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and she pushes the hood back. “Once that got old, they started in on other students. It died out some this past year, but I bet it’s safe to say since your stunt back there, they may have a new target.”
    My stomach knots at the thought of having to faceoff with Ryder again. Or any of the Bobcats. “I went too far,” I say, opening my car door and sinking down into the seat. “I don’t really even understand what happened. He’s just a guy. A jock who only thinks with one appendage, sure. But I just…snapped.”
    For the first time, Vee seems to drop her bubbly demeanor. She turns toward me, pulling a serious, concerned face. “You don’t have to explain anything, but I’ve been thinking… Something pretty bad must’ve happened before you came here. Maybe dealing with all that had a little to do with it?”
    Still dealing with all that, I mentally correct lamely. I can only nod. If I’d actually tried harder, sought out a therapist or group therapy locally—like my counselor at Stoney suggested for my aftercare treatment—maybe I’d be handling my disorder better. Maybe I would’ve been able to blow off Ryder without a second thought, and all this could’ve been avoided.
    I shake my head. “Maybe. But this is so dumb,” I say, turning around to dig out my keys and crank the car. “They have to have better things to do than worry about me.” I’m freezing. Just wanting to blast the heat and get back to the room, where I can bury myself under a mound of blankets.
    Vee takes the hint and gets into the passenger-side seat. She looks over at me. “Let’s just hope they defeat Engleton and are feeling so proud they forget about you.”

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    T he news hits during my last class of the day on Monday. Before I officially heard, I noticed the downturned faces, the hungover lethargy that wouldn’t be so prominent had the Bobcat’s won their game against their rivals.
    If not for some snide comments and leering looks from members of the football team, and a handful of random people pointing and laughing, I could’ve almost forgotten the bonfire incident.
    More pressing issues—according to Becca, dire issues—took precedence over my humiliating college life. After she told me that someone within my father’s firm had somehow inadvertently day traded a client’s retirement away, and that Wyndemere Enterprises was being forced to undergo a mandatory audit, I felt a sick drop in the pit of my stomach.
    She went on to inform me of how this will affect me. That I should be supportive of my father, making an effort to attend all social events of the season, dressing the part as the dutiful daughter. The firm and all the “right people” had to see the family unit in classy, functioning order to reiterate our standing in society.
    By “society,” she means money. Anyone and everyone who is somebody with money.
    That tidbit on an empty stomach was enough to push me past any attempt to down my usual protein shake and mega vitamins. It meant the nauseas ache I always battle would be present regardless, so no need to upchuck. The ill-feeling emptiness lingered with me all morning.
    By lunchtime, I was able to force down a measly handful of roasted peanuts and a small carton of milk. Vee assuming my nonexistent appetite was due to still being upset over Friday night. Luckily, other than the few points and giggles at the girl who got dunked in the ocean, there wasn’t much to do about it.
    It was the least of my worries.
    That is, until now, as I head out of East Hall toward the student parking lot.
    The stench hits my senses first. As I walk slowly toward my Jag, my nostrils flare, and I scrunch up my nose. Then I see it. A creamy residue covering my car, dried and baking in the afternoon autumn sun. Condoms plastered to the paint. My car is littered with what looks like broken prophylactics and ejaculate.
    For a short second, dread creeps over me, wondering if it really is… Until I recognize the sour smell