last two and a half months. I have no idea what his name is, but my eyes are drawn to him every class period. I tell myself it’s just because he sits in the front row near the teacher, so I can’t help but see him, but I can still hardly ever pull my gaze away. The way his broad shoulders stretch the material of his t-shirt tight across his back when he leans forward in his seat makes me long to run my hands along his muscles as they go taut. The way his biceps pop when he stretches his arms up and links his hands behind his head has me licking my lips. The way his glossy golden brown hair catches the light as he runs his fingers through it makes me wish it was my hand instead. He has an air of confidence and surety around him that I’m drawn to.
The features I always spot from the back of the classroom look even better up close, and now I can notice so much more. I spot the light dusting of hair on his forearms that are thick with corded muscle out of the corner of my eye. I listen to the rasp of the stubble on his face as he scratches his chin. Leaning a little to my left, I smell a woodsy, masculine scent coming from him that makes me want to get closer and inhale. Even the way he grips his pencil accentuates how big his hands are, with long, dexterous fingers I imagine on me, trailing across my skin.