Call It What You Want(78)

She smiles, and it’s somehow both hesitant and exultant. “I know they will. I used to do it all the time.”



Our drive is full of loud music and road trip snacks and many—many—bathroom breaks for Samantha. I worried that she would be morose and silent, but if anything, she’s over the top, singing bawdy songs and flicking popcorn at me. I know now from the events at Connor Tunstall’s house that this is Sam’s way of disguising stress: being the ultimate party girl.

With a start, I wonder if this was how she dealt with stress in high school, too. She always made the athletic pressure seem like something that would roll right off her back, like excelling in lacrosse was a gift she was born with and not a skill that was honed to a razor’s edge with every hour spent on the field. To everyone else, Samantha looked vivacious and carefree, but was she really drowning inside the whole time?

I wish I’d known before. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt the need to measure up without feeling any stress myself. Maybe I wouldn’t have tried to cheat.

We’re thirty minutes away and giggling about a prank call they played on the radio, when Sam falls silent. It’s such an abrupt shift that I reach out to lower the volume.

“What’s wrong?”

She bites at the edge of her thumbnail, and her voice is very quiet. “What am I doing, Megs?”

“You’re going to confront David.” I hope my voice sounds strong and full of conviction.

She doesn’t respond.

“Do you want me to turn around?” I say.

“No.”

“Do you still want to do this?”

“Yes. Maybe. Probably.” She jerks her thumb out of her mouth. “Damn it. Yes.”

I hesitate.

Samantha looks over. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? He calls campus security and throws me out of his classroom?”

“Is that a possibility?” My voice is strangled.

“No. Maybe.”

“Aren’t you worried about school canceling your scholarship?”

“I don’t know if I can go back there, Megs. Either way.” She looks over, and her face starts to crumple. “You know? Knowing all this happened? Like—” Her breath hitches. “Like, how am I supposed to go to class every day, knowing he’s right there, on campus? The baby’s daddy? Or the no-more-baby’s daddy? How am I supposed to do that?” She’s crying full out now. “How, Megs?”

I reach out and take her hand, and she grips mine tightly. “I don’t know.”

As abruptly as her tears started, they stop. She sniffs hard and wipes at her face. “Enough of this. I want to do it. I want to get it done.”

I glance at the navigation app on my phone. We’re less than ten minutes away. “Do you know where he’ll be right now?”

Her eyes are clear now, full of fury. “Absolutely.”

I’m slightly familiar with the campus from driving Samantha down here to move in, but back in August, the large brick buildings were charming, trees dripping with leaves as the summer sun beamed down. Today, a bitter chill clings to everything. The barren trees and overcast sky leave the campus looking sinister instead of welcoming.

Or maybe that’s the current of dread running through Mom’s car.

“We don’t have to do this,” I offer as I pull into a parking place in front of Guilder Hall, the building Samantha indicated.

“Oh, no. I’m doing it.” She’s out of the car before I even have the vehicle in park.

I hustle to keep up with her. She’s the old Samantha again, bold and fearless, storming into the building the way she used to storm across a lacrosse field. The hallways are hushed, doors closed, as teachers speak to smaller groups of students. We pass all those, walking until we come to a set of wooden double doors.

Sam grabs the handle without hesitation and breezes through. I can barely keep up with her.

“Wait,” I hiss. Surely she must need a plan of some sort.

She doesn’t wait. She doesn’t stop. The doors slam shut behind us, and we round a turn—only to find ourselves looking up at a hundred students or more.

Whoa. Of course it would be a packed lecture hall and not a group of half a dozen freshmen talking about Chaucer.

I’m staring at the students, so it takes me a moment to realize Sam is staring at the professor. This must be DavidLitMan.

He looks older than he did in the Instagram photograph. His hair is slightly thinning in front, and his jaw is a bit too pudgy. He wears a button-down oxford shirt with khakis. Nothing amazing about him at all.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” Sam grinds out. She’s practically breathing fire.

I almost miss the slight paling of his cheeks, but he recovers quickly and clears his throat. “Miss Day. We’re in the middle of class. If you’d like to talk about your missed work—”

“I don’t want to talk about missed work.”

“Well, then, you’re welcome to make an appointment—”

“Are. You. Insane?”

A titter of laughter runs through the class. David—can I call him David?—glares at them and they fall silent.

Sam takes a step closer to him. Her hands have formed fists at her sides.

I wonder if she’ll hit him. I wonder if I should stop her.