Alex leans forward, intrigued. “Pulling a prank on him? Like, how?”

“Dine and dash.”

“Damn.” Her pert nose screws up. “How many guys were there?”

“I don’t know.” I do a mental calculation. “Fifteen?”

“Oh shit.” She’s quiet for a few seconds. “I wonder if he’s new.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Dine and dash, these flyers…sounds like they’re hazing him.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s what Donovan was thinking.”

“You should definitely text him. Give him a proper welcome him to U of I.” She winks.

“Ew, no. Alex, I’m not texting him.” Because then he’d have my number and heaven forbid he texted me back.

“Why not! It would be funny.”

“I know it would, but the last thing I want is some weirdo pervert getting my number. What if he becomes obsessed with me?” I toss my red hair. “God, can you imagine?”

My mind strays to the guy in the parking lot, big and angry and swearing at the sky. With that hoodie pulled up over his hair, he was the poster boy for psychosis.

No, thanks, I’ll pass.

“Let’s ask the Magic Eight Ball.” My cousin giggles. “You can’t say no.”

It’s hard not to roll my eyes, but I manage. “Please do not tell me you carry that stupid thing around in your backpack.”

“Heck yeah, I have it in my bag.” My cousin winks again. “For moments like this.”

All right, so when we were in eighth grade, Alex was given a Magic Eight Ball for her birthday, and ever since, she uses it to make almost all major life decisions. Should I date Spencer Doyle? All signs point to yes. Should I go to the University of Wisconsin? Don’t count on it. Should I go bungee jumping with six random strangers I met on spring break? Outlook good.

That damn eight ball has gotten us into trouble more times than I can count. It had us sneaking into an underage dance club when we were seventeen and getting busted. Borrowing our grandmother’s Buick for a joyride without her permission before we had our licenses. Going skinny-dipping with that loser Tommy Martin after a field party in high school and getting caught by the farmer who owned the land.

All signs pointed to yes.

All ideas got me grounded.

“Alex, stop using the Magic Eight Ball to make life decisions for you.” Us. “You’re not a kid anymore.” We’re young adults now.

“But it’s fun.” She ignores me, digging deep into her backpack, rooting around. Produces the round black orb that’s become a staple in her life. I roll my eyes when she begins stroking it like a gypsy caressing her crystal ball.

“Magic Eight Ball, should Laurel send a text message to this Rett person who so badly needs to get laid?”

She flips it over, waiting patiently for the triangle inside to settle, floating in the blue water or whatever it is they put inside that stupid thing. It floats, lilting from side to side, finally settling face up.

I lean in, curious to know my fate. “Let’s see.”

“Yes.” Alex beams, palming it and thrusting the tiny window in my face. “Better get your phone out, loser.”

“Ugh,” I groan, resigned to my fate. “Fine.”

I take the flyer from her a second time, run my finger along the words. Fixate on the ten-digit number at the bottom. Type it into my phone.

Glance up. “Just so you know, I’m not sleeping with some stranger.”

My cousin laughs. “Have you suddenly become a born-again virgin?”

“Alex, I have some standards, and this guy…” I give him a cursory glance as I finish poking in his digits. The image, most likely pulled from the wrestling website, shows him sitting stiffly, nose in the air. Shaggy hair. Hooded eyes. Thick neck.

Not my type.

Not even close.

“This guy is so far below my standards it’s not even funny.” I toss my red ponytail over my shoulder. “Besides, I stopped having casual sex.”

Alex scoffs. “Are you judging me ’cause I made Dylan leave his apartment to get chicken nuggets so I could have sex with his roommate, Johnathan?”

“Shut up.” My brows go up. “You did that?”

“Duh. I’ve been trying to hook up with Johnathan forever. You knew that.” If she rolls her eyes one more time, they’re going to get stuck up there. “He finally caved to the power of the chicken nugget.”

“Why don’t you just break up with Dylan?” That seems like the easiest solution.

“Because Johnathan isn’t ready for a relationship yet.”

“Then why are you wasting your time hooking up with him?”

“Because, Laurel,” she sneers with disdain. “Johnathan is president of his fraternity and his parents are loaded.”

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Alexandra is attending college for her MRS degree, not for an education; her sole goal in life is to be a trophy wife and appear on the Real Housewives. For real.

“Anyway,” she drones on. “We’ve gone completely off the rails here. You’re supposed to be messaging this Rett loser. Magic Eight Ball says so.”

“All right, all right, all right—but if he starts stalking me or falls in love or won’t leave me alone or whatever, I’m blaming you.”

“You are so full of yourself,” she scoffs.

“So are you,” I volley back, tapping out a quick message to this random wrestler.

Hey Rett, is it true that you need to get laid?

Hit send.

Less than thirty seconds tick by before I get a reply.

Rett: Fuck off.

I rear back in my seat a little, surprised. Whoa. Right out of the gate he’s going to be a defensive asshole?

Jeez, screw you.

Me: You don’t have to be nasty.

I say this knowing he’s being put through the wringer by his teammates. I wonder what else they’ve done to him in the past few weeks that I couldn’t possibly know about, wonder how many girls have texted him since the flyer went up.

After three minutes of waiting, Rett still has yet to offer a reply. Irritated that he’s ignoring me, I send him another message.

Me: How many texts have you gotten in the last 24 hours?

Rett: Did I not just tell you to fuck off?

Me: Is it so hard to answer a simple question?

Rett: Who the hell is this?

Me: Puh-lease, like I’m going to tell you my name.

Yes. I type it like that.

Rett: Then do me a favor and lose this number.

Me: Did it occur to you that I might have felt a connection to you when I saw your picture on that green sheet of paper?

Rett: Nice sarcasm bitch.

Yikes. Someone isn’t happy.

Me: How do you know I’m female?

Rett: I don’t, but either way, you’re a giant prick. How’s that? Happy now?

Me: Calling me a bitch wasn’t necessary.

Rett: Neither was texting me. Get a fucking life.

Me: Weird, that’s what I said about you.

Rett: Oh, I need a life?

Me: If you had a life, you wouldn’t be hanging flyers up all over campus, begging for attention.

I’m saying this to get a reaction from him, knowing none of it is true. A niggling twitch hits my belly—one that feels a little like guilt—and works its way into my subconscious. I know something about this guy my cousin doesn’t: this boy is being hazed by his friends and probably didn’t hang those horrible flyers himself.

But whatever.

It’s still not necessary for him to be a jerk. If he knew what I looked like, his tone would be completely different, I’m sure of it. He’d be kissing my ass.

I give my long red ponytail an arrogant flip.

When he doesn’t reply to my barb, I huff, feel my face heat, convinced it’s turned an unflattering shade of pink.

“Why do you look so pissed off?” Alex glances up from her phone when I sigh. “Your face is bright red.”

“’Cause this guy is being a dick.”

“Asshole.” Alex nods knowingly. “Figures.”

Stop ignoring me, I type. How do you know I didn’t text you because I felt bad your face was hanging all over campus?