Whistleblower ✓

04 | editor-in-chief

The assault of genitalia diagrams was seemingly endless.

When Nick finally clicked off the projector, turned on the lights, and started telling us to have a good weekend—but not too good a weekend, because we had reading due Tuesday—I was the first person in the room to lurch out of my seat.

I hugged my notebook to my chest, the loose sheets of my article shoved inside for safekeeping, and started shuffling backwards into the aisle.

"I'll see you tonight?" I asked Andre, raising my voice just enough so he'd hear me over the rustle of papers and the hiss of zippers while everyone packed up.

It was the first Thursday of the semester—a day referred to as either Thirsty Thursday or Blackout Thursday, depending on who you asked.

There would be house parties up and down the Rodeo, a street a few blocks north of campus that was lined with twelve historic Victorian houses that'd all been rented out to different student groups—the baseball team, the women's field hockey team, the Black Student Union, cinema club.

There were no sororities or fraternities at Garland, but a lack of infrastructure had never stopped our student body from finding ways to get white girl wasted on a weeknight.

It was fantastic people-watching.

Hanna, Andre and I planned on hitting our usual spot, the Art House, which was far from a rager but did possess a kind of cool, intellectual vibe.

Music I hadn't heard, discussions of poetry I hadn't read.

Probably lots of boxed wine.

"I'm coming over to pregame," Andre said as he closed his laptop. "Tell Hanna not to drink all the Fireball before I get there."

I scrunched my nose and shivered with disgust.

"Do you hate yourselves?"

Andre rolled his eyes.

"Go turn in your damn article!" he said, shooing me off with a wave of his hand.

Before I turned to leave, I allowed myself one glance across the room.

Bodie St. James was standing in front of his seat, fingers laced at the back of his head as he stretched his elbows out and arched his back. His hair had dried funny, so his bangs—which he usually kept off his forehead—curled a little to one side.

He turned to Kyle Fogarty and said something that made him laugh, then slung his backpack over his shoulder and turned towards the opposite aisle. He didn't so much as look back in my direction.

For some pathetic reason, I'd been hoping he would.

I spun around, hating myself a little, and bolted out the door.

Outside the biology building, the rainclouds had thinned so streaks of golden sunlight came pouring through. While very picturesque and all, this meant the air was both damp and warm.

My hair had never done well in humidity.

I could practically hear it crackling as I trudged across campus.

The student union was a massive, horseshoe-shaped building at the far end of a quad that housed the enormous oval-shaped fountain where the seniors always did the annual Trunk Dunk the week before graduation.

It was a perpetually crowded part of campus—even with the grass soaked and the skies still half grey. There were people studying on beach towels and a pair of guys tossing a football back and forth, both of them wearing bro tanks and board shorts.