Page 5 of False Assumptions

Sighing, Layla set down her mug on the coffee table and sat down on her couch. “He reminds me of Mark.”

“That guy you dated in high school?”

“Yeah. That guy. The one who was hot and flirty and made me feel like I was special instead of the nerdy, weird girl. Who made me believe he loved me. And then bragged to anyone who would listen the minute we had sex. God, he posted about it on Facebook before I even left his house. I was just a challenge to him. Something different and exotic to add to his collection.” Her voice turned bitter on the last sentence. The way he’d made her feel—like an object, a fetish, something less than human—still stung even though it had happened almost five years ago.

“Look.” Alyssa’s voice softened. “I know Mark was awful to you. And you have every right to hate him. But Evan Coopman isn’t Mark. He hasn’t done anything but flirt with you, which, by your own admission, he does to every girl he comes across. So maybe try to be polite at least, okay? Treat him the same you would anyone else you could’ve gotten paired up with. Do your project and go back to ignoring him. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

With another sigh, Layla finally gave in to Alyssa. “Fine. You’re right. I should probably apologize the next time I see him. Maybe it’ll throw him off guard. And I’ve already figured that I’ll have to do the majority of the work if I’m going to get a decent grade on this.”

“Why?”

“Hello? He’s a jock. I’ve heard him talk about his tutor. He probably needs one to keep his GPA high enough to stay on the team. I’m not risking my grade on someone like that. I’ll give him enough to do in the presentation that we both get credit, but no way am I giving him actual work.”

“You’re such a snob sometimes. Why not give him a real chance? You hate it when people assume things about you.”

Layla’s lips twisted in a grimace of distaste. That was true. She did hate people making assumptions about her, about her background, her ethnicity, her cultural heritage. When she’d moved to Everett in sixth grade the kids in her class had found out that she’d lived on a reservation before. They’d asked her if her parents had worked in a casino and called her a squaw and worse. Her skin was lighter than her dad’s, since she was only a quarter Native American, but with her long black hair that she liked to wear loose and her high cheekbones—plus growing up on the Colville Reservation—they all assumed she was Native American.

And when her mom, who was half white and half Japanese, came to school to pick her up, everyone assumed she was adopted. Or had been taken away from her Native American parents and placed in foster care. Anything but that her mom was her mom.

It was bad enough when kids did it in school, but it pissed her off more when it came from grown-ass adults. Like her history professor who had declared that she was a product of Affirmative Action, like she hadn’t earned her right to be at Marycliff University like everyone else.

“Fine. I won’t assume he’s a moron. I’ll give him a chance to prove himself at least. But I reserve the right to make sure he doesn’t screw this up.”

“Fair enough.”

They chatted for a few more minutes before hanging up, and Layla felt both better and worse after talking to Alyssa. Better, because Alyssa made good points. But worse because she had been a raging bitch to him today. With a sigh, she realized she’d have to apologize to him on Thursday when she saw him in class. And she should offer to schedule a time to meet with him and discuss what they should do.

The idea still didn’t sit well, but maybe if she made it clear that she would be polite and professional and expected the same from him, he’d quit flirting and save it for someone more receptive. She could only hope.

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