Chapter Four

For the next few days, I watch Three like he's my favorite TV show, my only interest, and the singular thought in my brain.

Which, to be honest, he might be.

I don't have a definitive plan. But when it comes to investigating, observation is key. If I want to learn how to beat Three, I need to know more about him—his strengths, his weaknesses, when he eats, where he lives. Right now I am a squirrel preparing for winter—gathering tiny morsels of information and stowing them away for later. And the longer I go without attacking, the more nervous he'll become, anticipating my next move, wondering when I'll strike.

Or at least, that's how it should be. But from what I've seen—and I've seen a lot, because it's really amazing the stuff you'll witness when you're halfway to stalker territory—Three isn't worried about me, despite my declaration of war.

Which sets my blood absolutely boiling.

I spend days sitting in stony silence at the grunt desk, not rising to his bait. It's a decent approach. With every snide comment that goes ignored, he tries harder to rile me up.

If nothing else, my silent treatment is god-tier.

And my patience pays off, because a few days into our cold war, he makes a grave error.

He enters his computer password while I'm looking.

We're in our stats lecture, so it's a reasonable mistake. He can't expect me to always be watching this closely. But I'm so hyper-focused, within minutes I have a list of potential passwords he just typed.

sick0522

sock0522

duck0522

dock0522

dick0522

Spotting the numbers was the easy part. But if the first four letters aren't even a word, then it's pointless. Still, I have to at least try.

So I bide my time. Three regularly leaves his computer unattended beside me, though always locked. It's habit by now.

Which is why later in the newsroom, while we're working in complete silence, side by side, Three locks his computer without a second glance at me and gets up to leave. He could be going anywhere—to the restroom, to grab a snack, to take a walk. I can't waste any time.

With a quick glance around to make sure I'm not being watched, I slide closer to his laptop and open it.

I know I'll only have a few attempts at this. If I get him locked out, it'll be obvious it was me, and he'll know my silence all week has been a scam.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I squeeze my hands into fists, then release and type dock0522.

Wrong.

I swipe a hand over my mouth, my heart hammering. I glance toward the door. Then I try again: duck0522.

Wrong.

My stomach turns. Below the password bar, a little message reads, 1 attempt left.

If I get the next one wrong, I'm screwed. I take a deep breath, second-guessing myself. Maybe it wasn't d. Maybe it was s. "Sick" or "suck" or "sock."

I squeeze my eyes shut, going with my gut, and type dick0522.

When I open my eyes, I'm staring at Three's open browser, where he was doing research for a campus crime story for Angelica.

And like the official victory cheer of dicks everywhere, I have one singular thought: I'm in.

I navigate away from his browser, checking his minimized programs. I search his desktop, then his folders, until I find one labeled "Torch" and, inside, a document called "Ideas."

It's almost too easy.

The program bounces open, and I skim over the list. It's longer than I expected, and…

Different. Much different than I thought it'd be.

I hold my breath as I read line after line about the lack of diversity on campus, the benefits of counseling available in the health clinic, self-defense classes at the gym, campus safety developments, a university alum managing a project for further space exploration, a group of law students working to prevent Greek-life hazing.

It's all so good, it almost hurts to read. Not only is it clear he's a good reporter, but he's focused on reporting. While I've been focused on him.

Maybe I could have come up with some of these ideas too, if I hadn't been so single-minded in my mission to best him.

But I'm here now. I may as well finish what I started.

My gaze drops to the last item on the list: the planned demolition of one of the university's affiliated housing complexes, which is the most affordable housing option and partially dedicated to students with families.

A noise behind me makes me jump, and I turn toward the door. But Three isn't back yet. Brent, who does IT, is messing with one of the computers on a desk at the back of the room.

Still, it's enough to remind me that my time is limited.

I close the document and lock Three's laptop, my hammering heart slowing as I return to my work. I hear the door open at the exact moment I have a terrible thought.

His laptop was closed.

I shoot a quick glance at Three's computer, which sits open, screen black. I lose some dexterity in my panic, and every word I type next has an error. My screen becomes a collection of red squiggly lines.

Three drops a snack bag of salt-and-vinegar chips on the desk. Then he sits, pauses, and looks over at me.

I keep my gaze focused on my own computer, but his prolonged stare has an unexpected effect on me. My fingers stutter on my keyboard, seizing up.

"Stop looking at me," I mutter, squeezing my hands into fists and popping my knuckles. I muster some strength into my voice. "Yes, I have many thoughts about your choice in snack food. No, I don't want to engage long enough to voice them. Just know I'm silently judging you."

