Page 30 of Shattered Ice
Briarcliff’sAmericanHistorylecturehall looks like it was built to impress donors, not to educate students. Tiered rows of gleaming wood, brass ventilation grilles polished like jewelry, and the college crest carved above the whiteboard as if the syllabus needs a coat of arms. The lighting is soft and golden—designed to flatter the oil portraits in the lobby and be deeply unkind to anyone who didn’t get a full eight hours of sleep.
I take a middle-row seat on the aisle, close enough to see the board but far enough to keep my exits in play. A nervous habit. I spread my notes with ritual precision: dates in the left margin, names in the right, causes and effects boxed in the center. The paper smells faintly of toner and library hand soap. My pen sitsperpendicular to the top of the page. I breathe once, long and steady.You are in control here.
The room populates in clusters, a perfect map of the campus social hierarchy. Legacy kids drift to the center rows, drawn together by an invisible, gravitational force of shared entitlement. Scholarship kids and the rest of us sit at the edges, leaving a buffer. You can tell the difference without seeing a single bank statement—in the shoes that click with purpose versus the ones that try not to squeak; in the laughter that expects to be tolerated versus the laughter that apologizes mid-breath.
Zoë arrives first, a vibrant splash of color in the sea of muted blues and grays. Her hair bounces in glossy curls, her sweater an unapologetic cherry red. She swings her tote onto the desk, grinning. “Front-row Clara, but with training wheels.”
I arch a brow. “This is mid-row.”
“Exactly. Training wheels.” She’s already half-dropping into the chair beside me, her bag sliding down her shoulder—
And then he’s there. Adrian Hale.
The air pressure changes, a sudden vacuum drawing all oxygen from the room. He enters alone, the Titans thundering behind him like storm clouds that never quite catch their lightning. His eyes lock onto the empty seat beside me with predatory focus, pupils contracting to pinpoints. Three purposeful strides, and he’s claiming Zoë’s half-lowered seat, his body a wall of coiled muscle. His bag hits the wood, and my pen bolts like a small, frightened animal. The sound reverberates through my chest. He doesn’t acknowledge Zoë. Doesn’t glance my way. His jaw clenches once, a single pulse of tension. The message is brutally clear: this wasn’t a seat; it was a flag planted in my ribs.
His elbow slides across the shared desk, briefly covering the edge of my notes. When he drags it back, a dent line scarsthe page—a silent brand. I trace the shallow groove with my fingertip, the violation a small, hot flare in my chest. Possession marked.
Zoë freezes, eyes wide, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ of disbelief. Then she hisses at me, “Tell me he didnotjust steal my seat.”
I keep my eyes locked on my notebook, but my pulse jolts hard enough to make my pen tremble. “Apparently, he did.”
Zoë glares past me at him. For once, Adrian acknowledges someone, flicking her a glance—flat, unbothered, utterly dismissive—before turning his focus forward. He leans back in the chair like it was molded for him, his elbow settling on the shared desk space between us in a silent occupation of my territory.
“You can sit there,” I murmur, low enough that only he hears. “You don’t get the desk.”
Genny arrives a beat later, her gaze sweeping the scene in one practiced, analytical pass. Her dark blazer sharpens every line of her posture. She doesn’t comment, doesn’t blink, just slides gracefully into the seat on my other side, her presence a cool, welcome balm. “Of course,” she murmurs, more to herself than to us.
The balance of the morning breaks. I’m no longer flanked by my friends. I’m pinned—friends on one side, him on the other. A neat, defensive wall cracked open by one arrogant choice.
Professor Lansing strides to the front—slim tie, chalk-dusted cuffs, the gait of a man who believes rigor is a kindness. “Good morning,” he says without a smile. “Pop quiz.”
A groan ripples through the hall. Zoë leans forward to whisper, “I hate him. I truly, deeply hate him.” Genny just tilts an eyebrow in a way that says,Of course.
Lansing starts handing down half-sheets of paper. “Reconstruction,” he says, his voice even. “Key federal acts.Political backlash. Lasting consequences. Names and dates matter. They are anchors, not decorations.”
A page lands on my desk, still warm from the printer. I jot the prompt at the top.Anchors, not decorations.The phrase fits more than just history.
I write. Clean, tight lines. Civil Rights Act of 1866—not 1865. Fourteenth Amendment. The Compromise of 1877—the quiet knife in the dark that ended it all. I find myself anchoring the dates as jersey numbers in my head without meaning to and hate that my mind is already building tools for someone else’s benefit.
Halfway through, a pen starts tapping beside me.Tap. Tap. Tap.It’s not a fidget; it’s a metronome he’s daring me to hear. The tap quickens, his knuckles blanching, the plastic begging to crack. I keep writing, my own lines smooth and even. The tapping stops. Starts again. Stops.
“Two minutes,” Lansing says.
The room shifts into a hurried scrape of pencils and small, rustling panics. I underline the last date, snap my pen cap shut. The noise is sharp and satisfyingly final.
Lansing collects the sheets. “Discussion. Let’s talk about the political calculus behind the Compromise of 1877. Harrington?”
I sit straighter without thinking. “It ended Reconstruction by trading federal withdrawal from the South for a disputed presidency,” I say, my voice even. “It preserved the legitimacy of the election at the expense of protecting the rights of newly freed citizens. The real consequence wasn’t the compromise—it was who paid the price. Black citizens lost federal enforcement of the rights the Constitution had just promised them.”
A quiet settles around the words. Not silence. Attention. Lansing nods once, a crisp, academic approval. “Concise. Stakes named. Mr. Hale—build on that.”
A pause. Beside me, the air freezes solid. Adrian doesn’t speak. His jaw ticks once. His hand flexes like he might snap the pen in two. The desk beneath his arm creaks. The silence stretches like a wire pulled taut, then snaps as he leans forward, his shoulder pressing against mine—not a brush, but a claiming. Heat radiates through my sweater, branding my skin.
“Careful, Harrington,” he murmurs, his breath iced against my ear. “You make the rest of them look slow.”
Calder laughs on cue. Gio adds, “Some of us like to leave room for growth,” in a tone that thinks it’s charming.
Heat prickles the back of my neck—fury and embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Hale.” My voice stays even, chilled. “Curves don’t save people who don’t study.”
