I check my watch. Dammit, I’m late for class. Maybe because subconsciously I’m dreading this whole required English Lit class? I have no idea how that’s gonna help me reach my career goal. Plus, it’s not like I have a lot of time to read. With the first extra payments from my Tank-contract, I’ve been able to take on more classes. It’s crazy busy, but I’m excited to finally make solid progress toward my goal.

I quickly throw a study book into my messenger bag, check to see if I have my keys, and hightail it out of my apartment. On a good day, it’s a twenty-minute drive to campus. I have seventeen minutes. Muttering, I race to my car and go as fast as I can without breaking any speed limits. I already have some points against me, and I can't afford to lose my license.

It seems the traffic gods are in a benevolent mood, because all the lights are green, there are no accidents, and apparently half of LA decided to stay home today. Whatever, I’ll take it. I make it into the right building with a minute to spare and dash into the right lecture room, where I run straight into an all-too-familiar broad back.

Tank spins around, and his eyes widen as he sees me.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

We say it at the same time, and it causes some people around us to stare at us.

“If the two gentlemen in the back will find a seat, we can get started,” the professor says. Tank and I glare at each other for another second, before he turns back around and finds a spot in an empty seat. I don’t even think about it; I sit down right next to him.

What the fuck is Tank doing here? I had no idea he was attending college, but I bet he’s thinking the same thing about me. What could he be majoring in?

“Welcome to Intro to Modern English Literature, also known as that horrible required class this university makes all students take, regardless of their major. The bad news is that, yes, there will be required reading of what some of you will consider excruciatingly boring books. The good news is that if this course is purely a hurdle you have to take in pursuit of higher and loftier goals, I’m going to make this as painless as I can.”

My attention is completely focused on the fifty-something, sharp-looking woman who is teaching this class. I like her already. I mean, come on, she had me at excruciatingly boring.

“Today, in this first class, I’m going to ask you to register for this class as one of two categories. Voluntary means you would’ve chosen this course had it not been required, and you are actually interested in learning more about English Literature. Registering as such means you will have to do the assignment individually, but it also means your passing grade will get you into the next level English Lit course.”

This does not sound like an attractive option to me, so I’m hoping whatever comes next will sound better.

“However, you can also register as required. That means you’ll be allowed to do the assignment with someone else, thus spreading the workload. But it also means you will not be allowed into the next level course. You’ll still get a passing grade, provided your assignment is graded satisfactory at least, but you’ll have to redo the course individually should you decide to move onto the next level course.”

Hallelujah. Seriously, someone give this prof a big, fat bonus. Finally, someone who understands students and doesn’t suffer from the illusion that everyone is equally fascinated by her topic as she is.

I glance at Tank without being too obvious about it, and he’s nodding his head subtly at her words, a hint of a smile playing on his full lips. Guess he’s not doing this class for fun either, then.

Now, all I need is a partner to do the assignment with...And then it hits me. My head fully turns to the side at the same time as Tank’s.

Oh, hell, no. This is too crazy to even consider.

It would make things easier, though. I don’t know any of the other students aside from a quick hi-bye in between classes. And with my schedule, it’s gonna be crazy complicated to meet up with anyone. I have shit scheduled with Tank anyway, so we could maybe combine it?

He lifts his chin and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. My heart beats wildly, and then I nod. Partners with Tank in an English Lit class. What the hell just happened?

I try to focus on the prof as she explains the assignment, but my mind keeps wandering off to the concept of Tank attending the same college as I am. Did Rebel or Bear somehow tell him to do this? No, that doesn’t make sense. First of all, they don’t even know I go here, and moreover, Tank was genuinely surprised to see me. He wasn’t expecting to run into me anymore than I was him.

That means he’s a real student here, which begs the question as to what he’s majoring in. The fact that he’s still taking this class means he’s just getting started, like me. So, what would he choose?

It has to be something more or less practical. He’s not the type for anything theoretical or speculative. No psychology for him or philosophy or some shit. No, he likes to use his hands, make or do something concrete. Engineering, maybe?

Then I remember the Lego buildings I saw at his place. The Taj Mahal. The White House. That tower in Dubai I can’t remember the name of. And it’s crystal clear, suddenly. Architect. He wants to be an architect.

I don’t know why that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside, but it does. It fits him, and it somehow makes me strangely happy that he’s not content with just doing porn, either.

I wonder what he thinks my major is. He’ll probably never guess it. No one ever does. No one has ever looked at me and said: That guy is destined to be a doctor. Not even my own parents. Especially not my parents. All they think about when they see me is Dean.

I remember watching the Harry Potter movies years ago. There’s this thing they call Harry: The boy who lived. That’s how I feel whenever I’m with my parents. The boy who lived. That is all I am to them, and all I ever will be. I’m the lucky one, the one who survived, the one without the heart defect. I’m the boy who lived, but in their eyes, I might as well be dead. All I am to them is Dean’s shadow.

So, I’m not doing this for them. I stopped trying to make them see me a long time ago. No, this is for me. And maybe a little for Dean, who never got the chance to live. He’s still a part of me, my twin brother.

I watch him from the corner of my eyes as Tank is making detailed notes in a handwriting so neat and regular it looks like it’s printed. I usually scribble like crazy, too, though admittedly far less legibly, but for now I’m trusting him to get the requirements down for our mutual assignment.

As soon as our class is dismissed, Tank shoots me a dark look. “We need to talk.”

We find a spot in the back of an on-campus coffee shop, me with a tea with honey and Tank with a coffee with ten unpronounceable additives that looks surprisingly feminine for a guy like him.

“Do you actually go here?” Tanks fires his opening shot as soon as we’re settled. I shoot him a look of disbelief, and he sighs, scratching his beard. “Sorry, stupid question. I wasn't expecting to see you here.”

“Well, that’s entirely mutual.” We stare at each other for a few seconds. “So, English Lit assignment,” I say.

He shakes his head. “You’re skipping a few steps. What are you doing here? I mean, are you new, or have you been going a while, or what’s your plan?”

We’re both careful, it seems, not willing to put ourselves out there. Maybe because we both know things are about to change? There’s no coming back from this, from discovering the real us. The fuckboy he always sees in me is not the same as pre-Med Micah who is determined to realize his dream of becoming a doctor.

“I’ve been doing some courses in the last year,” I say. “But I only enrolled fully after we signed our contract, ‘cause I had the money to do more.”

Someone has to start. Might as well be me.

He nods. “Same here.”

“You wanna take a wild guess as to what I want to major in?” I ask. There’s a strange sensation in my stomach that feels a lot like nerves. It’s not like his answer means something to me, but still, I mentally brace myself against his undoubtedly low expectations.

He studies me for a second. “My first guess was nursing, but I think you’re going for medicine. And you should, because you’re smart,” he says, rendering me speechless.

I sit there, completely frozen in my seat, while unexpected tears form in my eyes. I cannot remember a single time that someone said something like this. I’ve always been the fun guy, the goofball, the joker. No one has ever taken me seriously. And here’s this gruff guy, pretty much my archenemy this last year, and without batting an eye, he voices his belief in me.

I try to blink away the tears because they’re fucking embarrassing, but he sees them anyway, and his expression softens. I swallow to get rid of the lump in my throat. “You’re doing architecture, correct?”

It’s his turn to be stunned, and my insides do this strange twisting thing as I witness the complete disbelief on his face. God, aren’t we a pathetic, fucked-up pair?