He jumps. “Bree. Hi.” I don’t miss his quick glance at my forearms. “How’s my peer mentee?” His smile is so fascinatingly genuine that I probably would have believed him if I didn’t know any better. He pulls up the small writing surface attached to the armrest and slaps down a composition notebook that looks like it got wet at some point. He pauses, squints. “I didn’t think you were in this class.”

“I’m not. I asked the dean for your schedule.”

A smile breaks across his face. “Who’s creepy-clever now?”

I snort. “Still you. By the way”—I lean back in my chair—“I’ve never gotten blackout drunk in my life, and I’d die before I set foot in a frat house. Tell Sel to mesmer better next time.” I sit up, eyes wide. “Wait, was that a frat house? I thought you said we couldn’t join them.”

Nick’s brow lifts a fraction, his eyes widening, but he doesn’t respond.

Any further conversation is interrupted when the professor clasps his hands together. Nick faces front, and I smother a frustrated growl. The professor serves all 150 of us a long-suffering gaze. “Now that everyone who is supposed to be here is here, my name is Dr. Christopher Ogren. We will be taking roll today and randomly throughout the semester”—groans all around at this—“by sending around the roster. Please initial beside your name and only your name.”

“Nick—” I begin, turning to him.

He silences me with a finger, then points to the front of the room. “I’m trying to pay attention.” His tone is serious, but I catch the slightest twinkle of humor in his eye. Without another word, he bends over his composition notebook and starts writing who knows what.

Unbelievable.

I lean over and hiss, “I made myself remember.”

His pen stops moving, but he doesn’t raise his head. “Remember what?”

“Are you seriously—” I’m cut off when an olive-skinned boy with a buzz cut passes the roster to our row. I grab it and scribble you know what! before passing it to Nick.

“Your handwriting is atrocious.” He signs his initials before passing the clipboard down. Irritation is a barely contained scream behind my gritted teeth.

Dr. Ogren calls our attention again. “All right, let’s begin with a thirty-minute pretest.” Groans again. Dr. Ogren smiles. “Relax, it won’t be graded. It’s just an assessment to see, generally speaking, where everyone falls in their knowledge before we begin the term, or what you remember from the last time you studied genetics. Work with a partner, share your ideas, record your answers.”

“Work with a partner” is easily the second-worst classroom phrase after “group work.” But today I couldn’t be happier to hear it.

“Partner?” I ask primly.

Nick studies me, evaluating his options. “Fine.” He opens up to a fresh page in his notebook.