Page 151 of Filthy Elites

She launches into a story about some girl who did something her year and blahblah. It doesn’t matter, there are a few firm rules and trashing the president of the sorority while obviously drunk is breaking them. I continue to pack my things, ignoring the side glances from Janelle across the room. “Look mom,” I say, interrupting her, “I need to go get my laundry and there’s no service in the dorm basement.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll support your decision. Maybe a fresh start is best. You could enroll at the University in the spring and—”

“Gotta go, byeee.” I hang up and toss my phone on the bed. “God, my mother has no clue what a clusterfuck this is. There is no going to another school. Blacklisted is blacklisted. It doesn’t just apply here.”

“Well, if you ask me, you dodged a bullet.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “I didn’t ask you.” She shrugs and I grab an empty laundry basket. At the door, I pause. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that all of this screws up your life, too. I know you’ll have to get used to another roommate and deal with all that.” I reach for the pearl necklace, to worry it between my fingers, but there’s nothing there. Andrea snatched it off last night. “I just can’t stay here.”

I don’t wait for her reply. Janelle doesn’t care that I got blacklisted. She doesn’t even really get the severity of it, but I’m not spending the next four years walking around this campus with everyone thinking I’m a reject.

I’m half willing to forget my clothes down in the laundry room and leave without them, but my favorite blanket is in there. After the last twenty-four shitty hours, I’m not leaving without it.

There’s little risk anyone will notice me as I take the stairs down to the basement. Anyone that matters is out partying and celebrating their bids. Everyone else can go fuck themselves. The machines hum as I enter the room, dozens of washers and dryers working at once. I find the one with my belongings and rest the basket under the door, opening it as someone walks into the room. Hopefully, if I don’t make eye-contact, they won’t know it’s me. I won’t have to see the judgement and amusement in their eyes. I can get out of here and leave Whittmore behind me for good.

I fill the basket and lift it off the ground. From the door, I hear, “I think you dropped this.”

Fuck. I consider walking out completely but pause and turn. There’s a guy standing in the middle of the room holding a sock. The first thing I notice is his glasses, dark square frames highlighting the angularness of his face. Then his height—he’s tall, with wavy, disheveled, dark hair. Lanky, although his T-shirt stretches across broad shoulders. The main thing that catches my attention is the fact he’s too old to be down in the freshman dorm laundry room.

He lifts the sock. “Yours?”

“Yeah. Must have been bundled in my blanket.” He balls it up and tosses it in the basket. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He rocks back on his heels, and I take a step toward the door. “Wait.”

I sigh. “What?”

“Can we talk?”

“Sorry, I’m not into laundry room creepers.”

His lip quirks. “I’m not a creeper.”

“No? You just make it a habit to troll around basements?” I settle the basket on my hip. “I’m not sure how old you are, but it’s too old for the freshman dorm.”

“I’m just…” he starts, eyes darting over my shoulder toward the door, “look, I’m here to talk to you, Reagan.”

He knows my name. Well, who doesn’t? The whole goddamn world knows who Reagan Lake is now that the video has gone viral.

I let my eyes skim over him. Even under the best of circumstances, this guy is not my type. “There can’t be anything you and I have to talk about.”

“Still a bitch, even after being taken down a notch.” He laughs darkly and shakes his head. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

I drop the basket and cross over to him. He towers over me, but I pretend he’s not intimidating. He’s a nerd. Some lame guy that lurks around freshman laundry rooms hitting on girls. “Since you know my name, you also know this has been a shitty week. I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you need to leave me the fuck alone.”

His eyebrow quirks. “Feisty. Maybe I wasn’t wrong.”

I throw up my hands. “Wrong about what?”

His eyes, dark like his hair, bore into mine. The flash of seriousness makes me pause, but it’s nothing like what he says next. “Getting you to take down the Zeta Sigmas.”

* * *

“You’re crazy.”

I believe it. He is. This guy, Grayson Hart, with his glasses and nerdy T-shirt, is completely deranged.

“I know they think they are just following tradition, but the Zeta Sig’s have gone somewhere dangerous with their hazing,” he says, taking a sip of his black coffee. After dropping the bomb on me in the laundry room, Grayson asked me to meet him at the Waffle Hut across town. I don’t know if it’s my exhaustion or bitterness or what that made me agree, but here we are. “Someone died last year, and they still won’t stop.”

---