Unmistakable Read online

  We’re in the sociology building, which contains the only room on campus big enough to hold five hundred people. I’ve only been in this room once before, for freshman orientation. My usual courses—international contracts, regulations, and finance—don’t tend to draw the big crowds. Even though the room looks like something out of the Dark Ages (at least compared to the gleaming impersonality of the newly renovated business school), I kind of like it.

  The rickety wooden chairs are covered in the graffiti of all of the other captives who’ve served their time here, and there’s a certain charm in that. I lucked out with the philosophical question. Much better than “I love Dave.”

  Izzy pinches my arm and snaps me back to my depressing reality. Yes, I am indeed waiting for a Psych 101 lecture to begin.

  “Stella, the TA’s called your name twice.”

  Reluctantly, I remove my eyeballs from the back of the chair.

  “Estella Walton? Estella Walton? Is there an Estella here?”

  The source of the hesitant voice is a nervous-looking beanpole with thick-rimmed glasses. This is going to be fun.

  “Present!” I yell.

  He lets out a yelp of pain and jumps backwards, as if the sound of my voice has somehow damaged his eardrums. When he shoots me a very dirty look, I hear some chuckles from around the room.

  Izzy clucks her tongue. “Trying to scare off the TA on the first day, Estella? Or did you just partake in too many extracurricular activities last night?”

  I consider a number of possible responses, but she snaps her fingers and cuts them all off. “No, I know. Reese was just a smoke screen. You’re secretly seeing someone on the side.”

  “Thank you for that prescient insight, Isabella.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll be here all semester. Plenty of time for more insightful comments. That’s me, probing the depths of Estella’s psyche.”

  I smack her arm, but it doesn’t pack enough of a wallop to knock the smirk from her face.

  No one, not even my parents, calls me Estella, even though it’s my given name. My mother calls it her little literary twofer: Estella, the name of the destructive, heartless bitch from Great Expectations who rips Pip’s heart wide open, and Stella, the doormat head case from A Streetcar Named Desire. Neither is particularly appealing, but I’m probably stuck with destructive bitch, given my past history.

  “Tell me, Iz. Why did we decide to take this class?”

  “Let’s see.” As she ticks off the options on her fingers, her eyes fill with mischief. “Astronomy was closed. You hate dissecting things, so biology was out. Dr. Lane teaches chemistry, and that was never in the running. I mean, I’ve worked in his office for the past three years, and I’ve never understood one word of what he’s said to me. He’s a mumbler. I hate mumblers. Shall I continue? I could enthrall you with all of the reasons why neither of us is particularly suited for organic chemistry.”

  “Zoology?”

  “There’s a two-year waiting list.”

  “There’s got to be something else. Something to get us out of this hellhole.”

  “I could have taken geology, but you had Keynesian Theory at the same time, so you would have been all by your lonesome in here. I’d rather take the abuse. And the bruises,” she adds, shooting me a sidelong look. “Plus the chance to give you grief for putting us in this position.”

  I make a face, but her words shut me up. She’s right; she could have left me in here all by myself, which is the only thing that could make this ridiculous farce any worse. Plus, it would have broken our streak—Iz and I have coordinated schedules every semester so that we have at least one class together. Since she’s an art history major and I have a double in economics and international policy, we’ve delved pretty deeply into the depths of the Greenview catalogue.

  One semester, our only option was Brazilian Steel Drumming. Seriously. I now know the difference between a boom, cellopan, guitar pan, and ping pon. These things will be completely useful in a future life when I move to South America and make a living as a street performer.

  It’s no wonder that college graduates can’t find jobs.

  The economics major might come in handy for my own job search, I suppose, although utility was the furthest thing from my mind when I picked my classes freshman year. The real reason is pretty simple—the business school doesn’t hold classes on Fridays, and that was at the top of my priority list. The rest of it was a process of elimination—I do hate dissecting things, so science majors were out, I was never any good with erector sets, so engineering seemed like a poor choice, and my mother’s warning about cutting off my tuition assistance was enough to scare me away from the more liberal arts.

  Which brings us to the reason why Iz and I are sitting in Psych 101. As seniors. I never really saw the point in spending a whole semester bending over a microscope, so I chose to ignore the little provision in the handbook that mandates a lab science for each and every Greenview student. Iz protested, of course, since she’s a stickler for following rules, but she went along with it once I told her that no one was ever going to notice.

  Except that someone did notice. Dr. Allen, the advisor for the Honors Program, flipped out when we submitted our transcripts for the final graduation check.

  “I’m dealing with imbeciles,” he said, before shoving a course listing at us and making a series of impressive-sounding threats.

  Thus, Psych 101.

  I grin and decide to contemplate the question on the back of the chair some more. I refuse to pay one iota of attention to whatever decrepit professor they’ve assigned to teach this class. Historically, Psych 101 is a gatekeeper class. It’s unfailingly taught by Ben Stein’s older and less attractive cousin. I think it’s so the powers that be can promptly scare off any freshmen from getting bright ideas and deciding to be psych majors.

  “Good morning!”

  The sound of five hundred people sucking in their breath is so perfectly choreographed that for one dizzying second, I think I’ve gone off the deep end again.