"I bet you've never even tried them," he says after a long moment, turning back to his computer. He grabs the bag and tears it open, the smell enough to burn my nose.

"Seriously?" I shove his chair with my leg. "Eat those somewhere else."

The bag rustles as he fishes out a chip and pops it in his mouth, crunching loudly. He makes a satisfied sound, then offers the bag to me.

I push his hand. "Get away."

"Try one."

"I'd rather drink bleach."

He shakes the bag. "I bet you won't be saying that once you try one."

"What makes you think I haven't?" I hiss, finally turning toward him.

Three dips his head, gazing at me from under his lashes. My heart gives a disloyal extra thump. "You seem like the type who'd judge without giving something a chance."

The way he's looking at me, I feel immediately defensive. Arguments claw their way into my mouth: I gave you a chance, and you ruined it. We could have been friends. How dare you accuse me of being the problem here.

I clamp my mouth shut against all of them. Because I'm starting to understand Three, and one thing I can't do is seem like I care. It's like Dara says about dating: If you care, you lose.

I shoot Three a cool look. "I don't have to eat shit to know it'll taste bad. Everything has a stench to it—even shit personalities."

Three's smile puckers, but he isn't mad—he's pleased. And I realize belatedly that in my panic about being caught, I broke my silent treatment. He got a rise out of me, putting me behind in our little war once again.

But that's just fine, I reason as I climb into bed that night. Because my next hit is going to be so huge, it'll send his head into space.

I draft the Buckeye Crossing story in a matter of days, using an interview with the only person I can get to talk to me. Her name is Kate, and she's a single mother on the brink of being kicked out of her building so they can replace it with luxury campus-affiliated apartments.

I'm surprised how deep this story ends up going. Beyond forcing people out of their homes, it hadn't occurred to me until she pointed it out just who the university is targeting: low-income and nontraditional students, who make up a significant portion of our diverse students. It reeks of hypocrisy from a school so vocal about improving its diversity, which is severely lacking in general but especially for a school of its size.

But of course, Kate and I both know the truth: money trumps all.

Mel loves the story so much, they show it to Angelica as soon as I turn it in.

"Calling out the school, especially about the diversity stuff—that's bold, Wyn," Angelica says, her mouth curled in a half grin. "You know, my first year, I was the only Black girl on my floor, and in the bathroom, this girl used to always make comments about how gross my hair was if she saw a strand on the shower tile or in the sink or something. After a few times, one of my friends I met in the BSA"—the Black Student Association—"told me I should report her to my RA. Tell me how the school made me sit down for mediation about the whole thing. Mediation. Like there was something to mediate, and not just—‘hey, stop being racist.'?" She shakes her head. "We try to publish a lot about the lack of diversity at this school. Highlighting the nontraditional students is an especially good move."

I flounder for something to say, but everything rings false. "I don't know if I deserve that much credit," I finally manage, my voice meek.

Angelica gives me a flat look. "It's important, and these students deserve a voice. That's what we're here for—to give people a voice. Maybe the Torch doesn't get as many readers as we used to, but it's still our responsibility to report. Your porn story was great—sorry about the typo."

"No problem," I say, even though it's pretty big talk on campus even now, especially after the Tau Delt piece, which is still on their website.

"But this is the stuff," Angelica continues, tapping her computer screen. "If you can keep up this kind of work, I think the Campus Life spot is yours. No joke."

Mel nods along. "That's what I said. One hundred percent."

"Wow, thank you. That really means a lot."

I can't quite swell up with pride the way I want to, though.

I try to stifle the guilt by reminding myself that it's my writing they're praising. And Three might not have gotten Kate, or anyone else, to speak to him about it in the first place. I can't imagine him sitting in her kitchen in the half-abandoned Buckeye Crossing complex, listening to her story and her worries, and handling both with the same level of care that I did. It might have been his idea, but it's still my work.

When I return to the grunt desk, I have Three's undivided attention.

"Can I help you?" I ask lightly as I open my browser to research some football stats for Aaron, one of the sports writers.

"Do I get to read it?" Three asks with a smile. "Your big story that's got everyone so hyped?"

I shoot him a withering look. "Yeah. When it goes out next week."

His smile curls up at the corners, almost cartoonish. "What's it about?"

"Oh, we've actually got a great headline planned. It'll just say, ‘MYOB, Three.'?"

He laughs. "Wow, okay. I get it. Worried I could whip up something better for them?"

I guffaw, turning to stare at him. "Are you kidding me? I don't worry about you at all, Wellborn."