Page 9 of Don't You Pucking Dare

I’m searching the room now, desperate to find who the hell it could be. Now Kiah starts looking around and then she turns smug.

"Those are the football players."

I catch where her eyes are and then I sigh.

"Very athletic. And very hot." Kiah pours more hot sauce on her taco.

I pick up my second taco and chuckle. "Give me some of that hot sauce."

She hands over the bottle. "I knew you needed some spice in your life. But seriously, is something going on with the football team?"

I put a few drops onto my taco and laugh. "Never would I ever."

She’s smiling and nodding, a teasing look on her face. "You totally would! Look at you blushing."

I grin and ignore her to take a bite of my taco. Even though I’ve been paranoid someone’s been watching me, being with her makes it feel lighter.

Then a guy drops into the empty chair beside Kiah. "Ladies!" he grins, dark eyes bright. "Please tell me you'recoming to the art department party Friday. They're turning the studio into some kind of neon wonderland."

"Like I'd miss it." Kiah throws a napkin at him. "Lola, you in?"

I should say yes. Should grab at this chance for normal college fun. Instead, I mutter something about practice and assignments.

The rest of Tuesday passes in a blur of classes and paranoia. But Wednesday brings worse moments. I'm early to my practice room, eager to lose myself in Bach's Cello Suite No. 1. The door is unlocked.

I stand frozen, key in hand, staring at the handle I know I locked yesterday. Inside, everything looks normal—music stand in place, spare rosin on the windowsill, chair positioned exactly how I like it. But something feels off. Like the air itself has been disturbed.

My hands shake as I unpack my cello. The familiar weight grounds me, and I throw myself into scales, arpeggios, anything to drown out the whispers of fear. An hour passes, then two. The music wraps around me like armor.

Until I notice the markings.

They're subtle—light pencil scratches on my composition, suggestions for tempo and dynamics. The graphite catches the light as I tilt the page, showing changes I definitely didn't make. My stomach lurches.

"Looking good, Kemper."

I nearly drop my bow. Professor Schweig stands in the doorway, nodding at my sheet music. "Those adjustments will help with the flow. Third movement was a bit rushed yesterday."

"I..." The words stick. "These weren't..."

"Keep working on it. I expect to hear the changes next week."

He's gone before I can protest, leaving me with marked-up music and too many questions. Did he come in earlier? Make the notes himself? But I had the only key, and the faculty practice rooms are on a different floor.

That night, I triple-check the lock before leaving. It doesn't help.

Thursday morning brings a new kind of unease. I'm reorganizing my backpack—a habit from years of protecting my few precious possessions—when I notice my books aren't in their usual order. The psychology text is before calculus, theory notes mixed in with English.

I look up at the ceiling dramatically and let out a long sigh.

"Seriously?" Kiah's voice makes me jump.

I fix my posture and pinch my eyes. "Fuck… I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there."

She's watching me closely. "Is something going on?" she asks, now suspicious.

"Nothing, I just—"

She sits on her bed and looks at the mess in front of me.

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