Page 2 of Untruly With You

Sorry, bud, I think to myself.You’re not getting rid of me.

I don’t think I could survive yet another semester at school after this. I didn’t mind taking my time when my tuition was covered. Thank you, Mom, for giving me the benefit of being a professor’s daughter. But now that I’ve aged out of that perk and student debt is piling up, I am far more motivated to graduate.

“Actually, sir,” I say, startling my professor. Clearly, he isn’t used to being contradicted. “NYU policy says students can join a class up to two weeks into the semester if there is still an available spot, which there is in this case. One last spot. So, if you don’t mind, I'd like to stay.” And honestly, I don’t care if hedoesmind. I’m here.

He looks at the front row, and someone—I think the guy with the brown curly hair—speaks up, barely loud enough for me to hear. “She’s right, technically.”

The professor harrumphs. “Name?” he asks, raising his thick eyebrows at me.

“Laine Rodriguez,” I say in my best, bubbly, Laine Rodriguez voice. I flash the smile that has won me countless friendships over the years.

“We have an exam next week,” he says. “You will need to catch up on what you’ve missed on your own time.”

I lift my chin. “Understood!” It could be the onset of nerves, or it could be my winter layers covering me indoors, but either way, my skin crawls with warmth.

He gestures at me to sit. I glance around the room again, but sure enough, there aren’t any seats.

“She can take my seat,” the same curly-haired guy from before says.

“I need you up front,” the professor responds, going back to his lesson without another word to me.

As quietly as I can manage, I slide my jacket off and unwind my scarf from my neck. But no matter how silent I am, there are a handful of students who look back at me, studying the fresh addition to their class. I try to ignore them, but when I catch the eye of the curly-haired guy in the front row, I freeze for a moment.

Even from across the room, his expression catches me off guard. While the others eyeing me seem thoroughly entertained by my less-than-ideal entrance into the class, his gaze is soft and steady. I stare back at him and try to discern that gentle expression on his face. Apologetic, I suppose. Maybe a dash of pity.

“Miss Rodriguez?” At the sound of my professor’s voice, I straighten, my cheeks webbing with heat.

“Yes?” I say, hoping my grimace looks something like a smile.

“I suggest you take a seat and learn what you can before next week’s exam.”

How long was I staring at that guy?

Before I can get distracted again, I plant myself on the floor and crane my neck to see the projector screen. For the rest of the hour, I scramble to copy every slide into my notebook, trying to ignore the occasional glance from the guy in the front row.

2

SUTTON

Even without herbright-pink sweater or the fact that she barged into class ten minutes late, Laine Rodriquez would stand out. Her hair is in a classic style that reminds me of 1920s flapper girls and she’s wearing red lipstick, the kind I’ve only seen girls wear to formal events—never to class. Throughout the hour, I peek back at her periodically. Her bangs stick out from her beanie in wild angles, and her eyes are wide, fluttering between the slideshow and her notebook as her hand flies across the lined paper. Those thick, dark eyebrows wrinkle with worry.

Laine fidgets constantly. She straightens her sweater. She rolls to sit on her knees. She twists the small pendant on her necklace from side to side. I’ve never seen someone so restless.

When class ends, Laine wastes no time running to the front of the lecture hall, sticking her hand out to Mr. Hirsch. He stares at it for a few moments before taking it, shaking once. Meanwhile, I’m frozen in my seat, petrified on Laine’s behalf.

Mr. Hirsch doesn’t wait for Laine to speak before airinghis grievances. “I don’t like tardiness, Miss Rodriguez. As if it weren’t enough for you to wait until the last possible day to add my class, you then choose to show up ten minutes late.”

Laine smiles despite the criticism, her entire face joining in on the expression. It’s a miracle that Mr. Hirsch can resist smiling back at the brilliance. “I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again. I will be taking this class seriously. You see, I need to pass in order to graduate at the end of the semester.”

Mr. Hirsch raises his eyebrows and begins packing his messenger bag. “You may have been able to join our class,” he says, not bothering to bring his eyes to hers, “but that doesn’t mean you’ll be passing. This is an upper-division class, and the workload is evidence of such. Being late to my class shows a lack of discipline and propriety.”

“I’ll do anything,” Laine says, nodding as if to convince herself of her own words. “Do you have office hours?”

“No.”

Laine winces before fixing a smile across her face again. “Okay,” she says, letting out a single, breathless laugh. She swallows hard. “Are there any tutors?”

Now it’s my turn to flinch. I move my gaze to my laptop and type away gibberish on the keyboard, trying to signal to them how busy I am these days.

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