Chapter Two

I knew Three for weeks before I got my spot at the Torch—or at least, I knew of him. It was hard not to notice him in my twice-a-week statistics class, where I split my time struggling to pay attention, struggling to understand the lecture, and struggling to ignore what felt like, based on the noise level, half the Tau Delta Pi pledge class.

Three is one of them, which is one more mark against him in my book. When I came to college, there was a single rule that reigned above all others: stay away from frat boys. It's one of the only rules Mom gave me as my parents prepared to send me off, but one I already knew on my own.

I thought it'd be my easiest rule to follow—until I got stuck at the grunt desk with the king of the pledges.

It's unnerving, I think as we leave the classroom and Three falls into the center of his group, how charming he can be. Even now he jokes with the other Tau Delt pledges, shoving each other and laughing. Yet under that smile, I know he's twisted and sadistic. Like one of those serial killers whose friends and coworkers all say, "We never could have guessed. He was so nice."

Three glances back, his smile dipping into a smirk like he can read my exact thoughts.

I stop, and someone bumps into me from behind, nearly knocking me to my knees. My bag slips from my shoulder, falling into the crook of my elbow.

"Whoa! Sorry!" A hand catches my arm, steadying me. "You stopped really fast."

"No, I'm sorry," I say quickly, shouldering my bag again. "I don't know what I…" I trail off when I see who bumped me. "Hey—you're Lincoln, right?"

He adjusts his backpack, peering down at me. "And you're… on Chloe's floor." He chuckles, looking sheepish. "Sorry, I don't remember your name. I'm still trying to learn everyone on my own floor."

I smile. "I'm Wyn."

"Wyn," he repeats, nodding. "Wyn. Wyn. Wyn. Got it."

We briefly met the other RAs in our building during move-in day. It was mostly in passing, but Lincoln is hard to forget. He's the type of tall and broad that's difficult to miss in a crowd—not like an athlete, but like he belongs on a farm. He's wearing a T-shirt even though it's chilly out, and his arms are still summer-tanned and thick with muscle. His brown hair is a little long, but not purposely so—more like he keeps forgetting to get it trimmed.

"You on your way to class?" Lincoln asks.

"I have work. Then newspaper. And then class, late. Thursdays are the worst."

"Newspaper? You work for the Torch?"

"Yeah, I work my ass off," I joke. "But only as a grunt. I don't get to do any real reporting yet."

"That's impressive, though. I don't know how it is now, with the Two Minute News takeover, but it used to seem really hard to get a spot there."

I give a flippant hand wave. "Two Minute News isn't exactly drawing in the serious reporters. The Torch is cutthroat. I think I'm the only one in the newsroom who wasn't editor-in-chief in high school."

It's a very sore subject, and an old one. When I lost editor-in-chief last year, it was to a friend—or someone I'd thought was one. I didn't even know she was running until the ballots came out with two names—Wyn and Clara. I was outvoted almost unanimously. Apparently the rest of the newspaper staff found me too intense. I was pushing for stories and design that might win us a Pacemaker Award. Everyone else was just happy to have the newspaper on their college applications.

The election was one of many moments throughout my senior year that stuck like tiny barbs. At the time, it was one bad thing—albeit a big bad thing that I cried over for a whole weekend. Yet by the end of the year, I found I'd been pricked all over by a thousand things just like it.

"Hey, don't let imposter syndrome sneak in." Lincoln has a kind, comforting smile; I can tell why they made him an RA. "It's like the first freshman-year souvenir you get, and it's brutal. Trust me, as someone who already did it and dealt with it."

His words manage to put my brain back on track, which is a relief. Dwelling on old hurts helps no one. Besides, I plan to become editor-in-chief of the Torch one day. If I land the Campus Life spot, I could be well on my way there. That would certainly numb the sting from high school.

And even though my goals have nothing to do with Three, I don't hate the idea of one day being able to hold that over him.

When I get to the newsroom that evening after work, there are only a few people inside. One of them is Three, hunched over at the grunt desk.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have the posture of a cooked shrimp?" I ask, dropping my bag on the floor.

Three straightens, then cracks his neck. He rolls his head in my direction. "It's really nice of you to worry about my spine health."

I grimace, making a small, grossed-out noise.

Three grins, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead as he looks me over. "You seem tired. You sure you don't want to just head home for the night?"

"And give up all our quality time together? Why would I ever want to do that?"

