Page 6 of Psyop Kings

I glance over at my phone, but Megan hasn’t responded. It’s strange for her not to text me back. She awkwardly admitted tome on our first research date that she had zero friends in LA. None of the kids from her small hometown in Alabama could afford to go here and none were academic enough to get the full-ride scholarship she did.

Darting my eyes over to the clock on the wall, I tense when I see that it’s ten past eight. Where is she? Sure, I’ve only known her for a short time, but I’ve grilled her on every detail of her life. Her schedule is straightforward like mine and she’s not the type to randomly sleep in.

Something’s off.

I’m unable to focus on Professor Bolton’s lecture because my mind starts running through possible scenarios of where Megan could be. Maybe she really did go to get us pumpkin pie frappes. When the cute guy works, he messes up everyone’s orders. We all forgive him, though, because he’s got a smile that’ll make you blush.

Maybe he’s flirting with her.

I can’t help but grin at the thought. She’s not like me. If I like a guy, I’ll put myself out there and even ask him out. I’m a Langston, after all, and we always get what we go after. Megan, though, would die first before she asked a guy out. She’d probably even tell him no if he asked her.

We’re seriously going to have to work on her dating skills. Maybe I can talk her into inviting him to a Halloween party my dorm is having in a couple of weeks. I can imagine her face turning bright red and her stumbling over each word, only for me to come to rescue her in the end.

My amusement fades as worry creeps back in. If she were in line and late, she’d have at least texted to let me know. Megan’s not the type to blow anyone off, especially not her new and only friend. I text her again.

Me: Where are you???

Again, no response.

So freaking weird.

What if she got in an accident on the way here?

She doesn’t have a car like me, though. Falling and twisting her ankle is a real possibility because she’s a bit clumsy, but again, she’d text me.

Something’s totally up.

Me: I’m worried about you.

Nothing.

I’m tempted to pack up and leave class early, but I know we have to turn in our outline. Thankfully, since I have a printer in my room, I was the one to print it out and bring it to class. She’s not the only overly studious one around here.

Before I can consider texting her again, Professor Bolton begins rapid-fire spitting out lecture notes that’ll be on the test next week. I return to my note taking and obsessively record every detail she says on my laptop. When she finally takes a break nearly forty minutes later to answer questions, I snatch my phone up and check if Megan texted me back.

Nothing.

Class will be over soon. Since I don’t have to go to my next class until after lunch, I have time to pop over to the Marks Hall dorms where she lives at. I’ll only forgive her if she’s chatting up the cutie at the coffee shop and even that’s a big if.

I start packing up my stuff despite the narrow-eyed look of disproval from my professor. While I sit impatiently waiting, with just the outline me and Megan painstakingly worked on, I can’t keep my thoughts from spinning in unhealthy circles.

Did you take your meds today?

My stomach tightens. I always take it. Every day at exactly the same time, without fail. But then I begin to wonder if maybeI actually forgot. I might’ve set it down beside the printer and then never picked it back up.

I did take it, though.I always take it. Every day. At exactly the same time. Without fail.Closing my eyes for a moment, I inhale a slow, measured breath just like Maura taught me. Thank God my therapist does video chats when I’m feeling frazzled.

“You could be building some resistance to your meds. Upping the dosage is something we need to consider.”

I’m not going to up the dosage. In fact, I was going to ask her next time we spoke how long it would be before I could wean myself off of it. It’s an antidepressant, even thoughI’m not depressed, that works for anxiety, which apparently,I am always anxious. But she taught me all these coping mechanisms over the years that could prove to be useful. Now that I’m away from Dad’s insufferable personality and am officially an adult, the exercises would probably work if I actually did them. Meds are kind of pointless now, right?

I consider how the conversation would go with Maura if I brought this up. Cringing, I decide she’d definitely up my meds.

Sighing, I glance at the clock, anticipating the top of the hour when class will finally be over. I fidget in my seat and skim over the outline for the twelfth time since we typed it up, looking for any error that’s been hiding until now. Thankfully, I find none. Just a basic roadmap about our conspiracy theory topic on secret elite psychological operations—or psyops—and government mind control. Right now, we’re in the investigation phase and will narrow down our thesis by the end of next week.

My rambling thoughts screech to a halt the second chairs start scraping as students begin leaving class. I yank my bag over my shoulder, tuck my collarbone-length blond hair behind my ear, then snatch up my outline. Someone gives me an annoyedlook when I nearly plow them over in my attempt to get to Professor Bolton before anyone else.

“Miss Langston,” she says as I approach. “We’ll need to discuss what you want to do with your project going further.”

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