Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Andie’s got on a headband with pink cat ears—finals week tradition—and her eyes are ringed in purple glitter, even though her face says she hasn’t slept in days. She’s nibbling the end of a mechanical pencil, staring at the text in front of her like it’s written in Klingon.
“You’re sure it’s a metaphor for race?” she asks, voice barely more than a ghost.
I tap the page in her Norton anthology. “Faulkner doesn’t do anything on accident, And. The cypress trees are literally imported, and the soil’s all wrong, so they can’t take root. Just like—” I flick the page again. “Just like the characters.”
She sets down her pencil. “Okay, but explain it again. Slow. Like you’re talking to a five-year-old.”
I smile and lean in, lowering my voice. “The point isn’t that they’re out of place. It’s that they know it, and they keep trying anyway. Faulkner wants you to see them as tragic, but also as stubborn as hell. It’s a kind of—” I pause, searching for the word. “—grace? Even in failure.”
Andie’s mouth drops open just a little, the way it does when she’s actually impressed. “Holy shit, Simone. Are you sure you didn’t hire someone to take over your brain?”
“Just sold my soul to Satan,” I whisper, rolling my eyes. “He does thesis statements, too.”
She cackles, then drops her voice. “Seriously, though. I don’t get it. Just recently, you could barely keep your eyes open in class, and now you’re, like, a Faulkner whisperer. What happened? Is it the gluten-free diet? The new vitamins?”
I smirk, twirling my pen. “Private tutoring,” I say, letting the syllables drag out.
Her eyes get wide, then she dissolves into a giggle fit that draws angry shushing from a nearby grad student. “You’re the worst,” she whispers. “Are you seeing him again tonight?”
I shake my head, feeling my cheeks flush hot. “He’s got a faculty meeting. Plus, we agreed to keep it on the down-low.”
Andie arches an eyebrow. “You’ve said that, like, twelve times and yet somehow you’re always glowing after lit class.”
I shoot her a look, but she’s not wrong. I am glowing. I feel it in the marrow, in the crackle of every nerve, in the way I can see through even the most dense assigned reading as if it’s been translated just for me. Like everything makes sense for the first time ever. The world is the same, but I am not.
We settle back to our books, the only sounds the steady turning of pages, the low hum of the ancient heating system, and the occasional expletive as Andie’s pencil lead snaps. I lose myself in the text, highlighter gliding neon arcs across the margin, words sparking in my head. I jot a note, then another, constructing a mental cathedral out of quotes and arguments. I can almost hear Liam’s voice in my ear, the careful way he explained “symbolic density,” the way his lips moved when he was in full lecture mode.
I’m so far gone I don’t notice the shadow looming over our table until Andie’s pencil stops tapping. I look up, and there’s Dylan Tourneau, six foot three and all swimmer’s bulk, shoulders wide enough to block out the ugly overhead fluorescents. He’s in his team windbreaker, the one that makes every guy on campus look like an escapee from the US Olympic Training Center.
He’s not looking at me, at first. He’s looking at Andie, but only as a formality. Then his eyes find mine, the green in them so sharp it’s like someone turned the saturation knob to max. My stomach sinks. I’ve been not-so-subtly avoiding him, but obviously, that isn’t going to work now.
“Hey Simone,” he says. “Andie.” He nods, just once. “Do you mind if I steal her for a second?”
Andie glances at me, then at him, then at me again. “Sure,” she chirps, voice too bright. “I need caffeine anyway.”
She grabs her phone and her wallet, gives me a look—call me if you need saving—then floats away, leaving a faint cloud of vanilla perfume and a growing sense of dread.
Dylan slides into her seat, all elbows and knees, and leans in. He’s close enough that I can smell the chlorine baked into his skin. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches as I close my book and cap my pen.
“What’s up?” I ask, aiming for casual but missing by a mile.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he sets both hands on the table and drums his fingers, slow and deliberate. “I’ve been trying to get you alone for weeks,” he finally says. “You’re hard to track down.”
I laugh, but it sounds hollow. “I’ve just been busy.”
He leans in more, voice dropping so low I have to tilt my head to hear. “With him?”
The question lands like a punch. For a second I can’t breathe. “What are you talking about?”