Page 5 of Wicked Court

Then, two taps into the phone sound out.

My shoulders relax at her acquiescence and the tension releases in my neck. It helps that I’ve been massaging the back of my nape for the last five minutes. “Great. How about I come visit this weekend?—”

“Elara, over here!”

The shout slices through the morning bustle, and I swivel, the weight of my books snug against my hip.

“Hey, Jonah,” I call back, my voice rising effortlessly above the chatter of students.

He’s flanked by a couple of sophomores whose names escape me, but their eager smiles are familiar enough.

Charisma—it’s not something I learned, more like a birthright I’ve had to draw on every time I leave my home.

“Your presentation on gothic literature yesterday was mind-blowing, El,” Jonah says, his hand sweeping through his hair in a nervous gesture. “You have a way with words.”

“Thanks. Words are easy. It’s the silence between them that’s tricky,” I say, giving him a wink before going back to my phone. “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Okay, but make sure it’s before sunset. If you don’t by then, I’ll assume you’re hurt, or maimed, or beheaded?—”

“I miss you too, Mom,” I say brightly as my roommate and best friend approaches. “Love you.”

I hang up, swiftly tucking my phone into the snug back pocket of my worn jeans.

“Hey, Sasha,” I greet as we fall into step together, navigating through the buzzing crowd in the main quad.

“Are you going to the Summer Solstice thing tonight?” she asks, her question tinged with hopefulness.

Nods and hey you!’s sound out, and we acknowledge each one. Anyone who catches my eye gets a smile from me, creating a familiar rhythm in my morning routine.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, though my mind races with the thought of the tight spaces, the press of bodies. I push aside images of my mother, trapped within the walls of our home, her fear of the outside world like a living thing. “You?”

“Duh. It’s the event of the season!”

Her enthusiasm is infectious, but a part of me wonders if she senses the performance in my answering grin.

Not that anyone ever does.

“Let’s get ready together,” she suggests. “Meet in our room at, say, six? I’ll grab a bottle of vodka from Erik when I see him after class.”

“Still using him for his access to contraband, huh?” I tease with a genuine smile this time. “Does he have any idea what cute, tiny little you is up to whenever you grace his room with your presence?”

My delightful roommate possesses the delicate features of Tinker Bell but wields a mouth—and mind—like a garbage truck, and I wouldn’t have her any other way.

Sasha’s face lights up as she laughs.

“It’s not just the booze. Or the ‘shrooms,” she amends. “He’s also eats me out on command.”

“Sash!” I shove her shoulder. “If he ever realizes you’ve been using him for sex and drugs, he’ll be utterly heartbroken.”

“Pff,” she scoffs, dismissing the notion. “Like he didn’t do the same to me throughout our freshman year. He’ll get over it.”

“So long as quality tongue comes with top-shelf vodka,” I reason.

“You think I’d accept anything less?” she quips before veering away, her long ebony ponytail swinging with each step.

I continue my walk to the arts building with my smile in place, waving and acknowledging everyone I come across and promises to meet up later.

To the athletes, I’m the fiery supporter. To the academics, a peer with a sharp mind. To the artists, a soul that appreciates their craft, all while my phone incessantly vibrates in my pocket with my mother’s concerns.

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