Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(2)

I have nothing against Blake Reynolds, except that he nearly ran me over. Except that every time he’s smiled at me, I’ve felt a little tickle of something in the pit of my stomach, and I don’t have time for something, let alone harboring that something for Blake Reynolds. I have nothing against Blake, even though he’s apparently been told he can park in the Chancellor’s spot, for God’s sake. I have nothing against the fact that the Graduate Student Instructor who leads our section practically fawns over him, hanging on every word he says as if it were chiseled on stone tablets.

I have nothing against Blake except that I’m going to spend the next few hours freezing because of him. And he got oil stains on my lucky sweater.

Fine. I admit it. I have something against Blake Reynolds.

He lopes up to the building as I squeeze water out of my sleeve. He has an easy, smooth gait, and he disappears between the glass doors before I can say anything. I follow behind, grimly strangling the straps of my backpack and pretending it’s his neck. But I don’t have time to do anything except follow him into the building, dash up a few flights of stairs, find a bathroom, and rub hopelessly at my sleeve with whatever I can find. Thirty seconds convinces me that water and a swiftly-eroding paper towel isn’t going to solve the problem.

I’m two minutes late when I slide into my seat. The instructor—he’s told us to call him Fred—gives me a dirty look. The girl behind me gives me an understanding smile as I sit down and brush at my sweater.

“Shitty weather, isn’t it?” she whispers.

“Seriously.”

Beside me, just two feet away, Blake glances my way. For a second, our eyes meet, and I imagine myself throwing my backpack at him. But he just smiles at me—that goddamned lottery ticket of a smile—as if nothing is wrong.

I gave him a dirty look, but he’s already looked away.

Of course. He still doesn’t notice.

I take my folder out of my backpack, set the week’s reading on the desk next to it, and sit back.

This is not like my programming languages class where I take notes constantly. This is a class for freshmen, a survey course where people just…talk about the reading. I have two majors, both with a huge slate of prerequisites. For scheduling reasons, I didn’t end up getting all my required classes out of the way my first two years of college. Consequently, Blake and I are the oldest ones in the class.

This is just a discussion section, which means that people—freshmen people, to be exact—spend time expounding on their theory of the world. Since almost none of them have any experience to speak of, the discussions tend to be both heated and naïve. I’m not a big talker, so I normally don’t say anything unless I’m prodded.

We’ve been talking about the politics of the safety net for the last week and a half. Today, we’re talking about food stamps. Everyone speaks earnestly and academically about topics that have no effect on their daily lives. I don’t know if I’m alone in my experience—I can’t be the only one in here who doesn’t come from money—but from the conversation, it sure sounds like it. I nod and pretend that these things don’t matter to me, either.

I pretend it doesn’t matter when the girl at the front of the class says that people on food stamps are lazy. I pretend I don’t care when someone talks about how they saw someone buying a fifth of vodka and a bag of candy with EBT. I nod and I smile and I try not to shiver. I tell myself it’s the draft, that it’s my drenched, mud-stained, no-longer-lucky sweater.

And don’t get me wrong. This is Cal, and the students here are not exactly known for their staunch conservatism, so there are even more people defending the concept of food stamps. Somehow, they still manage to imply that people on food stamps are an endangered species and that the smarter, better parts of society should extend a helping hand to those less-fortunate primates who can’t take care of themselves. God save me from college students who think they can save a world they don’t really inhabit.

I grind my pen into the desk and keep my mouth shut.

And then Blake raises his hand.

I’ve been trying not to look at him since class started. I’ve been trying not to think about him, because I’m already pissed off and I don’t need to feel more pissed off. But he’s the golden boy of the class, and when Fred gestures to him and he leans back in his seat, I can’t not look at him.

Blake is tall and blond. He has a light dusting of facial hair—more than scruff, less than a full beard—that would look unkempt on just about any other student. On him, it looks distinguished. He started college a little later than most students would, and before he came here, he had a high-level position in his father’s company. He glances around the room, smiling, supremely confident that whatever he’s going to say will be brilliant. Everyone else seems to hold their breath, already believing the same thing.

Blake also wears a suit and tie to class. Let me be honest: Most college students who dress up look like douchebags playing at being adults. They look like they care so much about their appearance that they’re afraid to relax. By contrast, Blake looks like he’s got the money to dress well and then another million bucks on top of that. He doesn’t have to give a shit about what anyone thinks of him.

I suppose he’s good-looking, if you like the juxtaposition of sharp with slightly disheveled.