I pull out my chair to sit but stop when our editor-in-chief says, "Wyn, do you have a sec?"

When I first looked up the Torch, it didn't take me long to find my dream mentor. The best articles all had the same byline: written by Sabina Noor.

Reading her articles reminded me of those first fluttery feelings I had watching All the President's Men and His Girl Friday as a kid, and then later, when I grew up a little, reading about Florence Graves and the NSA surveillance whistleblower and everything about Vietnam. Sabina wasn't uncovering national scandals or solving murders, but her reporting felt like that to me. It reminded me of what made me want to become a reporter in the first place.

I wasn't surprised when I came to apply and found out Sabina had been made editor-in-chief. Christopher ran against her, but I heard he lost the votes when he got scooped by Two Minute News on a story about two girls who overdosed on fentanyl-laced fake Adderall last winter. One of the girls died and the other dropped out, and without in-depth coverage of the rise of laced study drugs on campus, both were painted as irresponsible party girls and everyone else moved on. No one even found out who they got the counterfeit pills from. I once overheard Angelica say that Christopher is carrying enough bitterness over the whole thing to fill a shipping container.

As for Sabina, being editor-in-chief means she doesn't really have time to spare for grunts like me, so I absorb any of her attention like a sponge that's been left in the desert.

"Hi," I say, rushing to her desk. "What's up? What do you need?"

Sabina beckons Three, who's slower to join us.

Sabina is effortlessly cool, with her dark hair cropped short, gold septum piercing, and the kind of artsy-grunge style that goes well with her collection of flannel. Beside her, Three, in his button-down and pullover sweater, looks extra dorky.

"I know you're both hoping for the Campus Life spot once Angelica leaves," Sabina says, leaning back in her chair. "I'm just gonna be real with you. We can't place you both. That means one of you will be working under the other, and I want some assurance you'll be able to deal with that."

"It won't be a problem. I'm with the paper for the long haul, no matter what." I glance at Three, already assembling a mental list of how I'll make his life hell when I get the Campus Life spot and he has to do my dirty work.

Three clocks the look, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like he's having a similar thought. "I'm serious about the Torch too," he says to Sabina. "I started at the bottom at my last paper. I was editor-in-chief when I graduated. I had to work under my friends, and then they had to work under me. I know how to handle both. I can be professional."

Of course he found a way to mention how he was editor-in-chief.

Sabina glances between us, assessing. "Then I guess it's the right time to have you both start submitting some stories for us. I know you've been eager, since you need samples for your application to the journalism program. I'll need to see what you can do too, if one of you is going to move up."

"I've already been working on something," I say quickly, because I want Sabina to know I've been proactive. "About the roach situation at Landing."

"I talked to Mel last week," Three says. "I have a Greek Row story I want to work on."

I scoff. "Of course you do." And of course he was enough of a suck-up to go to Mel, the Campus Life assistant editor who'll be taking over Angelica's spot next semester—moving up to a paid position, which is a real rarity around here.

Three shoots me a look of disdain. "A lot of attitude from a girl whose big story is about roaches."

"Well, I sit next to one every day, so I'm super well-versed."

Sabina rubs her forehead. "Okay, that's enough. Do the stories—both of you. If it's good, we'll run it. You can send your progress to Mel. Angelica has enough on her plate right now. And listen, I'm not your adviser or your RA or your big sister, but there've been a lot of people who've let their journalism app fall by the wayside because they thought it'd be easy. That's not a group you want to be a part of. Remember, if you flub it, you have to wait a whole semester to reapply. Getting stories done for your portfolio will be hard enough. But you'll also have your essay, and you'll need at least one faculty recommendation letter. And we expect you to still be on top of your regular grunt duties. It may not feel like it, but the grunts are the backbone of this paper. We're relying on you to do your job and do it well. Okay?"

We nod.

"If you need anything, let me know," Sabina says, dropping her gaze back to her computer. "But try not to need anything."

On our way back to the grunt desk, I murmur to Three, "Have fun getting your recommendation. If you can get someone to stand in a room with you long enough to ask for one."

Three shoots me a bland smile. "Am I supposed to be worried?"

"True. I'm sure you've got a fat trust fund somewhere, and there's nothing like a good, old-fashioned bribe for a backup plan." I give him a sparkling grin. "Do me a favor and make sure you get caught, okay? I'd love to write that article."

"You wouldn't do it justice," Three says sharply. The insult lands, but I hardly feel the sting. I'm used to Three brushing me off as a joke. That I've gotten under his skin enough that he's biting back feels like a win.

