“Yes?” I say, although I already know exactly what he’s about to say.
“Would you mind taking notes again? You’re so good at it.”
I force myself to return his smile and click open my pen.
For the next forty minutes, Kinnear drones on about term dates and lesson plans and the orientation of new students (which ones, I wonder, will he try to fuck this year?). I write as he talks, filling the lines of my notebook with impeccable cursive. I chose my seat at the back corner of the table carefully, so no one can look over my shoulder and see what I’m writing, not even Drew.
Because I’m not just writing meeting notes. I’m jotting down dates, times, and places and events where Kinnear mentions he’ll be. Weaknesses I can exploit, ways I might be able to get him alone, humiliate him, make him suffer, make him scream.
Now that Tyler’s dead, it’s time to turn my attention to my next target. And unlucky for Dr. Kinnear, he’s risen to the very top of my list.
4 CARLY
I creep through the darkened room, trying not to make a sound.
My first class on Mondays is early—well, too early for Allison anyway, and I’m doing my best not to wake her. Even asleep, she looks glamorous, her hair splayed artfully across the pillow. I sleep in faded plaid pants and an oversize T-shirt, but Allison wears a satin nightgown to bed every night.
I slip off my pajamas and replace them with a pair of jeans as quickly as possible, then wrangle my bra on without fully removing my shirt. I still feel weird getting dressed with someone else in the room, even if that someone is unconscious. Our schedules seem to be totally opposite, so Allison and I have barely spoken since move-in day. I’m in bed by ten, just like back home, while she stays up way past midnight, studying by the soft glow of the string lights wound around her headboard.
As I’m zipping up my backpack, Allison shifts positions with a soft sigh. Her nightgown slides down to reveal the tops of her breasts, and suddenly it seems as bright as midday in here. I avert my eyes, hurrying toward the door.
It isn’t until I’m halfway across the lawn that I realize I forgot to put on my hoodie. I had it laid out on the bed and everything: my favorite one, the black fabric faded to dark gray with too much washing, ragged holes in the sleeves where my thumbs poke through.
I’m still early enough I could go back for it. But I don’t want to disturb Allison. I hunch my shoulders so my backpack straps almost touch my earlobes, hugging myself as I continue my trek into the heart of campus. Whitten—or “Whit,” as everyone seems to call it—is right at the edge of Gorman, near the woods that border the university’s property. It’s a bit of a walk to get to class or the dining hall, but at least it’s nice and quiet.
Campus is nearly silent at this time of the morning. There are only a few other students in the Oak Grove: a group of boys in running gear stretching on the steps of the library and two girls sharing a steaming cup of coffee on one of the squat red benches lining the path. Everything here seems to be red: the school’s official color is crimson, and most of the buildings are the same red brick as Whitten.
This morning’s class is the only one in my schedule I haven’t attended yet: a Monday writing seminar that didn’t meet the first week of the semester because of Labor Day. It’s in Miller Hall, the same building as all my other English classes. Miller is red brick like the rest, but with a sloping slate roof and charming arched windowpanes. I’ve heard other students complain about how musty it is in comparison to the newer construction buildings on campus, but I love it. It feels like an old schoolhouse, right down to the wooden desks with decades of carvings from former students.
I have to wander the halls for a while before I find the right room number, and even then I’m not sure I’m in the right place. This doesn’t look like a classroom. The space is tiny, made even smaller by the bookshelves lining the walls and the brown loveseat sitting in the corner, and there aren’t even any desks, just a bunch of folding chairs set up in an uneven circle. A few of them are already occupied, though, by a dark-haired girl with purple glasses and a severe pixie cut, a tall guy in an argyle cardigan sweater, and—
Shit. Not only is Allison’s boyfriend here, he’s smiling at me. Once I make the mistake of meeting his eyes, Wes scoots his bag away from the chair next to him.
I pretend not to notice his gesture of goodwill and take the seat farthest away from him instead (which isn’t very far, anyway, in this cramped room). Now I’m overheated, sweat gathering between my shoulder blades as more students fill in the circle. I don’t know what I’m so freaked out about; Wes seems like a nice enough guy. And Allison doesn’t seem like the type to get jealous if another girl talks to her boyfriend, the way my dad does when my mom speaks to any man who isn’t him.
As if someone like Allison could ever be jealous of someone like me.
The sound of furniture legs screeching against the floor startles me to attention. A young man with sandy-blond hair picks up the last empty chair and flips it around so the back faces into the circle.
“I think this is all of us,” he says, “so why don’t we get started?”
This is the professor? He barely looks older than we are. He sits astride the turned-around chair and pushes his rectangular black glasses higher on his nose.
“Okay!” he says. “Well, welcome, everyone. Those of you who’ve taken my classes before know I like to keep things casual, so please call me Alex, none of that ‘Doctor’ or ‘Professor’ stuff. Some of us are already acquainted, but let’s go around the circle and introduce ourselves anyway.”
He looks over at Wes. “Mr. Stewart, you want to kick us off?”
“Sure.” As he looks up to address the class, Wes’s gaze catches on me again. “I’m Wes Stewart, junior, English/theater double major. From Indiana originally.”
That means Allison must be from Indiana too. I knew they went to high school together because Allison has their prom photo tacked up above her desk, Wes standing behind her with his hands on the waist of her spangled velvet dress.
The introductions continue around the circle. I barely hear them; I’m too nervous about mine. I rub my sweaty palms against the faded denim on my thighs, but it doesn’t seem to help any. When it’s finally my turn, there’s an awkward pause that’s probably only a second or two but feels like an eternity. I swallow and force myself to speak.
“I’m, um, Carly Schiller. I’m a freshman. Also majoring in English.”
“You’re a freshman?” the girl with the purple glasses asks. She looks to Alex, her mouth twisting sourly. “I thought this was an advanced seminar.”
“The writing samples in Ms. Schiller’s application impressed me so much,” Alex says, “I made an exception. We’re very glad to have you here, Carly.”
His smile is so sincere, I think I might be sick. I try to smile back and mumble something that sounds like thank you, but I can barely hear myself over the roar of blood in my ears.
Alex spends the rest of the period going over how the course is structured—required reading, how grades will be assigned, the daily journal we’re supposed to keep in addition to our weekly writing assignments. Despite my detailed notes, my head is spinning. Maybe that girl is right; I don’t belong here.