Until the Day I Die(30)

“So,” he starts. “Here’s the thing. Lowell does know who you are. I do too.”

“Okay,” I say slowly.

“Shorie Gaines. Freshman, Amelia Boynton Hall, roommate Adelia Foster. Majoring in comp sci and software engineering. Full academic ride, with all the trimmings. Meal plan, books, box seats for home games.”

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling suddenly very shaky. And deeply regretful that I’ve just followed a boy I don’t know back to his house at the end of a gravel road in the middle of a field in the country. At night.

“How do you know all that?” I ask in a faint voice.

“It’s something I do for my business. For recruiting purposes.”

I feel like I can’t move. This guy researched me? For his business?

“I swear, it’s not as creepy as it sounds,” he adds lamely.

“Wait. Are you a student? How old are you?”

“On and off. I’m twenty. Just turned.”

“And you knew who I was when I walked up to the food truck?”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you pitch me on your business thing then? Why did you close the window?”

He clears his throat for a really long time. “I guess I didn’t feel like I was ready. I’d seen your pictures and all. But when you walked up to the truck, it was like . . . you weren’t what I expected.” He looks flushed, embarrassed. “And then you threw the napkins, and I thought it was really . . .” He seems uncertain. “I thought that was pretty feisty, so then, I decided what the hell.”

Okay, I’m definitely confused. For a second, it seemed like Rhys might be nervous because he liked me. But now he’s telling me he thinks I’m feisty. Which, I’m not sure, may be code for bitchy. So here I am, hanging out with a guy in his oddly grown-up-looking bedroom, alone. A guy who knows about me for some strange, stalker-y reason, who brought me back to his bedroom. Where we are now hanging out, just the two of us. In the semidarkness.

I put down my beer. “I should go.”

“We would’ve met eventually anyway,” he goes on quickly. “We usually try to arrange it so the pitch is more natural, though. Through a friend of a friend. Or at a party.”

“I’ll call a car.” I move to the door. “I can wait out on the porch.”

“Hold up, okay,” he says, and like a fool, I do. It’s the caramel and cinnamon thing he’s got going on, plus probably his way with chicken shawarma. A lot to resist. He stands, approaches me cautiously. “I’ll tell you everything, lay it all out, and then, I guess, it’s up to you to say yes or no.”

“Yes or no?” I give him my feistiest glare. Wrist control, I think. The power of boo. If I have to, I know I can get myself out of here.

He opens the laptop, and the monitors light up again. After a few taps, I see the spreadsheets.

He points to the screen on the left. “This is the class of 2023, a to z. The ones on academic or athletic scholarships are highlighted in yellow.” He points to the middle rainbow-coded table. “This is my available pool of freelancers—sophomores, juniors, seniors. Some working on advanced degrees. The ones shaded in pink can take your English Comp I or II for you and earn you a ninety or above. Purples, the same for any core history class, including tech and civ. Greens do core social sciences and Core Science Sequence I and II. Brown, any math.”

“And the screen on the end?” That one is different; it has a graphic of outer space behind all the rows and rows of text.

“Oh.” He looks super flustered and clicks off the monitor. “That’s Eve Online. My fleet data.”

I laugh in spite of my nerves. “And that’s the screen you’re embarrassed for me to see?”

He flushes. Inhales. “So here’s the deal. I started this company last year. I’m a junior . . . and change. Not enrolled this semester because fall is always busy. For a reasonable fee, I can have someone—a surrogate—take one or more of your core freshman classes, freeing you up for endeavors that make better use of your time.”

I blink slowly, taking it in. I’m not sure exactly what he’s talking about, but it sure sounds an awful lot like cheating.

“Some kids’ majors are just total grinds, right? And their parents have no idea that if they actually finish it in the four years required, they’ll wind up drooling in a drain ditch somewhere or jumping off the roof of Haley Center. So they can take additional classes and get ahead without stressing so much. And then there are some kids, the really brilliant ones, who are already being pursued by top companies. They use the time to freelance because they’re gonna make way more than what they pay me. And then there are the rest.”

“The rest?”

“They just want to get stoned all semester.”

“So which category do I fall into? Because obviously you’ve heard of Jax. And you know who my parents are.”

He scratches his jaw, then plants his hands on his hips. For some weird reason, it makes me think of my dad.

“I mean, I’ve heard of them, yes,” he says.

“You said you memorized everything about me. Well, surely you know that, along with being awarded a four-year full ride from National Women in STEM, my parents created Jax.”