"Writing about your downfall would be the highlight of my journalism career," I reply, dropping into my chair.

Three follows more slowly, and by the time he's seated beside me, his expression has cooled. "I'm glad to know you're so preoccupied by me, Evans. You must love getting to sit next to me like this. Is that why you haven't quit yet?"

My victory sours in my stomach, like taking a bite of something sweet only to realize it's rotten inside.

"Your presence is actually meaningless to me." I pluck up my headphones and pop them into my ears, blocking out whatever he says next.

It no longer feels like I've won anything, but at least I know I didn't lose. Still, I'm uncomfortable realizing that Three has a point—I am preoccupied by him.

With the Campus Life spot and potentially my entire journalism school application on the line, my attention is needed elsewhere.

I'm not surprised to find Ellie gone when I get back to my dorm. She spends a lot of time out of our room, and she doesn't have class tomorrow. She'll probably coast in sometime in the middle of the night, and even though she always returns smelling like beer and pot, I've yet to see her suffer a hangover or so much as stumble getting into bed.

The door has barely swung shut behind me when someone gives a series of quick, quiet taps on the bathroom door. Ellie is religious about keeping it locked, even though it's just Dara and Madison on the other side. I think it's some kind of sibling habit I don't understand. Apparently Ellie has three younger sisters who are always getting into her stuff.

I flip the lock and swing open the bathroom door. Dara waits on the other side.

"Hey," she whispers. "Can I hang out in here? Madison went to bed early."

A pathetic little part of me perks up. She wants to hang out with me!

And if it's because Madison went to bed early and her last resort is the lounge, I'll still take it.

"Yeah, of course," I say, pulling the door wide. "Sorry. I'd say you could always hang out in here, but Ellie's really weird about people touching her stuff."

Dara shoots me a smile, shutting the bathroom door behind her. "Ellie's, like, really weird in general."

I exhale. "Yeah. I'm glad I'm not the only one who noticed." I tug my hoodie over my head and toss it onto my bed, climbing up after it.

She moves to my desk, which is flush with the end of my bed, and perches sideways in my chair. "God love her, but so is Madison. She went to bed at, like, nine. And she's such a light sleeper. I've been hiding out in the bathroom waiting for you to get home." She smacks her forehead. "Which sounds really sad. But I've been talking to this guy I met on Buckonnect, and things are getting kind of"—she wiggles her shoulders, grinning—"and I felt a little weird with the pastor's daughter sleeping four feet away."

I try not to look uncomfortable. It's not that I'm morally opposed to consensual sexting, but the topic of sex always makes me freeze up. All people my age seem to care about is sex—who's having it and who isn't, who has and who hasn't, and, if nothing else, how far you've gone. My inexperience is a stamp of embarrassment. I have nothing to contribute to the conversation but one drunken makeout after prom where a guy I didn't even like groped my boob over my dress, and one innocent kiss at a party years ago with someone I could have liked, if he ever looked my way again, which he didn't.

It's not that I don't want kissing and sex and all the stuff that comes with it—dates and holding hands in public and having someone I'm dying to see at the end of each day. I'm a romance reader. Obviously I want romance.

But it's scary to put yourself out there. Especially when you're fat. Especially when you're fat and inexperienced and it feels like everyone else is on the fast track. Talking about it makes everyone wonder why I haven't done anything yet—or worse, not wonder—and I don't like giving people more brain fuel for the "fat people are undesirable and sexless" stereotype.

So I focus on what I can handle in this conversation. "What's Buckonnect?"

"Where have you been? Buckonnect!" Dara taps at her phone, then flips it around to show me. I crawl to the end of my bed and lie on my stomach, peering across my desk at her screen. It looks like a regular chat app, except there are no profile pictures. Dara pulls her phone back once I've gotten a good look. "It's a dating app this junior made as part of a project. He got some volunteers to beta test it, and it blew up. Everyone's using it. I started this week, because I think Kayla and Yasmin—you know Kay and Yas, right? They're in my room all the time. I think they might be, like, getting together, you know? I don't want to be the third wheel, so I downloaded Buckonnect. It gives you a random username based on a campus building, so it's super-super anonymous, and you match based on your sexual preference. Other than your username, it only displays your preferred pronouns. Then you choose how much to share, and when. Like I exchanged numbers with this guy I'm talking to, but I haven't shown him my face yet."

