Page 26 of Play Fake
The scrape of chairs and shuffle of backpacks fills the lecture hall as the professor collects the last of the quizzes. My shoulders ache from how tense I sat the whole time, and my pen left faint grooves in my fingers.
Beside me, Beck slides his notebook into his bag like it was just another Wednesday. No panic. No shaking hands.
We walk out together, the cool air a relief after the stale classroom. Students spill across the quad, buzzing about what questions they nailed and what they blanked on.
“So,” Beck says, glancing down at me. “How’d it go?”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Terrible. My brain doesn’t work right on tests. It’s like the second I see the paper, every fact I studied goes out the window.”
He studies me for a second, not mocking, not pitying—just…listening. “Test anxiety?”
I shrug, hugging my bag tighter against my side. “Always. Even if I prepare, my brain convinces me I didn’t do enough. Sometimes it feels like the walls are closing in.”
For a moment, I worry I’ve said too much, laid myself out bare in the middle of the sidewalk. But Beck just nods, thoughtful.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t know the material,” he says finally. “Just means your brain doesn’t cooperate under pressure.”
I blink, caught off guard by how simply he put it.
“That’s…” My voice softens. “Actually exactly how it feels. Which is weird, because I normally thrive under pressure and in stressful situations.”
He adjusts the strap of his backpack, gaze forward, steady as ever. “Then don’t beat yourself up for it. Quizzes aren’t everything.”
Easy for him to say, but somehow the knot in my chest loosens anyway.
We reach the point where our paths split—him heading toward the athletic complex, me going to the library.
“I’ll see you Friday,” I say, shifting my bag.
“Yeah,” he replies, and for the first time, a small, almost hidden smile flickers across his face. “Friday.”
By the time evening rolls around, my brain is fried. I’ve gone over flashcards twice, rewritten notes that didn’t need rewriting, and convinced myself at least a dozen times that I failed the Abnormal Psych quiz.
Ava finally texted me.
Stop spiraling. My place. Movie night. You’re bringing popcorn.
So here I am, standing at her door with a grocery bag looped over my wrist, the buttery smell of microwave popcorn already seeping through.
She swings the door open, hair up in a messy bun, flannel pants hanging low on her hips. “Took you long enough.”
“You said popcorn, I brought three bags,” I say, lifting the bag in triumph. “And chocolate, because you’d cry without it.”
“God bless you.” She grabs the snacks, stepping aside so I can slip in.
Her apartment is small but cozy—pillows everywhere, string lights draped across the wall, and a stack of DVDs by the TV, even though everyone streams now.
I kick off my shoes, and we curl up on the couch. By the time the previews start rolling on the streaming app, Ava’s already got a blanket thrown over both of us.
“So.” She shoots me a look, tearing into the chocolate. “How was the quiz day?”
I groan, burying my face in a pillow. “Horrible. I blanked on the short answers and spent half the time trying not to pass out.”
She nudges me with her foot. “But you didn’t pass out. You survived.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.” She pops a piece of chocolate into her mouth. “Maybe Harrison can tutor you.”
