I open up one of my card decks and rub the two of spades for luck, then bound upstairs and look for the door right above mine, hoping to catch Matt before he commences any nightly activities I do not want to witness. Thankfully, I can see through the wide-open door that he’s in there, grabbing a few things from his desk before he heads back out. Unfortunately, I forgot that his snarky roommate would be there too, but whatever; I’ve gotta do this while I still have the drive.

“So,” I say, making both boys look up at the doorway. “Remember when you said you owe me one?”

Matt grins. “You mean a few hours ago?”

“Oh good, it’s still fresh. Hold that thought.” Okay, how do I phrase this? Especially in a way that won’t have Salem mercilessly destroy me with mockery? “I … need some help.”

“You need me to reach something for you?”

God, tall guys love being tall. “I need you to help me be a different person.”

Salem wasn’t even drinking anything, so I’m not sure what he starts choking on, but I hope it hurts.

Matt, meanwhile, takes my request in stride, as if he hears things like this on a weekly basis or so. “And what kind of person is that?”

I march into the room and sit myself down on Matt’s bed. “Do you know that people are actually saying that I begged to live with Archibald Buchanan, of all people?”

Matt grins. “I’ve heard that, yeah. That’s not true, is it? Because if it is, I’m gonna have to revise my assessment of your being a cool girl.”

“Of course that’s not true! It doesn’t even make any sense!”

“Okay, phew—had to check. But yeah, people love to talk shit, and a girl in a boys’ dorm is interesting. Plus, you happen to have tangled with the wrong kid today; Buchanan’s a legacy, and he’s got a bunch of annoying legacy friends. But tomorrow one of them will find a sale on boat shoes and they’ll move on to a new topic. So who cares what they think?”

“I do,” I say firmly. “I came here for a new start, and instead I’m goddamn ‘Rumson Girl,’ and I hate it. I want to be in control of how people see me. I definitely don’t want to care about other people’s stupid opinions, and I don’t want to be ‘the nice girl.’”

“We all heard you tear Barnett a new one at orientation,” Salem points out, I guess referring to skid-mark guy. “Don’t worry—no one thinks you’re a nice girl.”

“Well, I’m usually a nice girl,” I snap. “That was an exception.” I pause. “And so’s this.”