"Huh. That's interesting, I guess. I'm surprised I haven't heard of it." And if I haven't, that means no one has done a story on it yet—not even Two Minute News. Light bulbs ding to life in my brain. "Hey, could you tell me more about it? I might write something for the newspaper."

I catch myself only once the words have left my mouth. Here I go again, turning every conversation into a potential story—the thing that ran off the few friends I had in the first place.

But I'm relieved when Dara's face brightens. "Would I be a source? Like, quoted?"

"Yeah, if you want to be," I reply, reaching over the side of my bed to grab my bag. I drag my laptop out and turn it on, sitting back against the wall. "This could be a really good story. I can't believe no one else has done it yet."

It sounds even better than my roach story, which I already knew was a risk. The issues in the older dorms are pretty widely known. It's not like anyone would be surprised to hear about roaches in Landing.

I've never imagined myself writing for the technology section at the New York Times or anything, but breaking the story on an app just as it begins to sweep campus would definitely get Sabina's attention.

"It's still pretty new," Dara says, "but I bet more than half the school is using it by the end of Saturday's game."

She's right—information spreads fast at football games. And by Sunday night, Dara confirms the Buckonnect usership has doubled, exactly as we expected.

When I get to the Torch office on Monday, I have an outline and a rough draft of my Buckonnect story ready. Dara's excitement over it has me optimistic, and that feeling intensifies when I spot the empty grunt desk. If Three isn't here, I'm definitely having a lucky day.

I drop my stuff at my seat and head straight for Mel's desk, where they're leaned over with their cheek resting on their fist, scrolling on their computer.

"Hey, do you have a minute?" I ask. "Because I have a really good idea for a Campus Life story I want to run by you."

Mel glances up, stretching as they recline a little in their chair. "The roach story?"

Their tone makes me glad I found a backup. Clearly Mel isn't interested in the roaches at Landing. It makes me wonder why Sabina didn't warn me off it. She had to have known it wasn't interesting if even the Campus Life assistant editor sounds ready to give it the ax. But maybe that was Sabina letting me learn the hard way.

God, I am ready to start learning things the easy way.

"No, way better than that." At least this way, Mel will know I can recognize what's newsworthy and what isn't. "Have you heard of Buckonnect?"

Mel's brow puckers. "Just as of yesterday."

"Right?" I can't keep my excitement from my voice. Getting my story into this week's edition is perfect timing if more people are hearing about Buckonnect after this weekend. "Its usership blew up after the football game—"

"I know," Mel says.

My smile freezes on my face, and I'm expecting a phrase uttered far too often in the Torch office: "You got scooped." Of course Two Minute News wouldn't have missed something like this. While I was toiling away at an outline to get all the facts, they were throwing together their typical slapdash update. I shouldn't even be surprised—

But then Mel says, "Three wrote a whole story on it over the weekend."

No. It's somehow worse than Two Minute News.

"He… what?"

"He sent me the outline Saturday night. Or technically early Sunday morning." Mel chuckles, shaking their head. "I don't think he sleeps. He had the whole thing finished and in my inbox yesterday afternoon."

I clench my teeth so I don't grimace. Everything in my stomach has turned to acid. I hate that I'm envious of the respect in Mel's voice. I hate that Three has somehow earned it. I hate that I don't know how to exit this conversation without giving myself away—that I had the exact same idea, that he beat me to it, that my only remaining pitch is about bugs.

I hate that I'm about to try anyway.

"You know what? Um, I think—maybe I should give this one a little more time." I plaster on a smile and pray it looks sincere. "Especially if Three just covered the basics. I'm sure we don't want to run two Buckonnect stories at the same time."

Mel blinks at me. "Maybe we could. We can always expand on his story if you've got something good."

Damn.

"I think it needs more work," I say quickly, backing away a step. "I can dig deeper."

Mel nods slowly. "Okay. Do you have something else for me?"

I swallow against my tightening throat. "Maybe!" My voice comes out a squeak. "I'll—I'll outline some stuff. Get a few ideas together."

"I can't ask them to save the space for you. I'd need to know soon."

"Yeah, for sure! I'll let you know." I give them a thumbs-up that I immediately regret. It does nothing to clear the uncertain look on Mel's face, and I imagine it only makes my forced smile seem even faker.

My only consolation as I head back to my seat is that the grunt desk is still empty and remains that way the rest of the afternoon. If Three found out he landed this story before me, I don't think I'd survive the shame.