Page 50 of Stranded

Typical.I roll my eyes.I bet they realized last year that nobody gets excited to see an asshole. At least, not in this context.

Showing up late to Professor Meyer’s class, though? That’s a bold move.

Professor Meyer raises her eyebrows and stares in their direction. We all hold our breaths, and the three of them sit down in a hurry.

“So,” Professor Meyer says at last, folding her hands on her lectern and returning her gaze to the rest of us. “This is it. Twenty of you left this room last year. Fifteen came back.”

I swallow hard and glance around furtively, like the rest of us are doing—checking who’s missing.

“I’m not surprised at who left,” Professor Meyer tells us, which grabs our attention again. “By the end of Portfolio Development 1, I can always tell. So… welcome, students, to Portfolio Development 2.”

The name alone is infamous.

Her gaze is flicking between each of us, one at a time. “It will be a tough year,” she tells us. “We have higher standards for our students than ever before.”

She pauses and looks right at me… but I was expecting it. I don’t flinch away. In fact, I deliberately smile and sit up a little straighter.

Her eyebrow raises… and then her gaze moves on, and I can relax.

“You’ve learned how to adapt, collaborate, and imitate in order to sustain a brand identity. You’ll need those skills in your future. But this semester, you’re going to learn something much more important. Which is…?”

Nobody says a word.

She sighs. “Ronan?”

I glance down at my notebook, but the answer is already on my lips. I remember her comments on my portfolio last year… word-for-word.

Often lacks the courage and vision of an original identity.

“Our own identity.”

I can feel my former roommates smirking. They’re casting looks at me behind her back, and for a moment, my irritationalmostrises. They love to keep track of all the times I get called out in class.

Usually, I blush and look down. Now, it rolls right off me. Their opinions don’t matter. Besides which… I know their dirty little secret.

And I’m going to work at this twice as hard as they’re willing to fake it.

Our teacher folds her arms and stares at me thoughtfully. “Good, Ronan.”

I blink up at her. She… actually sounds like she means it. Did I pass some test I didn’t know about?

“This is the year you discover your identity as a designer. It will change, of course. You’ll refine it. Maybe you’ll pivot altogether a few times in your career. But this is your starting point. So… I have an announcement that some of you will be happy about, and some of you… will not.”

She unfolds her arms, coming out from behind the lectern to pace back and forth in front of us. “No more group projects.”

Stifled gasps and murmurs greet her words, and then we hastily quiet down again.

“That’s right.” She smiles. “No more groups, or pairing up, or making anyone else carry you along.” She pauses at the far end of the row, drumming her fingernails on Breanna’s desk. She turns to study us all. “Nowhere to hide. Nobody to copy.”

I can hardly breathe.

She isn’t looking at my roommates. I’m trying not to look at them, either, but I’d bet my bottom dollar they’re shitting bricks.

But she’s striding back already, looking from face to face. “Can’t take the heat? Get out of the kitchen. For the rest of you, this is whereyouridentity will be forged.”

There’s a hushed silence in the room. Some of us are smiling a little, and others look worried. My roommates are opening up their laptop—and their messaging programs, so they can talk to each other and pretend not to care about what’s going on in class.

I’m the only one who’s glowing with excitement, like it’s day one of first year all over again.

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