Whistleblower ✓

03 | saving seats

It took me a moment to recover from Bodie's words, and to remember that I was standing on stage in front of almost a hundred people with what had to be a very shell-shocked expression on my face.

I snapped my mouth shut and scanned the crowd for Andre.

He was sitting three rows from the back and two chairs in from the aisle, where he'd saved me a seat with his backpack. His hair was easy to spot—tall on top, fade on the sides, with twin racing stripes buzzed over each of his ears. It helped, of course, that he was six foot four and wearing the same black Nike jacket as all the other football players.

He watched me with one eyebrow raised as I hurried up the aisle and drop into the seat beside him, sighing in relief.

"The fuck did you do?" he whisper-hissed, "Swim here?"

"Funny," I grumbled, shaking a little as I tugged my backpack off.

Andre must've notice I was flustered, because he shut up and let me unpack. I slapped the loose pages of my article onto the uselessly small swerving desk built into my chair and sat back.

"Thought that was due today," Andre commented.

"I'm going to the student union after this," I explained, tucking my hair behind my ears for what felt like the millionth time and remembering, belatedly, that I'd left the apartment that morning with a full face of make up on. My foundation was probably dripping down my neck. "Printing in Buchanan was a nightmare."

"You should hit up the architecture library," Andre told me. "They got new printers this summer. Nice ones. I'll swipe you in."

I murmured my thanks.

On stage, Nick was connecting his laptop to the projectors.

Three rows down, Bodie squeezed past people's knees to get to a clump of football players sitting together.

"What's up, jerk-off?" one greeted affectionately.

"Holy shit," said Kyle Fogarty, the senior tight end. "Coach shakes down the professor to get you into the class, and then you show up late? What a fucking power move."

I'm not sure why the knowledge that Vaughn had gotten Bodie a spot in a class with a full roster came as such a surprise. A football player getting preferential treatment at Garland was far from a novelty.

While the Daily had to print in black and white because the university "couldn't find it in the budget" to give us color printing, the football team got free soft-serve ice cream and massages at their brand-new training facility. Every fall, the town of Garland rejoiced in the almighty glory of collegiate football and worshipped the players like they were deities with matching Nike sweatshirts and mediocre GPAs.

In short, Garland kissed the football team's collective ass.

Bodie grimaced, so quick I could've blinked and miss it.

"Wasn't on purpose," he said. "Coach asked me to grab breakfast with him this morning. We had to talk strategy for next weekend."

The rest of the players welcomed him with a ritualistic series of handshakes and pats on the back.

I watched them with detached fascination, wincing when Scott Quinton—the offensive tackle with the neck of a sea lion—clapped Bodie on the shoulder so hard I felt a phantom twinge in my own arm.

"Boys are so dumb," I murmured. "Doesn't that hurt?"

Andre glanced up from his laptop and gave me a withering look.

"You and Hanna tweeze each other's eyebrows," he said.

"Fair," I conceded, then frowned. "Shouldn't you be down there?"