College Ruled

fifteen

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BY WEDNESDAY, I have thoroughly convinced myself that there has never been — and will never be — an item with quite as much audacity as that of Grayson Katz's leather jacket.

     It began Halloween night when I finally managed to drag myself into my bedroom. The jacket had wound up on the floor by my nightstand and I decided — with great enthusiasm — that it would sit and rot there until I had the satisfaction of getting the almighty Grayson Katz to beg.

   That specific resolution had lasted a single night. Nine and a half hours, to be exact.

   Then I'd woken up, yawned, caught sight of that damned jacket plastered to my carpet, and decided that no. No way in hell was I going to let that cursed thing infest my space.

But ultimately, it did. It spent the rest of the weekend and early week laying in a crumbled pile on my bedroom floor. Staring at me. And it took in every single one of my nasty thoughts about Grayson — about his little plan — and whispered them right back at me.

    By Tuesday afternoon I couldn't take it any longer. I finally snatched it off the carpet, bundled it in my fist, and marched it across campus to Psych class, fully prepared to shove it down Grayson's throat.

    I spent the entire class practically lighting the door to the lecture hall on fire with my glare just for him to not bother showing up.

    I very seriously debated stuffing it in the overflowing trashcan on my way out that day, but I didn't.

    No.

    I kept it.

    Because after class yesterday, my raging fingertips turned petty. And they dug their claws right into that stupid fucking jacket as soon as it became obvious that he, too, is avoiding me.

   He is avoiding me.

Ha.

I'm not the one who abandoned him to the wolves.

The fucking audacity—

"Remedy?" Professor Barlowe's voice pulls me back to his office. To the stale air, the too bright lights, and the horrid grade laughing up at me from his desk.

     My jaw aches. I was grinding my teeth again.

      Barlowe stares at me behind dark-rimmed glasses and takes in the state of my face as some sort of academically inclined horror paralysis. Which granted, with the red-splattered D resting peacefully on my midterm exam, it should be. It would be. If my brain wasn't already so clogged with other unpleasant thoughts.

He grimaces sympathetically. "It's not the end of the world."

God, how I loathe that phrase.

He leans his elbows onto his desk, continuing, "There are still things you can do."

    "Like what?" I manage, voice small. My eyes flick over to the nature-themed calendar pinned behind his head.

     November fourth. Nearly three weeks until I have to crawl my way home and face my parents.

    My stomach churns. It rolls right over the image of Grayson I've been throwing mental darts at all week and replaces it with my family. Frowning. Yelling. Pointing wagging fingers and disappointed tsks my way.