Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
On New Year’s Eve.
Aren’t I the poster boy for good behavior?
My phone informs me of a dozen messages and missed calls. Dragging a hand through my messy hair, I roll onto my back and sift through the notifications.
My parents each texted at precisely 12:00 a.m. I can just imagine them sitting in their respective houses at 11:59, hands hovering over their phones like they’re preparing to slap the buzzer on Family Feud, each one desperate to be the first to get a message through. They’re so frickin’ competitive.
MOM: Happy New Year, sweetie!! Love you so so soooo much! This is going to be the best year ever! YOUR year! Woot woot!
Oh dear God. Mothers are not allowed to say “woot woot.” My dad’s text isn’t much better.
DAD: Happy New Year. We got this.
We got this? Got what? Parents trying to sound cool is a whole other level of secondhand embarrassment.
My friends’ messages are more entertaining.
HOLLIS: Where da fuck r u?? Patty’s just getting started
* * *
HOLLIS: *patty
* * *
HOLLIS: *parting
* * *
HOLLIS: Party!!!!!! FUCK THIS PHONE
* * *
GARRETT: Happy New Year!! Where’d u run off to, Colin?? (Still feel weird calling u that)
My old teammates Logan and Tucker send their New Year messages to our various group chats. Tuck and Sabrina include a picture of their baby, which prompts about a million heart-eye emojis from our friends.
Pierre texts something in French.
My teammates blow up our team thread with well-wishes and random videos, grainy and impossible to hear, of the various parties they attended.
One teammate’s name is noticeably missing from the group chat and my phone in general. Shocking. No word from Hunter.
I bet he was too busy to text anyone last night.
Busy, busy, busy.
I ignore the sharp clenching in my chest and force all thoughts of Hunter and his busy, busy night out of my head. I continue scrolling through my phone.
A girl I knew in high school sends a generic note. For some reason, she still has me in her contacts list, so any time a holiday rolls around I get a message from her.
Hollis sends a few more texts that make me chuckle.
HOLLIS: Yo. bar’s closing. where u at. assuming getting a bj or sumthin?
* * *
HOLLIS: after patty at Danny’s house. new buddy. u’ll luv him
* * *
HOLLIS: OK then
* * *
HOLLIS: gunna assume u ded
* * *
HOLLIS: hope ur not ded, tho!!! I <3 u, bro. new year, new us. word.
Oh man. Someone needs to confiscate that dude’s phone when he’s wasted. Still laughing, I click on the next message in my inbox. It’s from Dean.
My humor fades the moment I read it.
DEAN: Happy New Year!! Was hoping to talk to u before u took off. I need a huge favor, bro.
* * *
DEAN: Are u guys still looking for a 4th roommate?
5
Summer
Two Weeks Later
The assistant dean is putting on a fake British accent.
I’ve been sitting in his office for about seven minutes now, and I’m convinced of it. I want to grill him about where he grew up, but I don’t think Mr. Richmond would appreciate the interruption. He’s clearly receiving way too much enjoyment from this lecture.
“…academic probation,” he’s droning. His voice has a weird, raspy croak to it. Like if a frog could talk, that’s how I imagine it would sound.
A nickname forms in my head—Asshole Frog.
“…zero tolerance policy, given the nature of your previous expulsion…”
Or maybe Froghole. That has a better ring to it.
“Summer.”
He pronounces my name Sum-ah. I try to remember how Gavin used to say it. Gavin is the sexy duke I dated last year when I spent the summer in England. I don’t think their accents are comparable, though. Gavin’s blood runs blue, so he’d have that upper-crust accent only those in line to the throne have. Granted, there are about forty members of the royal family ahead of him in the line of succession, but that’s still a whole other stratosphere above Mr. Richmond.
Briar’s assistant dean is no duke. And his first name is Hal, which doesn’t sound very British. Unless it’s short for something? Hallam? Halbert?
“Ms. Di Laurentis!”
My head snaps up. Froghole’s expression is as sharp as his tone. I’d zoned him out, and he knows it.
“I understand that rules of conduct and academic policies aren’t the most exciting subject matter, but you, of all people, should be paying attention to this. The remainder of your college career could depend on it.”
“I’m sorry,” I force myself to say. “I don’t mean to be rude or ignore you on purpose. I have, um, attention problems.”
He nods, eyes on my file. “ADHD, according to this. Are you on medication for it?”
I bristle. I’m not, but that’s none of his frigging business.
Right?
I make a mental note to ask my parents, who are both lawyers. But I’m fairly certain a student doesn’t have to disclose to the school the medications they’re on.