Easy (3 page)

“If everyone will
be seated, we’ll begin.” The professor’s statement shook me from my stupor—I
was the only student standing. I bolted to the empty chair between the chatty
girl and the sleepy guy.

She glanced at me,
never pausing in her weekend confession of how trashed she’d been and where and
with whom. The guy unsquinted his eyes just enough to notice when I slid into
the bolted-down chair between them, but he didn’t otherwise move.

“Is this seat
taken?” I whispered to him.

He shook his head
and mumbled, “It was. But she dropped. Or stopped coming. Whatever.”

I pulled a spiral
from my bag, relieved. I tried not to look at Kennedy, but the angled seating
made that effort challenging. His perfectly styled dirty blond hair and the familiar
uncreased button-down shirt drew my eyes every time he moved. I knew the effect
of that green plaid next to his striking green eyes. I’d known him since ninth
grade. I’d watched him alter his style from a boy who wore mesh shorts and
sneakers every day to the guy who sent his fitted shirts out to be pressed,
kept his shoes scuff-free, and always looked as though he’d just stepped from
the cover of a magazine. I’d seen more than one teacher turn her head as he
passed before snapping her gaze away from his perfect, off-limits body.

Junior year, we
had pre-AP English together. He focused on me from the first day of class,
flashing his dimpled smile in my direction before taking his seat, inviting me
to join his study group, inquiring about my weekend plans—and finally making
himself a part of them. I’d never been so confidently pursued. As our class
president, he was familiar to everyone, and he made a concerted effort to
become familiar
with
everyone. As an athlete, he was a credit to the
baseball team. As a student, his academic standing was in the top ten percent.
As a member of the debate team, he was known for conclusive arguments and an unbeaten
record.

As a boyfriend, he
was patient and attentive, never pushing me too far or too fast. Never forgetting
a birthday or an anniversary. Never making me doubt his intentions for us. Once
we were official, he changed my name—and everyone followed suit, including me.
“You’re my Jackie,” he told me, referencing the wife of Jack Kennedy, his
namesake and personal idol.

He wasn’t related.
His parents were just weirdly political—and also at odds with each other. He
had a sister named Reagan and a brother named Carter.

Three years had
passed since I’d gone by Jacqueline, and I fought daily to regain that one original
part of myself that I’d put aside for him. It wasn’t the only thing I’d given
up, or the most important. It was just the only one I could get back.

***

Between trying to avoid staring at
Kennedy for fifty minutes straight and having skipped the class for two weeks,
my brain was sluggish and uncooperative. When class ended, I realized I’d
absorbed little of the lecture.

I followed Dr.
Heller to his office, running through various appeals in my head to induce him
to give me a chance to catch up. Until that moment, I hadn’t cared that I was
failing. Now that the possibility had become a probability, I was terrified. I
had never failed a class. What would I tell my parents and my advisor? This F
would be on my transcript for the
rest of my life
.

“All right, Ms. Wallace.”
Dr. Heller removed a textbook and a stack of disorderly notes from his battered
attaché and moved around his office as though I wasn’t standing there. “State
your case.”

I cleared my
throat. “My case?”

Tiredly, he peered
at me over his glasses. “You’ve missed two straight weeks of class—including
the midterm, and you missed today. I assume you’re standing here in my office
in order to make some sort of case for why you should not fail macroeconomics.
I’m waiting with bated breath for that explanation.” He sighed, shelving the
textbook. “I always think I’ve heard them all, but I’ve been known to be
surprised. So go ahead. I don’t have all day, and I presume you don’t, either.”

I swallowed. “I
was in class today. I just sat in a different seat.”

He nodded. “I’ll
take your word for that, since you approached me at the end of the lecture.
That’s one day of participation back in your favor—amounting to about a quarter
of a grade point. You still have six missed class days and a zero on a major exam.”

