Page 19 of Cruel Devotion

“You’re still waiting for him to notice you and ask you to that lame-ass dance?” I shot her a disapproving smirk. I was all for feminism in the sense that no girl should have to feel embarrassed to take the initiative and ask a guy to a dance or on a date. Or propose. If you knew what you wanted, go for it. Screw traditional sexist trends. But I saw no reason to even want to go to that winter dance, so it was all dumb.

“Maybe.” She smiled, seeming to perk up the more she drank. “Or we could go. You and me. Just so I can make sure you’ve had the experience of going toadance.”

“No, thanks.”

She laughed lightly. “You’re so stubborn.”

“No. I’m so not a fan of wasting my time. It’s stupid, Dav. Those formals are just for the preppy, popular kids who treat college like an extension of high school. Not like they are preparing for a career and becoming a responsible adult.”

“Okay, but can’t you admit you are ateenybit curious about what it would be like to go?”

I kept my face blank as I looked ahead. “No.”

“What about all those screenshots of dresses you got on your phone?” she teased.

I shouldn’t have let you see them.

“I was just noticing them. Ads popped up and stuff, and they were pretty.”

I’d never admit that Iwascurious about this dance. I didn’t go to any of the formals in high school. But my intrigue about this dance fell under the category of ridiculous wishful thinking like the idea of fitting in. Which wasn’t happening. Not here.

It didn’t help that I’d dreamed about it last night, too. First, I was trying dresses on. Then, I was at the dance but it was actually held at a zoo with animals escaping. And lastly, my dream world shifted to my being locked out from prom at the high school gym. All of it had been a bizarre mix of dreams that ruined my sleep.

But it doesnotmean I want to go.

Definitely not.

She shut up about it, clearly getting the hint that it wasn’t a topic I wanted to talk about. Or maybe she lost the energy to talk at all, just walking with me and waiting for the coffee to reboot her brain for the day.

We entered the sociology lecture room and took our seats to the side. I hated to sit in the front because that meant my back was to everyone else, a vulnerable position. Even if I didn’t have the trauma of some cruel classmates cutting my hair in high school when I had been assigned a front-row seat, I disliked the idea of not being able to see the whole room. The back was no good either because it was harder to see past everyone and take good notes. But the side was prime real estate. If an active shooter rushed in, an unfortunate worry in this day and age, we could be the furthest from the door.

Being the first ones here, we sat in our seats and waited for the rest of the class to file in. It wasn’t an auditorium size of a room, but larger than a standard classroom. It amazed me that so many people were enrolled in this course, though. It wasn’t an entry-level class that freshmen could fill up.

And there he is.

Even though I didn’t lift my face when Eli walked in, I knew he was there. I hated that I kept track of where he was, worried that something could be wrong with me to want to know where he was for any other reason than marking the path of my enemy. But that had to be it. I always sought him out just so I could be prepared and on the defense. I did it with Preston, too, noticing where he was in a room. The prey had to be mindful of the predators, after all.

Once the instructor came into the room—not a PhD but an adjunct who seemed to think she was qualified to teach this upper-level course—I paid attention and ignored all the other students. Today would be a breeze, too. She was only handing out papers then assisting students with research on an exercise we’d talk about at the end of the class.

Being paired with Eli for the last assignment had felt like the universe was giving me a middle finger, but we’d managed it. He was a slacker and I did most of the work, but then when he questioned my work, it turned into feeling like the longest project ever.

“Haley? Eli?” She sat at her desk, waiting for us to come up and get her paper. One of those old-fashioned teachers, she refused to let anyone turn in final work digitally since she was paranoid of copying. And she felt she had a “moral obligation to society” to make sure she “encouraged young people to be able to write by hand in this modern age.”

I headed up there, avoiding walking down the same aisle between desks that he went.

“While the content and effort put into this paper is acceptable,” she said, handing us two copies of our work, “you’ll notice your grade is lower than what you might have expected.” She stared us down over the top of her glasses.

I almost gasped at the score.

Eli shrugged. “A C is fine with me.”

I scowled at him. “It’s not okay with me!”

“It’s not my fault your standards are too high,” he retorted. He glared right back, and the angry expression only emphasized how ragged he looked. Tired, like he hadn’t even slept last night. It seemed that redhead gossiping in the coffee shop hadn’t slept with him, but he’d clearly had a busy night otherwise. Bags under his eyes suggested he was dehydrated. His red eyes proved he was exhausted, maybe even sick. But that wasn’t my concern. He was digging in to fight with me, like usual. If he wasn’t teasing me and bullying me, he was prepared to make my life suck in any other way he could. Like ruining my grades that I took pride in.

“My standards aren’t too high,” I replied hotly, but careful not to sound “dramatic” or “whiny” like he’d make fun of me for. “Yours are too pathetically low.”

“You’re—”

---