Page 3 of Left on Read

“Yes,” Esha says with a smile as she’s loaded down with an armful of textbooks. She doesn’t elaborate. A vet is what she wants to be, not a human doctor.

Mrs. Hefner looks at me expectantly, and I realize this is the part where I’m supposed to hand hermyschedule. I’m actively holding up her line by standing here staring into the void. (God forbid the new freshmen don’t get their keyboarding workbooks on time.)

I surrender it. Mrs. Hefner takes the paper and goes back toher roaming, returning with fewer books, all thinner than evenoneof Esha’s science-y books.

But there it is, right on top. One of those perfect, purple Norton anthologies I’ve been salivating over for years. That one’smine.It seems as old as paper itself, worn and torn and nearly destroyed. The edges are basically brown. It’s undoubtedly covered in highlights and doodles, and someone’s probably drawn a dick in the margins. I don’t care. I’m going to read it cover to cover. Last year, I volunteered to help Mrs. Hefner hand out books in this stuffy, windowless room just tolookat the Nortons. Just to hold one and to thumb through it so I could see what I was in for next year. To see what I’m in for now. I mean, these anthologies are what lit majors read, right? I’ve basically made it.

“You’re good to go, dear,” Mrs. Hefner says, covering the purple cover with my schedule.

Oh, right. There are other things to do today. I can’t stay in this closet forever. Today wasn’t about this one book, anyway. I mean, it was, but it wasn’t.

We leave. Esha’s chatting away: about where her classes are, about buildings on campus she’s never been in before, about how she’s excited for the white coat she gets to wear in chem lab. She’s talking about goggles and formaldehyde and squid, for some reason, as we walk toward the parking lot. There are still people everywhere, hanging out in the parking lot and lingering in the crosswalks like that’s not dangerous.

We reach my car door, and Esha nudges her shoulder againstmine, because she can’t reach out to hug me without toppling her book tower. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, walking away with a genuine smile.

“Okay. See you tomorrow,” I tell her retreating back.

But will I, though?

Maybe. We still have Beta Club (a national club for anyone who has an A-average equivalent GPA), so that’s something.

I settle my books onto the passenger seat of my car. My arms are exhausted, so they just sort of pour down onto the torn, tan leather. I’m half-tempted to buckle them in, but that seems excessive.

Then I hear a familiar voice behind me.

“Hey,Novella.”

That nickname. Because I’m too short to be a whole novel.

Absolutely not. Not today. Not him.But against my better judgment, I turn around.

Hayes Collins stands right there, Endeavour High lanyard hanging out of the pocket of his jeans. He’s wearing forest-green Crocs. What a dork. His dirty-blond curls are overgrown and his white T-shirt is rumpled, which is strange, because Hayes Collins is never anything but perfect. Even hisfaceis perfect, the lines of his features sharp and immaculate. That angular nose. That strong jaw. So annoyingly flawless. He literally wearsdress shirtsto school. So the messiness is … new.

So new and so disarming that I can’t help but make an ass out of myself.

“Why do you look like that?” I ask, nose scrunched.

“I just woke up. I forgot this was happening today.” He scratches the back of his neck, and the wrinkled neckline of his shirt gets even more wrinkled, and Ireallyneed to get out of this conversation, because this bizarro version of him is challenging my view of reality. This is a glitch in the matrix.

“You forgot thatorientationwas happening today? When it’salwaysthe day before thefirst day of school?” I feel my brows scrunch up, because this is so weird. “You don’t forget things, Hayes.”

I’m standing in front of an alternate-universe version of Hayes Collins, one who’s never battled me in a student-government race. One who’s neverbeatenme in a student-government race. One who I’m notactivelytrying to defeat in the race for the Beta Club presidency.

I know that guy. I hate that guy. This isnothim.

“I’m a human being, you know,” he says archly.

“Allegedly.” I cross my arms, leaning against my closed driver-side door. “Good to see you, or whatever, but please go away. I don’t trust you around my car.”

“Oh, come on.” He extends a conciliatory hand in my direction, his eyes suddenly brightening. “That was one time. You’re still mad about that?”

My hands fall to my sides for a brief second. Then annoyance takes over, and I start waving them around in front of my face like we’re in the middle of a Real Housewives fight.

“They had to come get me in themiddle of a presentationbecause you set off my car alarm.Intentionally.Because you were trying to papermywindshield with yourowncampaign posters!”

My blood starts to burn. I had to leave my bio presentation unfinished and walk across campuswith the principaltoward the sound of my blaring alarm. That one loud, hazard-light-flashing, final-grade-destroying moment took him from my competitor to my sworn enemy.

“I apologized,” he muttered, nudging a rock with the toe of his awful, nasty, uncool shoe.