Oh, God. As if a
plug had been pulled, the jumbled excuses and realizations came pouring out. “My
boyfriend broke up with me, and he’s in the class, and I can’t stand to see him,
let alone sit next to him… Oh my God,
I missed the midterm
. I’m going to
fail. I’ve never failed a class in my life.” As if that speech wasn’t
mortifying enough, my eyes watered and spilled over. I bit my lip to keep from
sobbing outright, staring at his desk, unable to meet the repulsed expression I
imagined him wearing.

I heard his sigh
in the same moment a tissue appeared in my line of vision. “It’s your lucky
day, Ms. Wallace.”

I took the tissue
and pressed it to my wet cheeks, eyeing him cautiously.

“As it happens, I
have a daughter just a bit younger than you. She recently endured a nasty
little breakup. My whip-smart, straight-A student turned into an emotional
wreck who did nothing but cry, sleep, and cry some more—for about two weeks.
And then she came to her senses and decided that no boy was going to ruin her
scholastic record. For the sake of my daughter, I’ll give you one chance.
One
.
If you blow it, you will receive the grade you’ve earned at the end of the
semester. Do we understand each other?”

I nodded, more
tears spilling.

“Good.” My
professor shifted uncomfortably and handed me another tissue. “Oh, for Pete’s
sake—as I told my daughter, there’s not a boy on the planet worth this amount
of angst. I know; I used to be one.” He scribbled on a slip of paper and handed
it to me. “Here’s the email address of my class tutor, Landon Maxfield. If you
aren’t familiar with his supplemental instruction sessions, I suggest you
get
familiar with them. You’ll no doubt need some one-on-one tutoring as well. He
was an excellent student in my class two years ago, and he’s been tutoring for
me since then. I’ll give him the details of the project I expect you to do to
replace the midterm grade.”

Another sob
escaped me when I thanked him, and I thought he might explode from discomfort.
“Well, well, yes, of course, you’re welcome.” He pulled out the seating chart.
“Show me where you’ll be sitting from now on, so you can earn those
quarter-points for attendance.” I pointed to my new seat, and he wrote my name
in the square.

I had my shot. All
I had to do was get in touch with this Landon person and turn in a project. How
hard could it be?

***

The Starbucks line in the student union
was ridiculously long, but it was raining and I wasn’t in the mood to get
soaked crossing the street to the indie coffee shop just off-campus to get my
fix before my afternoon class. In unrelated reasoning, that was also where
Kennedy was most likely to be; we went there almost daily after lunch. On
principle, he tended to shun “corporate monstrosities” like Starbucks, even if
the coffee was better.

“There’s no way
I’m making it across campus on time if I wait in this line.” Erin growled her
annoyance, leaning to check out how many people were ahead of us. “Nine people.
Nine! And five waiting for drinks! Who the hell are all of these people?” The
guy in front of us glanced over his shoulder with a scowl. She scowled back at
him and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.

“Caffeine addicts
like us?” I suggested.

“Ugh,” she huffed
and then grabbed my arm. “I almost forgot—did you hear what happened to Buck
Saturday night?”

My stomach
dropped. The night I just wanted to forget wouldn’t leave me alone. I shook my
head.

“He got jumped in
the parking lot behind the house. A couple of guys wanted his wallet. Probably
homeless people, he said—that’s what we get with a campus right in the middle
of a big city. They didn’t get anything, the bastards, but damn, Buck’s face is
busted up.” She leaned closer. “He actually looks a little hotter like that.
Rowr
,
if you know what I mean.”

I felt ill,
standing there mute and feigning interest instead of refuting Buck’s
explanation of the events leading to his pummeled face.

“Well, crap. I’m gonna
have to chug a Rockstar to keep from zoning out during poly-sci. I can’t be
late—we’ve got a quiz. I’ll see you after work.” She gave me a quick hug and
scurried off.

I scooted forward
with the line, my mind going over Saturday night for the thousandth time. I
couldn’t shake how vulnerable I felt, still. I’d never been blind to the fact
that guys are stronger. Kennedy had scooped me into his arms more times than I
could count, one time tossing me over his shoulder and running up a flight of
stairs as I clung to his back, upside down and laughing. He’d easily opened
jars I couldn’t open, moved furniture I could hardly budge. His superior
strength had been evident when he’d braced himself above me, biceps hard under
my hands.

