Page 39 of Burn Bright
My mother.
Her little sister by about fifteen years.
“Good,” Aunt Helena says. “She tried to reach out to me. I thought she might have found a way to contact you too.”
The thought of having to speak to my mom again actually gives me acid reflux. “Radio silence,” I mutter, and I could ask my aunt what the circumstances of the call were, but I don’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss when it comes to my mom.
“Dammit, not you too, Pinto!” Aunt Helena yells at one of the Beans. “I have to go before they destroy the Monstera. Love you, Harry.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up, and I stare at the phone for a solid minute, just trying to be grateful to have her in my life. Someone who cares. Someone who calls me when they don’t know where I am. And maybe we don’t talk enough. Maybe our once-a-month phone call isn’t a normal check-in for most, but for me—it’s everything.
It’s all I really have.
8
HARRIET FISHER
“Why do you look like you’re going to throw up?” Ben asks me as we settle in our seats. I’m sitting stiffly, and I do feel like I might hurl at any second. It’s not the chair’s fault. These things are wide, cushiony, and comfortable. Gold birds are stitched into burgundy fabric. The mascot and colors of MVU.
The bird isn’t an eagle or hawk, but a thrasher.I try to train my eyes on the SOAR, THRASHERS, SOAR! banner above the projector screen so I don’t fixate on the podium at the ground level. No one is standing behind it at least. Class hasn’t officially started.
It’s one I picked out of necessity. There were slots available, so Ben didn’t need to butter up the dean to get us in. Probably due to the sheer size of the class.
I crane my neck left and right. Ben and I are sitting next to each other in a middle row of an enormouslecture hall. One that could easily fit two hundred students.
Why do you look like you’re going to throw up?Ben’s question rolls around in my head.
“Because we’re takingclassical mythology,” I whisper-hiss like the room has ears. But we’re practically alone. Ben’s bodyguard quietly took a seat right behind us. Only two other students are here, and they’ve chosen chairs way down in the first row, much closer to the professor’s podium.
Maybe that’s where I should be. Closest to the person who will be doling out the grades.
Or maybe not.
Last thing I need to do is projectile vomit on the professor. I’m just glad we’re here early. Twenty minutes early to be exact. But I could be here twenty-four hours early, and I’d still be nauseous.
Ben wears concern like he’s seconds away from snagging the trashcan by the door and holding it under my chin. He leans an arm on the back of the auditorium-style chair, facing me fully, and I try not to get flustered by his all-encompassing attention on me. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me so much of their energy, their interest.
“Why are you whispering?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice rising to a normal level. “I’m nervous, okay? I’ve avoided taking most of my humanities requirements. Biology, I get. Chemistry, no problem. Calculus, a breeze. But if you ask me to write an essay…I get…I get hives.” I slump down. It’s not an exaggeration. I broke outinhives my first semester at Penn when I had to take English 102. I barreled through with determination, sleepless nights of rewrites, and Benadryl.
To distract myself, I try to concentrate on how Ben’s burgundy MVU sweatshirt blends into the chair and how he pushed the sleeves up to his elbows. Veins spindle down his strong arms, and those beautiful, masculine forearms should bring me out of my panicked state.
But really, it’s his baby blue eyes caressing me that help the most.
His brows are fully raised. “Hives?” He skims my body like he’s checking for a breakout.
“Yes, Benjamin.Hives.”
“It’s just Ben.”
That takes me aback a second. I sit up a little. “Wait, your parents named youBen. Just Ben? Not Bennet? Not Benedict? Not Benvolio?”
He chokes out a bright laugh. “Jesus. Benvolio?” He’s looking at me with far too much intrigue for someone who clearly didn’t read his Wikipedia page thoroughly enough.
“Your parents love Shakespeare,” I remind him, which I quickly realize is a silly thing to do. Of course he knows his parents better than someone who’s picked up rudimentary facts online. I’m hot (and not in a good way) thinking about it. “Benvolio was a good guess,” I say fast, but I can’t help the defensive bite in my voice.
