Did she just say blah blah blah instead of actual page numbers?
The fives rise up around the same time other groups begin to finish, saying goodbye and peace out, see you on Thursday.
Only Georgia and I are left standing in our row.
“Do you…” I can hear her clear her throat. “Should we get coffee or something?”
“No.” I hoist my backpack up off the ground and shove my papers inside.
“Please? Let me take you for a coffee. Or a sandwich? Everyone has to eat, right?”
Yes, but not with each other. “Stop trying to make this better.”
I turn and walk away, leaving her standing there staring after me.
Three
Georgia
Thursday
I brought him cupcakes.
Cupcakes I made from scratch, which was almost impossible to do given the fact that I live in the dorms.
I had to beg a favor from Tamlin, who lives off campus in a not horrible house with three other girls and a not horrible stove.
She had muffin tins, too, which helped.
Baked goods.
That ought to thaw Ashley Dryden-Jones’s loathing for me.
Ashley.
An old, romantic name for such a huge goliath of a guy.
It suits him in a way—not that there is anything romantic about him. Still, it’s a contradiction, and I like it.
He’s not terrible, just…
Not friendly toward me.
He was perfectly pleasant—even cheerful—with the rest of the fives in our business class, but there was no love lost for me.
The tension was real.
I felt it every time he glanced in my direction but looked right through me instead.
Ouch.
That did hurt.
I didn’t mean to hurt him the way I did; who would have thought a big guy like him would be so sensitive? Which just goes to show: I know absolutely nothing about guys.
He felt slighted, as if I meant to humiliate him in front of my friends. And sure, maybe things would have looked that way from his point of view, but surely it wouldn’t kill him to hear me out!
If he freezes me out during this class—during this group project—it’s going to drive me bonkers.
So what are you going to do about it, Georgia?
Will he ever forgive me?
I have an entire semester to try to earn his trust, beginning with these cupcakes, which honestly should be muffins since it’s early in the day and probably not the right time for sweets.
They’re even in the cutest little box, one I scrounged up in the dorm’s recycling center and covered in cute wrapping paper before plunking the baked goods inside.
Lovely little presentation.
I’ve done my hair today, taking a flat iron to practice so I could tame my locks afterward—even adding mascara and lip gloss. More makeup than I had on Friday night, not that he was paying me one bit of attention.
Dolling up is a strategy that could backfire on me, of course—the last thing I want is to look like ‘one of those girls.’ The snooty kind who flirts and teases and plays games.
The high-maintenance kind who judge people by their appearance.
That is exactly what you’ve done, Georgie.
Exactly that.
Stop reminding me! I tell myself.
Ashley Dryden-Jones is in the same spot he occupied during the last class: fifth row from the back of the room, fourth seat in. I had to climb around him to get to my seat Tuesday, but today, I ease my things over before settling into the second seat in.
Not too far and not too close.
Close enough to talk if he changes his mind about me.
The other members of our group file in one by one, joining us by filling in the seats behind us and in front.
The two guys greet me and the other girls but fist-bump Ash.
Typical.
In the seat in front of me, Brian twists around, his eyes straying to the cupcake box on my lap.
“Sweet, are these for us?”
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to slap his grasping hand away from my box when he reaches for it without waiting for an invitation, greedy fingers already going at a cupcake. You know those claws in a game where you put money in and try to extract a stuffed animal with a mechanical hand that drops from the ceiling?
Like that.
“Sorry, no.” I jerk the box back, out of his reach.
The entire group stares expectantly at me.
Nalla licks her lips. “Who are they for?”
“Um…” I glance around nervously, gaze accidentally flitting to Ash before I can stop it, giving myself away.
They dart over to him again.
He who ignores me and pretends I don’t exist.
“Yeah, who are they for?” Brian echoes.
“I made them for a friend.”
“What friend?”
Oh my god, Brian, what do you care who they’re for?!
While Brian is arguing, Jamal is doing a count of the cakes and announces, “There are six of them, and we’re your friends,” making me want to bang my head against a desk. “These should be for us.”
If there were a desk nearby, I would bang my head on it.