The World According to Susie

Ch:5 First Day of Senior Year!

My alarm goes off like a sonic dagger to the soul, jolting me awake. After some dramatic tossing and turning, I finally slap my phone to snooze it. I'm already dreading my 8 a.m. lecture.

Rina strolls in, hurls a pink dolphin plushie at my face, and yawns, "Take me to my 8 a.m. too," before wandering off. I bury my face in my pillow and scream like it's therapy. All I can think about is the mortifying weekend I spent spiraling over the chance I might bump into Georgia. I kinda never want to see her again, but also... I'd love to see her again because, well, she's really nice to look at.

I let out a sigh the size of Texas and start getting ready for class.

This semester, I've decided to embrace my inner diva. I'm taking my time with makeup and hair, thanks to Rina, my unofficial stylist. She picked out my outfit last night, and I've got a simple but sharp look: minimal makeup, killer eyeliner, a touch of blush, and lip tint.

Rina's already by the door, hitting her weed pen. "Wake and bake on the first day?" I giggle. Without missing a beat, she blows smoke right into my face, deadpan: "It's necessary."

On the drive, anxiety creeps in at the thought of maybe, possibly, seeing Georgia. Assuming she hasn't graduated or, you know, vanished.

"Chill, Susie," Rina says, sipping from her thermos. "You had her for two semesters last year, but not a single dyke in sight this spring. What're the odds she's in your class again?"

"I dunno," I grumble. "What even is life? I have analytical chemistry at 8 a.m., and I'm already regretting every decision that led me here." I stick my tongue out, feeling the existential dread of a science major.

"Why did we choose chemistry?" I whine, realizing I should've picked something with fewer headaches.

Rina sighs, "I know, I could be dancing or some shit like fuccccccccccckkkk." She laughs-cries, and honestly, same.

We finally find parking and split off to our dreaded 8am classes. "Bye, Rina~" I wave like an idiot, "See you at chemistry seminar!" We part ways, pretending we're going to survive the morning.

I roll into class a few minutes late and get the classic death stare from Dr. Saar, my Soviet-born, Estonia-loving professor who somehow makes teaching a nightmare degree plan look effortless. He's got this heavy Eastern European accent and the charisma of a silent film star, but we all love him for some reason.

"A few minutes late, Miss Wells. But, thrilled to have you," he says dryly, motioning to an empty seat. I scramble to sit down, surrounded by the same faces I've been avoiding for three years. Nice enough people, but none pass the vibe check, so I stick to my corner of the universe.

The class drones on as I daydream about Georgia—you know, the one I made embarrassing eye contact with before puking all over the bar in front of her and her perfect girlfriend. My fantasy is rudely interrupted by Dr. Saar's booming voice: "That's all for today! Homework's due at the start of the next class!"

Wait, what homework? I scramble to pack up and awkwardly ask the nearest classmate, "Hey, um... what was the homework?" They give me a look like I've just asked what planet we're on. "It's on the last slide." "Oh... thanks!" I wave as they zoom off, probably never to speak to me again.

Ugh, focus? Never heard of it. Every semester, I daydream my way through lectures and then teach myself everything the week before exams. Somehow, I manage to survive.

As I weave through confused freshmen clutching their paper schedules, skaters, and the volleyball team, I spot her—Georgia. And her girlfriend Vivienne. And, of course, Henry John and a couple of people I don't know. I'm so busy staring that I walk right into someone.