Little Lies(6)

On the upside, I’m starting today with a class I’m looking forward to—costume and set design. Unfortunately it’s at eight thirty on Mondays and Wednesdays. Usually only drama majors are allowed to register for this class, but because of my transcripts, my heavy involvement in both school and community theater, and the letter from Queenie, who is still my therapist, I was able to enroll. I was also granted special permission to take a visual arts class, thanks again to Queenie and my dad’s generous donation to both the school hockey team and the arts department. It doesn’t hurt that my dad is a hockey legend.

Is it nepotism? Sure. Do I feel bad that I’m potentially taking a spot from someone? Sure. But I worked hard for this, and the only reason I haven’t declared my major yet is because my parents thought it would be better for me to stick to general classes until the end of my sophomore year. Had my parents not been so adamant, I would be a theater major already.

I don’t necessarily disagree with taking a little bit of everything if you’re uncertain of your future path. Maverick’s already changed his major twice. He started in physics and then switched to chemistry and eventually decided he wanted to go the kinesiology route. All his courses have really long names, and the textbooks are so thick, they could stop a bullet. I may have forgotten to mention that while Mav is a fuckboy and a hockey player, he too is shockingly smart. Maybe not as smart as Kodiak, but pretty damn close.

But I, unlike my brothers, already know exactly what I want to do. My goal this year is to appease my parents, who are afraid attending college away from home is going to overwhelm me. They also don’t want me to lock myself into something too specific and close any doors before they think I’m ready.

I love them, but the overprotective bullshit can be a lot to handle. I get it, but it’s still tough to deal with at times.

I jog up the steps of the art building with only five minutes to spare. Of course, because I’m in a rush, I trip halfway up. My glasses, which I try not to wear unless I’m in the privacy of my own home, slip off and land facedown on the steps. It would be fine if my knee didn’t then land right on top of them. The crunch is ominous and telling.

“Crap.”

I scramble to right myself as a pair of hands slip under my arms and someone helps me to my feet.

“Are you okay?”

The voice belongs to a guy. Awesome. Today can suck a set of old man balls.

“Yeah, being top-heavy makes walking tough,” I mumble. Of course those are the first words out of my mouth. Sometimes I wish I were still as tongue-tied as I was when I was younger.

“Pardon? I didn’t catch that.”

“I’m fine, thanks. Just embarrassed.” I smooth my skirt and tip my head back. I’m short. I always have to look up. At everyone. Except for small children and pets.

The guy in front of me is only mildly blurry. It’s possible he may be cute. He’s tallish, maybe around six feet, although to be fair, almost anyone seems tall to me. His dark hair is cropped short and he’s wearing thick-rimmed black glasses. And a Hufflepuff T-shirt.

He bends to retrieve my glasses with a grimace. They’re in two pieces, and the lenses are scratched to hell. “I think you have a casualty.”

“I have spares at home.” Because I’m clumsy and this isn’t the first time I’ve landed on my own glasses—not that the spares are going to help me during this class. At least I have a break between this one and the next, so I can go home and grab a backup pair. I shove the broken glasses in the front pocket of my backpack. I don’t know why I don’t toss them in the trash. It’s not like there’s any hope of fixing them.

“Are you heading in?” My savior inclines his head toward the doors.

“Oh, yeah.” I slip my hand into my skirt pocket—all my dresses have pockets, because it’s convenient and prevents me from hand-talking—and pull out my phone. I have to bring it right up to my face to make out the time. “Crap, I have four minutes to get to class.”

“What’re you taking?”

“Costume and set design.”

“Really? Me too. We can go together.”

“Sure. Great, thank you. I’m so freaking blind without my glasses, I can’t read the numbers on the doors unless my nose is almost pressed against the wall.” That’s a slight exaggeration, but not much.

My new friend taps his glasses. “I’ll be the eyes for both of us. I’m Josiah, by the way.”

“I’m Lavender.”

“That’s a cool name.” He smiles blurrily. “It’s nice to meet you, Lavender.”

“You too, Josiah.”

We rush the rest of the way up the steps. Thankfully, our class is close to the entrance, and we slip in with a minute to spare. It smells like rich fabric and the metallic tang of electricity, sewing machines, wood, and paint.

“Oh my God,” I half moan in a whisper. “I wish I could see this room clearly. It smells like heaven.”

I follow Josiah to the blob of students arranged in a semicircle on one side of the room. We take the last two seats at the edge, and Professor Martin starts calling names. As usual, I’m last on the list.

Once roll has been called, our professor reviews the syllabus. Luckily, I have a tablet, and Josiah lends me his glasses for a minute so I can make the font huge enough to take notes I can read. Basically it’s a sentence a page, but it’s better than nothing. We spend half the time playing icebreaker games, and in the last twenty minutes, we have to write a couple of paragraphs on what we hope to get out of this class.