He stopped and looked at her with that Jackson-y smirk. "What a lame subject change-you're as transparent as a well-dressed preacher."
"I have no idea what that means."
He laughed. "Yeah, classes are fine."
A few dark curls escaped his hat. She wanted to tuck them back in-or tug off the cap and wrap her hands in his hair. She got them walking again, instead.
"What else are you taking?" he asked.
"Statistics, which is ridiculous."
"Why?" he asked, looking adorably baffled. "It's just common sense."
"Uh, no. I'm very sensible-and I still get the alternative and null hypotheses mixed up."
"Null assumes that the event you're hypothesizing has no effect. Alternative assumes the event created some change." He rattled this off like everyone had this information memorized. "Just remember null means no."
"Okay, math genius. Explain Bayes' Rule, then."
"The conditional probability of event A given event B-and then the other way around. It links the degree of belief in a proposition before and after accounting for evidence."
"Can you pretend you're me and take the tests?"
"Miss Fiona, really!" He laughed. "I can help you study, though."
Fiona reached her floor but stopped just outside the door. She adjusted the strap on her guitar case and took a deep breath. "Can I ask you a favor?" she said.
"Sure."
Fiona pointed toward her room. "I need an audience. For practice."
"An audience?"
"It's a requirement for one of my classes-to perform one of my own songs. I'm kind of freaking out."
"You weren't kidding, about not singing your own stuff?"
"Nope. I have a serious hang-up about it in public."
"Because?"
"I don't know, just because. But my grade-and scholarship-depend on it, not to mention Lucy won't talk to me until I do it."
Jackson wagged his eyebrows. "So I'd be your first?"
Oh my. "Forget it."
"No. No. I want to. Please. Please let me be your first." He knelt right in front of her, clutching his hands together in front of his heart.
"Let's get this over with," she mumbled and led him into her room.
Pointing to the chair by her desk, Fiona assumed her usual guitar-playing position-cross-legged on the bed. She took a few moments-longer than she needed, really-to tune, humming herself into pitch. She took a deep breath, hit the first chord, and sang.
If I'm inside out / And upside down
When I'm piece by piece / And pound by pound
How do I measure the melted?
How do I know what's left is enough for you?
Now came the instrumental part. As her fingers picked out the melody, she glanced up. Jackson was watching her with an intensity that made blood thrum in her ears. She looked back to her fingers and promised herself she wouldn't look back up again. She even closed her eyes, for extra security.
When I'm inside out / And upside down
When I'm piece by piece / And pound by pound
After the stitches have faded.
How will I know what's left is enough for you?
She kept her eyes closed nearly a full thirty seconds after she finished. Slowly, she opened one eye then the other, too stressed out to glory in the fact that she'd done it. Finally done it.
Jackson leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands joined in front of him. "You wrote that?" he asked, quietly.
Fiona nodded.
"Is it about that guy in the coffee shop?"
Ugh, this was why she didn't sing. "No, it's not about him." It was about her, damn it.
"It was really good," he said.
"You don't have to do that."
"Do what?"
She pulled her hair from its ponytail, dragging it over her face out of habit, and studied the pattern of her bedspread. "Compliment me or whatever."
"I'm not really a false praise kind of guy."
The lump in her throat made it impossible to speak. She felt like a biology frog, flayed out and pinned down, all her insides open for inspection. She swiped her hands over her eyes, hoping he hadn't noticed the tears welling up.
He sat beside her. "I get the feeling I'm handling this wrong."
"It's not you," she said, shaking her head. "I don't think I was ready."
"You did just launch into it. No foreplay at all."
She looked sideways at him. "Why does it always feel like a double entendre with you?"
"Well, I'm not that subtle." He sat up and tucked her curtain of hair behind her ears, left side, then right. His fingers lingered on the skin of her neck while his eyes lingered on the scar.
"Seriously, let me make it up to you," he said. "Play something else. I'll be better this time." He leaned in and whispered dramatically, "More attentive to your needs."
Performance jitters flowed away, like someone had opened a tap-but stomach flutters immediately took their place. Her heart pounded like it might break through her ribs.
Surprising herself, she picked up the guitar and smirked right back at him. "They say it's never good the first time, anyway."
FEBRUARY
FI
Fi knocked on her advisor's door. The loose glass pane in the chipped, wooden door rattled. The door swung open, and Fi faced Brenda Lyon, cochair of the English department and Fi's assigned freshman advisor.
"We said four." Professor Lyon glanced at her watch.
"Right. Sorry, lacrosse practice went a little long."
Fi sat down on an unforgiving wood chair on the "guest" side of the desk. Lyon settled into a plush, leather one on hers.
This would be their fourth meeting-one each for first and second semester course selection, one in between to discuss Fi's uninspiring academic performance. Lyon always looked exactly the same-tightly pulled back graying hair, starched blue button-down, black skirt.
For the next three to four minutes, Lyon clicked through her computer. Fi eyed it from the back, as it coughed up her secrets like a traitor.
Finally, Lyon looked away from the screen. "I thought we'd come to an understanding about this semester, Fi."
"I'm sorry?" Fi asked, playing innocent.
"We're almost to midterms, and you're barely keeping your head above 2.0."
"Spanish and sociology should be Bs."
Lyon glanced back to the screen and raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure that math?"
"Well, I mean I'll get there by the end of the semester. Not immediately."
"It'll take an incredible amount of work. Dedicated work." Lyon looked back to the screen, shaking her head. "You'll forgive my skepticism."
"It's been a hard year," Fi muttered.
"Fi, every freshman has issues with transition. It's tough to adjust to the independence and responsibility. But you still have to."
"My issues are a little different."
"How so?"
"My boyfriend died nine months ago." She felt a wave of nausea the second the words were out of her mouth. Why did she keep using Marcus as a bargaining chip?
"I'm sorry to hear that," Lyon said, considering her a moment. "Have you thought about taking some time off?"
"Um, no." She only needed a second to mull over the idea. "But I don't want to do that."
"I can't give you another chance, Fi. You have to buckle down here."
She looked Lyon in the eyes. "I can work."
Lyon drummed her fingers against the desk, watching Fi. "Okay. But it's going to be hard." She angled back to the computer, clicking on a few screens. "You're on academic probation."
"Oh. Okay." After a moment, she added, "What's that mean, exactly?"
"You have until the end of this semester to get a minimum of 2.25 in all your courses. If you skip any classes or fail to complete assigned work, your professors will be required to notify me. And you cannot participate in any extracurricular activities until the probation period ends."
Fi nodded as Lyon went through the rules. A little extra work, a tighter rein on her schedule-she could do that. She would do that. But at that last bit, Fi held up a hand. "Wait-um, what qualifies as an extracurricular activity?"
"Any school-sanctioned groups that aren't linked to your academics. Student government, academic organizations, service clubs."
"Does that include the lacrosse team?" she asked as calmly as she could manage.
"Yes."
"Can we come up with other terms? So I can stay on the team?"
"There are no other terms. Probation is the only option you've got left."
"Right, I just think I can handle the work and the team."