No.

Such an amazing little word. Magical, really. Just two little letters, but when put together they’re packed with so much power. “No, I will not share my food with you.” I say that one every time I go out with Stacia, my best and only true friend. “No, you may not use my study guide.” This one goes out to all the jocks in my classes. Seriously, taking notes isn’t that hard—it requires nothing more than pen, paper, and a brain. “No, you may not have my number.” Might as well tattoo that one to my forehead, and at this point, what’s one more piece of ink? “No, I don’t want to meet for drinks.” Not now, not ever, stop asking, I typically add on silently. “No, I don’t want to tell you about my tattoo. And no, you sure as shit can’t touch it.” That’s right up there with feeling up baby bumps and bald heads.

And, now, I’m using my favorite two letter word to tell my British Literature professor, “No, I will not tutor some jock so that he can maintain his eligibility.”

“I’m not asking, AJ.” Professor Doss informs me, looking at me over the rim of her turquoise cat-eye glasses.

“What do you mean you’re not asking?”

“I’m telling. He needs the help, and you have the knowledge. You should know, more than anyone, not to judge a book by its cover.” Cue imaginary eye roll. Yeah, yeah, with my plethora of piercings, vibrant tattoos, cotton candy hair, and overall bad attitude I really shouldn’t judge others. But, an athlete? No thanks. I think I’d rather get a root canal.

“Telling? Why?” I ask, my patience wearing thin.

“Telling because we both know you have the time and if you want a recommendation letter from me, this what it’s going to take to acquire one. Take it or leave it, your call.”

Professor Doss’s words cause me to wince, because dammit, she’s got my arm twisted behind my back—metaphorically, of course. I don’t just want her letter, I need it if I want a real shot at getting an internship with Booking Out—a not for profit childhood literacy program. She was a project kick starter for them and her opinion carries weight.

With a long, heavy sigh, I give Professor Doss a terse nod causing her to break out into a bright, toothy smile. “Good choice. I’ll give him your student email and he’ll be in contact.”

“Yippie,” I mutter, sounding as unenthused as possible.

Agitated, I quickly dash across campus to the café to meet Stacia. I breeze through the double doors fifteen minutes past the time we agreed on and knowing her, she’s about to let me have it.

I forgo the order counter and make my way to our table in the far corner. “You’re late,” Stacia points out, just like I knew she would.

“Yup, sorry. Doss held me up,” I explain and she huffs out a breath that scatters her wispy black bangs.

“Ugh. What for?”

“Apparently if I want her letter of recommendation I have to tutor some beefcake athlete.”

Stacia blinks her big, brown doe eyes at me and straightens her septum ring before bursting out into raucous laughter. I glare at her, wholly unamused. “Oh, my God, AJ. That’s amazing.”

“Check a dictionary. Amazing is not the word you’re looking for.”

“No babe, it really is.”

“How so?” I demand, stealing her iced latte from where it was resting on the table in front of her.

She snatches it back. “Get your own.” Slowly, she gulps down several swallows before continuing. “And, it’s amazing because it will provide endless entertainment for me.”

“You’re a bitch,” I tell her and she just laughs all the harder. “Whatevs. I’m out.” I stand from the table and sling my crossbody over my shoulder.

“You know you love me!” Stacia yells dramatically as I walk away from our table. Glancing back at her, I shoot her a wink and carry on my way.

It’s ten o’clock and I’m deep into the paper I’m writing when the email notification on my laptop dings alerting me to a new message. I click save on my paper and switch over my web browser. My inbox shows one new message from B.Larson.

No, no, no, no. There’s that word again. Except this time, it’s a prayer. A down-on-my-knees-begging-I’m-wrong kind of prayer. Brock fucking Larson. The bane of my existence since age twelve. I blink at my screen in a daze. It can’t be. I reread the email at least six more times, desperately hoping for his name to magically change.

In a panic, I grab my phone and dial Stacia. She knows all about Brock and our stupid, sordid past—if you can even call it that. Like a good girl, she answers on the first ring.

“Knew you still loved me, AJ.”

“Always, but not the point. Brock Larson. Please, please tell me there are two Brock Larson’s enrolled here.”

“No can do, babe. Only one, why?” Her question is met with silence. I’m petrified that speaking it aloud will make it true—well, truer. Luckily, Stacia’s a smart girl and figures it out all on her own. “Oh no, way. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“Sucks balls, AJ. That sucks balls.”

“Donkey ones,” I lament.

“You’re just gonna have to put on your big girl panties and deal with it. This letter is more than worth dealing with his particular brand of BS.”

I run my fingers though my cotton candy colored locks and sigh into the phone. “Ugh. You’re right. Promise you’ll help keep me sane?” I ask, all but begging.

“Duh. Now, go to sleep. Worry about tomorrow’s problems tomorrow.”

I disconnect the call and place my phone on its charging dock before shutting down my laptop. With one more long, drawn out sigh, I let my head hit the pillow hoping for sleep to come quickly.