Page 57 of The Black Table
That’s a pretty high bar to clear.
And if I can keep this up…
I just might make it.
So long as I can keep Dr. Riggs and my mother content, anyway.
My heartbeat back in the realm of normal, I lift my head and blink away the fuzziness in my eyes. There’s no hope of my studying right now—I need something to eat, maybe some water, a turn around the quads to clear my head. I sit back up properly, gather my notebooks and texts and small stack of flyers and announcements from my mailbox, including…
The cream-colored card stands out on top of the photocopied notices for clubs and donation drives.
September Formal Dinner
Saffron & Salamanca: A Voyage to Spain
Proper attire required. Fees to be withdrawn from student bursary account.
R.S.V.P.
I run a finger over the embossed letters, idly, yet as I do, a low sense of dread starts to build in the pit of my stomach.
Like I’m forgetting something.
Fees to be withdrawn from student bursary account.
Oh, shit.
My account is linked to my mom. She’s the one putting in the funds.
And if the feesaren’twithdrawn…
She’ll notice.
Other parents might not pay that much attention to detail, but other parents aren’t corporate M&A attorneys with a background in forensic fucking accounting.
Goddammit. I all but crumple the thing in my fist, choking back a wail. Instead, I just shove my bag onto my shoulder and stalk out towards the staircase.
I’m fuming, fuming but panicking, trying to think of someway I can substantiate my lie as I go up and up and up the stairs until I’m storming through the main-level secondary landing, the one by the copy machines and printers, and nearly run into someone.
Someone tall.
“Whoa there.”
It’s him—the one with the piercings. The grad student.
He catches me before I trip and fully eat shit on the polished floor. I tug my elbow back.
Kai. That’s his name. He’s holding a sheaf of papers—quiz sheets, it looks like, a few more softly shuffling out of the humming photocopier beside us.
“Sorry,” I mumble, swiping hair out of my face. “I just?—”
“Well, if it isn’t Wednesday Addams.” He smiles. “In some kinda hurry, aren’t you?” He sets down the quizzes, folds his arms, and leans against the stationery cart, legs out atjustsuch an angle that it’s impossible for me to pass without stepping directly over him, like I’m fording my way across a log-strewn stream.
I don’t answer. The question’s fully rhetorical, an obstacle as annoying as his body blocking my path.
“Heard you’re kicking King’s ass in Emrys’s class,” he goes on. “About time someone gave him a run for his money. I’d watch your back if I were you.”
At that, I shuffle in place, suddenly self-conscious. Did Kingston tell Kai about me? Do I…mind if he did?
