Page 5 of Collision
“All right,” I reply, looking at the time on the phone. “I have my first class in ten minutes. You should get to Economics if you don’twant to be late.”
He smiles, kisses me, and pulls me close. “In front of the Dixon at five, okay?”
I nod without showing any enthusiasm, and we part.
Three
I’ve been one of the first people to enter the classroom for as long as I can remember.
I let my gaze wander over the vacant chairs and opt for the first row. Maybe I’m a nerd, but I love listening to lectures without being disturbed.
Within a few minutes, the classroom fills up with students, and a guy comes over to me. It’s not just any guy, it’s Thomas Collins. I don’t know him well, but I know that he moved to Corvallis last summer. He’s a sophomore like me and plays on the basketball team with Travis. I’ve seen him several times at practice and during games. I have to admit, he really is talented, except he walks the university halls as if he owns the place. The guys respect him; no one openly dares to go against him. As for the girls, he loves to reap victims, fully aware of his powers of attraction.
There’s bad blood between him and my boyfriend. Travis considers him a rank asshole—ironic coming from him—and more than once during the past academic year, he warned me about Thomas’s reputation. Not that I needed his advice; on campus, I just take my classes and try to stay out of the spotlight. Despite the fact that I’m the girlfriend of the captain of the basketball team, no one bothers me. In any case, I don’t need any more arrogant and conceited guys in my life, so I keep far away from Thomas.
But apparently that’s going to be impossible today. Despite all the empty seats, Thomas decides to sit right next to me. But it’s odd—last year he never even deigned to say hello, and he certainly doesn’t seem like the front-row type.
For a moment I consider moving, but I have no intention of giving up this spot for anything in the world, least of all Thomas Collins.
With his trademark nonchalance, Thomas tosses a notepad and pencil on the desk, and sits down, or rather, sprawls out, drawing looks from some girls who pass by, winking. He reciprocates by sneaking a look at one of their bottoms. Wow, what a gentleman… Still, I can’t help my curiosity, and I take advantage of his brief distraction to get a better look at him. Black, tousled locks hang over his brow, while the sides and back of his hair are shorter, almost shaved. His straight nose and sculpted jawline make him look tough and powerful, as do his muscular arms and his broad, athletic shoulders in his leather jacket, not to mention his tongue piercing and the tattoos on his hands and neck. At basketball practice even more of them are visible—he’s covered from head to toe. Sure, some people might say that all this, combined with his amber-streaked emerald eyes, make him attractive, irresistible. But I am not one of them.
I look away before he notices me staring, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him take his phone out of the pocket of his dark jeans and plug in his earbuds, lifting them to his ears. I arch an eyebrow, upset. Is that what he’s going to do? Listen to music during class? There is nothing more irritating than jocks who rest on their laurels just because of their athletic scholarships.
As if he read my mind, he turns to me with a bold look. He scans me from top to bottom, chewing on gum with his mouth half-open. I instinctively give him a dirty look to let him know that his pathetic, passé playboy tactics aren’t going to work on me, and add snarkily, hoping to at least scratch the surface of his conceit: “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that chewing with your mouth open in front of people is rude? Same way it’s rude to listen to music during a lecture.”
Thomas arrogantly arches an eyebrow. “Rude, huh? I get that a lot,” he replies nonchalantly, going back to fiddling with his headphonecable. Only now do I notice a completely irrelevant detail: this is the first time I’ve heard his voice. It’s low, scratchy—the kind of voice that many women consider sexy. “The point…” he continues, his irksome eyes latching onto mine, “is that I don’t really give a shit.”
Travis was right: he was a rank one. “You have a big head for someone who’s all muscle and no brain,” I say without thinking, falling prey to my unchecked anger. But if I thought those words would silence him, the smirk I see taking shape on his face a moment later tells me that I’ve miscalculated.
“I have a big something,” he says, looking down at the fly of his pants and leaving me speechless. “You can see for yourself if you want,” he adds smugly.
My cheeks burn in embarrassment. From the way he bites his lip to hold back a laugh, I can tell that was exactly what he wanted: to mortify me. I stare at him in dismay for a few seconds and then reply, “You’re disgusting.”
“I get that a lot too,” he admits with a satisfied grin.
I stare at him, dumbfounded, about to come up with a snappy retort. But then I realize it’s not worth it; I would just be playing his game. So I shake my head and turn away. I’ve already had enough bad mojo today. I have more important things to concentrate on.
I pull out my course materials, enthusiastic in spite of everything (and everyone), and meticulously arrange my workspace. I open the laptop directly in front of me on the desk and set a brand-new notebook next to it for taking notes, with my black pen on top. I place a pack of Kleenex in the upper left corner and a bottle of water in the right. My level of organization can be compulsive, I realize—another quirk I inherited from my mother. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Thomas has lifted the pencil from the paper where he’s been doodling and is staring at me with a cocked eyebrow. And although I try to restrain myself from opening my mouth so as not to encourage him, I can’t help myself.
“What are you looking at?” I blurt out, keeping my eyes on my orderly desk.
“The university provides mental health services, you know.”
I’m struck speechless for the second time in two minutes.
“Excuse me?” I ask, hoping I misunderstood.
He nods toward the items arranged on my desk, and I sense that no, I didn’t misunderstand.
“I just like to be organized. There’s nothing wrong with that.” I blink, dumbfounded, trying to keep my composure.
“That’s not organized, that’s sick, but hey,”—Thomas raises his hands—“no judgment. The first step is recognizing the problem. After that it’s a breeze. Trust me, I know.”
Okay, that’s enough. Whatever problem this guy has with me, he has to get over it.
“My God, do you hear yourself? You really are unbelievable! What am I saying, you’re worse than incredible, you’re…you’re…” I struggle to find the right term, a single word that would encapsulate a slew of insults sufficient to shut him up permanently, but I don’t think it exists.
“I’m what?” he taunts, a mocking smile on his lips.
