RUIN ME, I DARE YOU

NOTE: THE STORY IS IN FIRST-PERSON POV, PRESENT TENSE POV: Viv The alarm goes off at 4:45 a.m. I don't hit snooze. I learned that lesson freshman year when I slept through a shift and lost a week's pay. Now I'm usually awake before the sound even registers, staring at the water stain on my ceiling that looks like a dying bird. I have five minutes to get dressed and ten to walk across campus. I've timed the routine so often that I rarely have to think about it. The coffee shop is called The Grind. It's a shitty name for a place that pays my bills, but it's the only job on campus that lets me work before classes. Doug is already in the back, counting receipts. He doesn't look up when I walk in. "Morning, Castellan." "Morning." "Karen called in sick. You're covering the register until nine." I put my bag down. "Okay." There's no point arguing. I need the hours, and Doug knows it. The first hour disappears into orders and steam. By seven, the morning rush hits. Students pour in like they haven't eaten in days, ordering complicated drinks and paying with their parents' credit cards. Most don't look at me. They look through me. At 8:45, Doug taps me on the shoulder. "Your shift's over. Go do whatever it is you do." I clock out, grab my bag, and head for the library basement. The tutoring center. I don't hate tutoring. I'm actually good at it. I've been explaining things to people since high school, back when I was the only person in my AP Calculus class who seemed to understand what was happening. Breaking complicated things down has always come easily to me. What doesn't come easily is watching other students move through college without worrying about whether one bad semester could cost them everything. I can help people pass their classes while being one unpaid bill away from losing the future I'm working toward. It's an uncomfortable position to be in, but worrying about it won't change anything. I just have to keep my grades up, pay what I owe, and stay on top of every deadline. I push through the glass doors and find Priya at the small desk in the corner. She's a graduate student and one of the few people on campus I actually like. She doesn't treat me like I'm invisible or like I'm some charity case. "Hey, Viv. You're early." "I'm always early." She smiles and reaches for a folder beside her laptop. "Got a new assignment for you." She slides it across the desk. I open it, and the name at the top makes me pause. MASON HALE. I know that name. Everyone does. Star pitcher. Campus golden boy. Business major. Future MLB prospect. Heir to the Hale Hotels empire. His family's name is on three buildings on campus, including Kane Hall, where my scholarship review happens every semester. I stare at the photograph attached to the file. Dark blond hair. Green eyes. Crooked smile. He looks like someone who has never had to check his bank account before buying lunch. "Statistics," Priya says. "He's failing. His advisor sent the request through, and you were assigned to him." I look up. "Why me?" She shrugs. "You're the best tutor we have." I glance back at the photograph. "That sounds like a warning." Priya laughs. "Maybe." I turn the page. Senior. Business major. Richard Hale listed as his father. His family owns half the city. His father sits on the board of trustees, and his mother appears in magazines I can't afford to buy. Then I see the surname again. Hale. Something flickers at the back of my mind, a feeling I can't name and a memory I can't quite reach. For a second, I have the uncomfortable sense that I've seen the name somewhere that matters. I close my eyes briefly, trying to catch the thought before it disappears. No. Whatever is trying to surface can stay buried. I shut the file. "He's just another rich student," I say. Priya raises an eyebrow. "That's a lot of confidence for someone you've never met." "I've met enough of them." She doesn't argue. I pull my notebook from my bag. "When does he start?" "Tomorrow. Nine a.m." I look at the folder once more. "I'll handle it." I spend the next few minutes going through his academic information. Statistics. Poor exam scores. Attendance isn't terrible, which means he isn't completely hopeless. That's something. I make a rough lesson plan and close my notebook. I'll teach him what he needs to know, he'll pass, and I'll get paid. There's no reason for it to become more complicated than that. I like keeping things simple. No distractions, no friendships I don't have time for, and no people expecting more from me than I can give. I put Mason Hale's file into my bag, but the photograph catches my attention again. There's something annoyingly confident about his smile, as if the world has always given him a reason to wear it. I flip the folder shut and get on with the rest of my work. Tomorrow, I'll find out whether he's as irritating as he looks. By the time I get home that evening, my feet hurt. The apartment is small, with two bedrooms and thin walls. The heater makes a sound like it's dying, but it works. Mostly. On the kitchen counter, half-buried under a stack of mail, is the scholarship renewal form I've been avoiding for a week. The deadline is circled in red pen. Ten days from now. If I don't submit it on time, I could lose the scholarship that makes staying in college possible. I don't have a backup plan, and I can't afford to pretend otherwise. Delia is curled up on the couch with a cup of tea, her oversized sweater swallowing half her hands. Her hair is twisted into a messy ponytail, and an open journal rests beside her. She has a habit of writing about people she's never met. Celebrities. Strangers on the street. Classmates she's decided she understands. She calls it studying human nature. I call it being nosy. Still, she's the closest thing I have to a friend. She looks up when I walk in. "Hey. How was work?" "Fine." "Just fine?" I drop my bag beside the armchair. "New tutoring assignment." Her face brightens immediately. "Who?" I hesitate. I'm not sure why. "Mason Hale." Her eyebrows shoot up. "Mason Hale?" "Yes." "The Mason Hale?" "How many Mason Hales do you think there are?" "The baseball player?" "Unfortunately." She laughs. "Viv, you're going to hate him." "I already do." "You haven't even met him." "I've seen his picture." "That's enough for you?" "Pretty much." She shakes her head. "He's gorgeous, though." I give her a look. "What?" "Nothing." "Every girl on campus wants him." "Good for every girl on campus." Delia smiles. "You're not interested?" "He's my tutoring assignment, Delia. I'm not dating my tutoring assignments." "I didn't say you were." "You were thinking it." She laughs and picks up her tea. I head toward my room. "Mason Hale," she calls after me. I stop. "What?" "Be careful." I turn around. She shrugs. "Rich boys are trouble." For once, I agree with her. I go into my room and drop onto the edge of my bed. The water stain is still there above me, and the bills are still waiting to be paid. Nothing about my life has changed just because I've been assigned a new student. I pull the folder from my bag and place it on my desk, intending to check tomorrow's lesson plan one last time. Instead, I find myself looking at his photograph again. That strange feeling from the tutoring center returns, faint but persistent. It isn't recognition exactly. I can't connect the name to a clear memory, and trying to force one only leaves me frustrated. I turn off the lamp and lie back against my pillow, hoping sleep will put the feeling out of my mind. Tomorrow, I'll meet him. But even in the dark, I can't quite shake the sense that something about that name matters, though I have no idea why.