Chapter 8: The Mixer

After orientation, on the walk back, Jess nudged me. “Ava, was that Ryan from MIT talking to you?”

I blinked. “You know him?”

“My boyfriend’s at MIT—same year. Ryan’s a physics genius. Girls are obsessed with him.”

She grinned. “He came over to talk to you!”

“He wasn’t flirting,” I said, rubbing my earlobe. “With all those girls after him, why would he be into someone as average as me?”

Jess scoffed. “You’re state’s top scorer, Ava. And you’re way prettier than you think.”

To prove it, she dug out makeup and gave me a full makeover. Then she called, “Get your little black dress. Tonight’s the interschool mixer—we’re going to slay!”

After half an hour, I barely recognized myself in the mirror—tall, sharp cheekbones, lips glossed and eyes bright.

Jess flung an arm around me. “Told you. Total knockout.”

The mixer was classic college: thump of pop music, Solo cups sweating on sticky tables, someone yelling over beer pong. Jess and I grabbed a corner table. I picked up a piece of watermelon, not even tasting it, when the chair across from me scraped out.

Ryan slid in, his gaze tracing my face, lips quirking. “What a coincidence.”

I nearly dropped my watermelon.

Two guys hustled over behind him, breathless.

“Dude, why’d you run off?”

“Yeah, why pick this dark corner—”

They saw me and fell silent, settling next to Ryan.

Someone suggested truth or dare. After a few rounds, the bottle landed on Ryan. I kept my eyes down, nibbling watermelon, when someone asked, “Ryan, what about your relationship history?”

The table hushed. Ryan said, slow and cool:

“I got played by a heartless girl. Didn’t feel too great.”

Then he looked straight at me. “Isn’t that right, freshman?”

My stomach twisted. The room felt too bright, too small, every gaze pinning me in place.