Page 14 of Play Fake
“That’s…not what I expected,” she admits softly.
I just shrug, turning back toward the board. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”
The professor starts his lecture, chalk scratching across the board, but I can still feel her beside me—quiet and thoughtful, like she’s tucking that piece of information away.
And maybe that’s okay.
Before Sophie can respond, the professor clears his throat loud enough to cut through the chatter. The room quiets in an instant, everyone turning forward as he scrawlsAbnormal Psychologyacross the board in block letters.
“This is an advanced course,” he begins, his voice clipped, carrying easily to the back row. “If you’re here because you think it will be an easy elective, you’re in the wrong place. This class requires focus, attention, and a willingness to challenge the way you think about mental health.”
Pens start scratching around me, laptops snapping open. I lean back in my chair, eyes on the board.
“I don’t take it easy on anyone,” he continues, pacing the front of the room. His gaze sweeps over the rows, sharp and assessing, before landing squarely on me.
The pause stretches just a little too long. Like he’s making a point. Like the guy in the jersey must be here to coast.
I keep my expression neutral, jaw tight. Not the first time I’ve felt that stare, and it won’t be the last.
Beside me, Sophie shifts in her seat. I can feel her eyes flicking between the professor and me, probably wondering if I’ll say something.
I don’t. I just nod once, slow and steady, letting the professor move on.
He starts rattling off the syllabus—weekly readings, group discussions, a research project later in the semester. The usual grind. My pen moves automatically, copying down due dates, even though I’ll transfer it all into my planner later.
I don’t need him to believe I belong here. I just need to prove it.
The professor’s voice drones on, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sophie watching me again—like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.
By the time the lecture wraps, half the class looks shell-shocked, already flipping through the syllabus like they’re searching for a loophole. I pack up slowly, sliding my notebook into my backpack. Beside me, Sophie does the same, her movements neat and deliberate.
We fall into step as we head for the door, the stream of students spilling out around us.
“So,” I say, adjusting my strap. “What’s next for you?”
“Another lecture,” she says with a sigh. “Human Behavior in the Social Environment. Then Family Dynamics this afternoon. And cheer practice later.”
I raise a brow. “Full day.”
“That’s every day.” She gives a small shrug, like it’s nothing. “You?”
“Weights.” The answer comes easy. Routine. “Then film study. Practice tomorrow.”
She shakes her head, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Already hit the gym this morning.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter, but there’s no bite in it. Just a flicker of respect.
We reach the split in the walkway—her class to the left, the athletic complex to the right. She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder and gives me a small smile.
“See you Wednesday, then.”
“Yeah.” I nod once. “See you Wednesday.”
She heads off into the crowd, blonde ponytail swaying, and I turn the opposite way, toward the weight room.
Different paths. Same class.
For reasons I don’t bother naming, I don’t mind the overlap.