  When I glance up at the man standing in the front of the room, I find the source of that collective intake of breath.

  Psych enrollment must be down. On life support. Nonexistent. Something.

  That noise? The sound of countless freshmen girls simultaneously falling in love with the decidedly-not-decrepit man standing in front of the room. Despite the fact that his golden-streaked hair is more suited to a California beach than a classroom dungeon, he commands the room with a certain authority that leaves no doubt in my mind that he’s the professor.

  My second thought is that he’s the most classically beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I’m not usually the type to swoon over pretty boys, and this man is almost assuredly the fairest of them all, but his perfection is still so dazzling that it takes many, many seconds for my battle-hardened eyes to adjust.

  He leans against the podium, and as he flicks the blond hair from his tanned face, one eyebrow quirks in amusement. Clearly, he’s aware of the effect that he’s having on the class. Of course he is. Anyone who looks like that should have a stick prepared at all times. He’s been beating helpless women away since the day he came out of the cradle.

  When he scans the room, eyes the color of honey meet mine and linger for just a fraction of a second too long. Before he looks away, an uncomfortable warmth spreads down my body, liquefying my insides.

  Snap out of it, Stella. Breathe. He’s pretty. You don’t even like pretty. Probably gay, too. There’s no need for this nonsense.

  A minute passes. Despite my pep talk, my breathing is still uneven and my heartbeat would most aptly be described as racing. I disgust myself.

  Then again, everyone falls victim to hypnotic flawlessness once in a while.

  Even the frozen one.

  Izzy shoots me an accusing look and throws up her hands. “This is all your fault, Estella dear. We could have been taking classes with Dr. Delicious for the last three years. What was it you said?
‘Oh no, we don’t need to take a lab science.’ I’m so stupid. Why do I ever listen to you?”

  I groan. “How the hell was I supposed to know that the only good-looking professor on campus taught psych? I just figured they were all trolls.”

  Iz raises one skeptical eyebrow, which earns her another smack on the arm. Fortunately, Dr. Delicious’s husky voice cuts off her attempt at further retaliation.

  “I’m Holden Evans, and I’m new to Greenview, as I’m sure many of you are. I see that Brian, who will be one of the numerous TAs for this course, has already taken attendance. Thank you, Brian.”

  He nods at the beanpole, who gives the class a smug once-over.

  “It was all part of my ingenious plan,” I whisper to Izzy. “If we hadn’t waited, we would have gotten stuck with one of the geezers, and we would have missed out on Dr. Delicious.”

  Her eyes remain riveted to the front of the room, but she shakes her head in disgust. “It’s criminal for a man that good looking to have a job that requires him to wear a shirt. I mean, seriously. Wrong career, buddy.”

  When the giggles and murmurs start to approach the danger zone, Dr. Evans clears his throat. “I’m sure many of you are here to fulfill your requirements. When you were deciding which course to choose, some of you probably asked yourselves, what’s the easiest lab science I can take? Undoubtedly, you assumed that the answer was psychology. There’s even an old joke that I like to tell. Okay. Here goes.”

  He pauses dramatically, and I fight back a snicker. “How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?”

  A couple of aspiring teacher’s pets try to chorus out possibilities, but he merely grins and answers his own question.

  “Just one, but the bulb will have to be ready to change.”

  That gets appreciative laughter, at least from the female members of the class. I roll my eyes and see a number of boys around the room doing the same.

  “It’s a terrible joke. Sorry about that. But listen carefully to this—I don’t care why you’re here. I don’t care if you saw a psychology class in a movie and decided to make that your first foray into academia. I don’t care if your advisor recommended this class. No matter why you’re here, my hope is that you’ll find something in this course that will stay with you for the rest of your life. Ultimately, psychology is about figuring out human behavior.”

  That’s a catch-22. Humans can’t be figured out. We’re irrational by nature.

  “That’s a catch-22,” he says.

  My eyes widen in surprise. Maybe Dr. Delicious isn’t as dumb as I think he is.

  “Of course, human behavior is inherently irrational. Psychology is about being curious about why people make the choices they do. What makes them tick, if you will. It’s not for everyone. However, even if this discipline doesn’t end up being your cup of tea, I’ll do my best to be your guide on our journey into the human mind.”

  And maybe he is exactly as dumb as I think he is. Our journey into the human mind? It’s too much. I can’t hold the giggles in my throat any longer, and Izzy’s needling of my side only serves to exacerbate the problem. The idea of Sir Galahad over here taking us on a wonderful journey into the human mind is literally going to kill me. I haven’t laughed this hard in years.

  A number of students (all female) are giving me exceedingly dirty looks. I glance up at Dr. Delicious and find his golden tiger stare on me, his eyes filled with an expression of such earnest sympathy that my laughter ceases immediately. I raise my chin and force myself to hold his gaze until I’m afraid that my sanity will desert me entirely. I look away first, but not before I catch a hint of laughter in those amber depths.

  He just got the best of me. In a staring contest. It’s unprecedented.

  “Any questions so far?” he asks the class.

  A guy sitting a few chairs down from us winks at me and leans forward in his chair. “Yeah. I’ve got a question. What’s the attendance policy?”

