LITMIR.BIZ

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pleeeeeasse. Oh, cool, it’s at 20 perc—

      And it died. Awesome. I live in Silicon Valley, but that won’t stop my iPhone from jumping from twenty to zero whenever it feels like it. I fight the urge to throw the $600 piece of hardware at the weird ant statue.

      “Are you all right?”

      I turn around.

      The beautiful boy in pastel shorts and a white polo button-down looks at me with concern in his eyes. Wow, those eyes. Deep brown in a way that held mysteries, but lined with the most beautiful, long eyelashes. I’ve often heard people say that since girls wear mascara, good eyelashes are wasted on a boy. I respectfully disagree.

      They were eyes that made me want to trust him, even though we’d never met. I was transfixed by him.

      I cleared my throat. “Yeah. I’m just late, lost and my phone died.”

      “Where are you going?”

      “Rush.”

      “Oh, me, too! I didn’t know sorority Rush was happening now, too.”

      It’s not. Actually, it happened before school even began. “Um...”

      “Well, I’m not sure where The Row is, either, but my phone’s at fifty percent, so you can come with me.”

      He smiles, and I melt.

      I know I should stay focused, but I really do need help...

      “That’d be great. Thank you.”

      He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Ooohhh, he has nice arms, too.

      Shit, he’s looking at me. Act normal, Cassie.

      I make myself smile and probably look like a serial killer.

      He looks from his phone to the path in front of us and then back again. “Okay, I think that it’s...this way.”

      “That’s not very encouraging.” I laugh. “But I guess it’s better than what I have.”

      He smiles. “That’s fair.”

      “Lead the way.”

      We walk in silence for a minute, just the sound of our footsteps. I try to think of something interesting to say.

      “So what classes are you taking?” he asks.

      “Rhetoric, Intro to Gender Studies and Sociology 101.”

      “Oh, I’m in that one, too!” His eyes light up.

      “Really?”

      “Yeah. I was really excited about the description, but today was kind of boring.”

      “Oh my God, I know. But hopefully it will get better.”

      “I have faith.” He checks his phone again, and we take a right.

      My red-and-white high-tops kick up dust from the dry California ground. By the main buildings, the lawns are still well watered and manicured. But back where the students live it’s all cracked ground and sparse dry grass.

      “I feel like I’m gonna look so sweaty and gross,” I say. “And I hate that I have to care, because of how superficial these things are.”

      He turns his attention from his phone to me. “I think you look really great.”

      I laugh. “I wasn’t going for that. I’m just trying to have an objective conversation.”

      He tilts his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

      “Like, I’m a confident person. I’m not fishing for compliments or needing you to say that. I have eyes and a mirror. I understand the difference between good hair days and bad ones. Me being made-up and my makeup melting off.”

      “I didn’t think you weren’t confident. I think you objectively look good.”

      “Well...” I glance away briefly. “Thank you.”

      “Even if your makeup is melting off a little bit.” He reaches out and brushes a stray eyelash off my cheek. “But now you get to make a wish.”

      My whole body feels like a live wire. Our eyes lock and I’m scared to look away, for the moment to end, but also I’m scared if I don’t I will make it weird and—

      “Continue on Galvez Street.” Siri, the third wheel I’d forgotten about, ruins the moment.

      We both look away, and I try not to giggle as we proceed forward. The silence turns from sexually tense to awkward.

      He clears his throat.

      I look at him.

      There’s a pause.

      He doesn’t look up from the path when he says, “Um...do you wanna exchange numbers? So we can talk about sociology and stuff?”

      My heart picks up. “Yeah, sociology and stuff.”

      He hands me his phone, and I type in my number, checking it three times. I go to text myself his name and...

      “I just realized, I don’t know your name.”

      A movie-star smile spreads across his face. “Jordan Louis.”

      “Cassandra Davis,” I say.

      He reaches out to shake my hand. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Davis.”

      We hold hands and eye contact for a second longer than we probably should.

      I can feel myself blushing and look down quickly to hide it. “Um, here you go,” I say, handing back his phone.

      “Thanks.” He examines his screen for a second. “Hey, it seems like we’re pretty close...well, I mean to where I need to be. Hopefully I’m leading you in the right direction.”

      “Where are you rushing?” I ask.

      “DTC.”

      “Yep, that’s right near where I need to go.”

      But my heart sinks as I say it. Because even though I have no right to be emotionally invested in this person I just met, he’s tall and has pretty eyes and a heart-melting smile, and he was my knight in shining armor, and now odds are I’ll have to spend the next year lying to him. Which sucks. I should tell him—no, not about the project, just that I’m rushing DTC, too, that we’re now competitors, and even if we both got in, anything between us would be incredibly complicated. But part of me just wants a little bit longer where he’s just a cute boy and I’m just a girl he’s flirting with. So I fake a smile.

      We arrive at the house, the letters looming over us.

      So this is DTC. It’s a lot bigger than the other frats I’ve seen on campus. There are huge white columns, like this may house some sort of system of government and not sixty boys who probably, as a collective, couldn’t do a load of laundry. There’s also a big balcony across the third floor from which a brilliant Warren student is trying to lower a cooler on a rope to his brothers below.

      Guys in matching bro tanks and a rainbow of pastel shorts are scattered around the yard. Some are seated at a folding table that, if I had to guess, is usually used for beer pong, with a poster sloppily duct-taped to it with the words Sign in here! written in black Sharpie. Others are just standing around out front drinking canned beer from Warren koozies and yelling weird inside jokes and chants at one another. A bunch are staring at me.

      I turn away from the house.

      He looks at me. “Do you know where your sorority is from here? Or I can look it up?”

      “I got it, thanks again.” I step backward and almost trip over my own feet.

      “I can walk you there.”

      “No...you go ahead in. I know how to get where I’m going from here.”

      “Are

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