Two weeks ago, he'd torn out my heart, and I’d never felt so hurt, so empty.

But he’d never
used his physical strength against me.

No, that was all
Buck. Buck, a campus hottie who didn’t have a problem getting girls. A guy who’d
never given any indication that he could or would hurt me, or that he was aware
of me at all, except as Kennedy’s girlfriend. I could blame the alcohol… but
no. Alcohol removes inhibitions. It doesn’t trigger criminal violence where
there was none before.

“Next.”

I shook off my
reverie and looked across the counter, prepared to give my usual order, and
there stood the guy from Saturday night. The guy I’d avoided sitting next to
this morning in economics. My mouth hung open but nothing came out. And just
like this morning, Saturday night came flooding back. My face heated,
remembering the position I’d been in, what he must have witnessed before he’d
intervened, how foolish he must consider me.

But then, he’d
said it wasn’t my fault.

And he’d called me
by my name. The name I no longer used, as of sixteen days ago.

My split-second
wish that he wouldn’t recall who I was went ungranted. I returned his
penetrating gaze and could see he remembered all of it, clearly. Every
mortifying bit. My face burned.

“Are you ready to
order?” His question pulled me from my disorientation. His voice was calm, but I
felt the exasperation of the restless customers behind me.

“Grande caffé
Americano. Please.” My words were so mumbled that I half expected him to ask me
to repeat myself.

But he marked the
cup, which was when I noted the two or three layers of thin white gauze wrapped
around his knuckles. He passed the cup to the barista and rang up the drink as
I handed over my card.

“Doing okay
today?” he asked, his words so seemingly casual, yet so full of meaning between
us. He swiped my card and handed it back with the receipt.

“I’m fine.” The
knuckles of his left hand were scuffed but not severely abraded. As I took the
card and receipt, his fingers grazed over mine. I snatched my hand away. “Thanks.”

His eyes widened,
but he said nothing else.

“I’ll have a venti
caramel macchiato—skinny, no whip.” The impatient girl behind me gave her order
over my shoulder, not touching me, but pressing too far into my personal space
for comfort.

His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly when he shifted his gaze to
her. Marking the cup, he gave her the total in clipped tones, his eyes flicking to me once more as I
stepped away. I don’t know if he looked at me after that. I waited for my
coffee at the other end of the bar, and hurried away without adding my usual
dribble of milk and three packets of sugar.

Economics was a
survey course, and as such the roster was huge—probably two hundred students. I
could avoid eye contact with two boys in the midst of that many people for the
remaining six weeks of fall semester, couldn’t I?

Chapter 3

I dutifully emailed the econ tutor
when I got back to the dorm after class, and started on my art history
homework. While tapping out a response essay on a neoclassical sculptor and his
influence on the style, I mumbled a thank you to my inner neurotic that I’d at
least kept up in my non-econ classes.

With Erin at work,
I could buckle down to an evening of quiet studying. Here in our microscopic
room, she couldn’t help being a near-constant distraction. While I attempted to
cram for an algebra test last week, the following conversation took place: “I
had
to have those pumps for my job, Daddy!” she argued into her cell. “You said you
wanted me to learn the value of work while I’m in school, and you always say a
person should dress for success, so I’m only trying to follow your words of
wisdom.”

When she glanced
at me, I rolled my eyes. My roommate was a hostess at a swanky restaurant
downtown, a position she frequently used as an excuse for overspending her
clothing budget. Three hundred dollar shoes, essential for a job that paid nine
bucks an hour? I stifled my laugh when she winked back at me. Her father always
caved, especially when she employed the D-word—
Daddy
.

I wasn’t expecting
a quick reply from Landon Maxfield. As an upperclassman and a tutor for a huge
class like Dr. Heller’s, he had to be busy. I was also certain he’d be none too
thrilled to assist a failing sophomore who’d skipped the midterm and two weeks
of class, and who had never attended one of his tutoring sessions. I was
prepared to show him I would work hard to catch up and get out of his hair as
quickly as possible.