Page 68 of The Ruthless Rivalry

I was heading toward the health center in hopes of getting some aspirin to ease the remaining pain. Just when I thought I’d met my quota for dealing with one Oliveri this morning, the other seems to spring up from nowhere.

“Alex,” Sutton called.

I keep walking.

Words? I didn’t feel like speaking them with anyone this morning, especially with the sun cheerfully shining down like it was a surprise visit from a long-lost friend. It was a rarity around here, where the sky was usually a dull, overcast gray. Of course, it had to be sunny today. Everyone else seemed to be drinking in the sunshine like it was the elixir of life, but I was over here just trying to avoid projectile vomiting, and daydreaming about crawling back into bed, where the sun didn’t exist.

Sutton, however, seems to completely disregard the cold shoulder and keeps pace beside me, forgetting about the art-related poster she was directing students to hang up just seconds before.

“Heading to the health center?” she asks, her tone casual but unmistakably curious.

I glance over at her, then away. “Yeah, just going to grab some aspirin.”

“Is this about…you know?” she says, not quite saying the words, so I clarify for her.

“You mean the fall you supposedly saved me from?” I say, the words dripping with sarcasm. “No, this isn’t about that. This is from Saturday.”

I shake my head slightly, but as I walk, my mind drifts back to that night. I don’t really remember much—just flashes of being in the car with Bishop driving us there and then him catching me before I fell into the pool. The rest in between is a hazy blur.

“You said you just need aspirin?” she asks, sounding confused. We were almost to the building now.

I grunt a non-answer.

“Why not just use your callbox for something simple like that? Another student would’ve fetched it for you. Do you not use yours? Every Legacy has one in their room.”

The words hit me like a freight train, my still-groggy brain struggling to keep up. I stumble a little, momentarily lost. A callbox?

I blink a few times, trying to focus. “I have a what in my room?” I ask, probably sounding like I’m on another planet.

“A callbox,” she repeats, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I stare at her, my head pounding like a drum in my skull. A callbox? What was that? I try to piece it together, but everything’s still swimming in a thick fog. I vaguely remember Chancellor Maxwell saying something about it after the ceiling in my dorm collapsed, but that’s about as clear as my memory of Saturday night—which is still completely hazy.

I squint, still dizzy from whatever I drank the other night. Whether it was the mix, the empty stomach, or just everything catching up to me, the dizziness hadn’t fully let go. “It’s how we communicate with the staff or other students to request services,” Sutton continues, clearly enjoying my confusion. “Has no one explained that to you?”

I shake my head ever so slightly. Even that small motion feels like it’s going to split my skull wide open. My brain feels like it’s filled with concrete, and every little sound makes the ache worse.

Sutton snorts, and I can feel the edges of my mood start to fray. She sounds like she’s trying to be lighthearted, but right now, it’s like a jackhammer to my temples. She laughs again, louder this time. “Why do you think Sly took the role of student teacher for Professor O’Donnelly’s class? He was looking for students to recruit to do the mundane things he didn’t want to do. Like fetching a few aspirins for him.” She grins, a little too smug. “I mean, I’m not above it myself. I had a few students slip those flyers under doors on the day you gave me that idea in the lobby. Who’s got time for that?”

Her words barely register, a distant hum in the back of my mind. All I can think about is how much I’d rather be back in bed, not dealing with this hangover that makes even the lightest of conversation feel like a full-blown assault on my senses.

“Thank you,” a petite woman in her thirties with short, dark hair styled in a cute bob that ended just above her shoulders said as she walked past, Sutton holding the door for her.

“No worries, Dr. Chen,” Sutton replied.

Chen. The last name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Maybe I had heard it around campus or in one of my classes. Whatever. I quickly dismissed it. Sutton was still holding the door.

I arched an eyebrow. “Uh, I’m good. Thanks, though.” Was she holding it for me?

“Normally, others do this for me, but you looked like you had your hands full,” Sutton said, her gaze flicking to the textbook in my arms.

Oh right. This monstrosity. Carrying it felt like a full-body workout. I might as well have been lugging a paving stone.

“I don’t have a backpack,” I admitted, too tired to come up with a more clever excuse.

“Is that so?” she said, her voice light, but something about the way her eyes narrowed made me pause.

I stepped past her, eager to get inside and away from whatever weird energy she was giving off. Her reaction to my lack of a backpack was… strange. Not mocking, exactly. More like she was filing it away. Like that tiny detail meant something to her.

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