  Ah, a brave soul.

  “Of course. By the way, Brian, you owe me ten dollars.” Dr. Evans gives the small army of teaching assistants an easy grin before turning his attention back to the room. “We had a little bet, you see. I guessed that the first student question would relate to attendance, while Brian put his money on grading policy. I never bet against the attendance question. I’ve been burned on that one before.”

  There’s more laughter, the genuine kind this time.

  “The answer to your question is that it depends on the day of the week. On Mondays, we’ll meet in here. Those classes will be conducted in standard lecture format. I’ve got pretty good taste in clip art, so you’ll have that to look forward to, at the very least. It’s up to you whether to attend the lectures. After all, you’re paying for your education, so if you want to squander your days by drinking in your dorm room, be my guest. It’s neither my responsibility nor my intention to stop you from doing so. If you think you can earn a passing grade by skipping class and obtaining the past versions of final exams, you can go right ahead.”

  I might be imagining it, but I’m pretty sure Dr. Delicious has some claws, because he shoots daggers in my direction with that last line.

  But in a flash, the look is gone. “One last warning on the issue of cheating—I’ve been around longer than you have, so it’s probably safe to say that I know more tricks than you do. Proceed at your own peril.”

  It’s probably safe to say that he’s wrong. On the whole, the Greenview student body is ambitious, high-achieving, and morally ambiguous. In other words, it’s a murky cesspool of enterprising cheaters. Some kid in my cyber economy class even devised a computer program that changed all of his girlfriend’s grades to As. It’s been two years, and they still haven’t gotten caught.

  His next words put a serious damper on my good mood.

  “However,” he continues, “the attendance policy for the lab portion of this course is quite different. On Wednesdays, you’ll meet with your lab group, and on Fridays, you’ll have a small group discussion about what you learned during the week. Lax attendance in those small group sessions will not be tolerated. My marvelous group of teaching assistants will shepherd you through this course and give you all of the personal attention that you richly deserve. Sound fair?”

  Damn it. I glance at his face again, hoping the newly announced attendance policy will do something to dim his beauty.

  Nope. Still impossibly gorgeous. I’m a sucker for a chiseled jaw. And honey-colored tiger eyes. And lean muscles that look like they were earned on the football field instead of the psychology lab.

  Stop it, Stella.

  He smiles once again, revealing a perfect row of gleaming teeth. “On your schedule, you should have a TA and room number listed. Please go to those rooms now so that you can meet your instructors and review the syllabus. If you don’t have access to your schedule, I have a master list, so please see me if you need any clarification on where you’re supposed to go. Also, I’ll be holding office hours tomorrow. Feel free to approach me with any additional questions during that time.”

  A number of girls immediately scamper up to the front of the room. Bad call on the master list, Dr. Delicious. Bad call. A worse call on those office hours. I can see the headline now: Hundreds of Greenview Students Killed in Stampede.

  “Who do you have?” Izzy asks.

  I tear my eyes from the fawning masses. “No clue. Didn’t look.”

  “Maybe you can go up to see the master list,” she teases. After a few seconds of staring at her computer screen, she makes a face. “I got the beanpole. Gross.”

  “Hang on. Let me check.”

  I log in to Greenview’s scheduling portal, which has caused me no small amount of grief over the years. The design is ludicrously poor—eighteen million links and pop up boxes and checkmarks. With Greenview tuition alone running at a cool forty grand, you’d think that the tech department would have some spare cash laying around to pay a half-decent web designer. Apparently, t
hat money has been diverted to other causes.

  Like the brand-new sparkling student center and its two Starbucks locations.

  On the other hand, maybe that’s money well spent.

  After sorting through at least six pages of useless crap, I finally get to the right page and click on the link that reads Psych 101, Individualized Instruction.

  Teaching Assistant: Luke Dixon.

  My gut jerks.

  There’s a fire alarm in my brain, wailing and screaming his name. Then, without warning, Luke, with his laughing, mocking eyes, so ridiculously blue, swims into my vision.

  Dr. Delicious and his wonderful journey into the human mind are promptly forgotten.

  I take a deep breath.

  It’s just a name on paper. Just a name.

  Keep thinking, Stella. That’s what you’re good at.

  Chapter 3

  I give it five seconds, but my normally foolproof plan to avert a total mental breakdown doesn’t seem to be working this time. My hand trembles against the computer and I bang my head against the back of the chair in frustration.

  “Stella, what’s wrong?” Izzy asks, placing a soft hand over mine.

  Wordlessly, I point to the screen. Her eyes widen when she sees the name, but she shakes her head and tries her best to look reassuring.

  “It’s not him. There has to be more than one Luke Dixon out there in the world.”

  She’s right. She has to be right. I glance up at the front of the room, seeking confirmation. He can’t be here. I would have known. I would have felt it. Felt him and his unmistakable presence.

  Most of the freshmen have already started to file out, excepting the gaggle of girls who are closing in on Dr. Evans. However, the army of TAs is still gathered at the front, and I check each of their faces, one by one. When I reach the end of the row, I let out a sigh of relief. He’s not up there.