Page 4 of All That Glitters

“I’ll email it to you.”

Marigold smiles, but there’s no warmth to it. She pulls her messenger bag onto her shoulder and tucks her notebook inside.

She quotes Austen: “There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

I hate that she makes me want to smile even while she tap dances on my nerves. I bite the inside of my cheek. Marigold waves to Paisley, then slips out from behind her desk and walks a few steps.

“Pride and Prejudice.” I call out the reference because I can’t help myself. It used to be our game, back before everything came crashing down.

She falters for a step but continues down the aisle between desks, not saying anything in return or even glancing back. I sigh.

“James, James, James,” Paisley tsks from her desk.

I swing my head toward her, unamused. She knows I hate being called James. But as Marigold’s partner in crime, the bright and bubbly woman insists on using the awful nickname every chance she gets. It didn’t start happening until the beginning of this semester, which makes me think Marigold has only just recently trusted Paisley enough to open up to her.

“Can I help you, Polka Dots?”

She scrunches up her nose at my play on the meaning of her name.

“Maybe if you apologized to Marigold for ruining y’all’s friendship, she would hate you less,” she suggests cheerfully.

I snap my laptop shut.

“If you think I haven’t tried to apologize already, then you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

Her mouth pops open in indignation.

“I should throw my matcha at you for that.”

I put my hands in the air to signal go ahead.

“It’s not like the day can get any worse,” I grouse.

“Your decisions led to this,” Paisley oh-so-helpfully reminds me.

“I’m aware.”

I shove my laptop into my navy-blue backpack, then zip it up and sling it over my shoulder. I can email Marigold once I’m back in my dorm. It’s not like I was getting much work done here anyway.

“Did you suggest the article so she could have it?” Paisley asks as I’m walking around my desk. I stop and meet her gaze. She’s looking at me like I’m the plot of a mystery novel she can’t quite piece together.

“Does it matter if I did?” I ask with a shrug. “She still hates me.”

“I don’t know about that.”

I shoot her an exasperated look.

“You just said—”

“I say a lot of things, James.” Paisley rolls her eyes. “So does Marigold. We don’t always mean them.”

My brow furrows.

“And what am I supposed to do with that information?”

“Consider it. Write it into one of your poems about Marigold’s eyes. Whatever will help you use a bit of critical thinking to clean up the mess you made.”

“Poems?” I shake my head, incredulous. “I don’t write poetry.”