"That bartender definitely stuffs his pants," Sophia announces, and I watch her toss her auburn hair over one spray-tanned shoulder.
The bass at Vertex nightclub isn't just loud—it's invasive. I nurse my vodka tonic in our VIP booth.
Around me, Liv's friends are performing their weekly ritual of competitive devastation. Each one trying to out-casual the others in designer wear that costs more than my meal plan.
"No way," Mia counters, her nose—which has definitely seen the inside of Dr. Brennan's office more than once—scrunching with the kind of authority only money can buy. "Look at those hands. Big hands mean—"
"Means he can carry more drinks at once," Jess interrupts, and the sound of her Hermès clutch hitting our table carries the weight of generational wealth and emotional poverty.
Here's the thing about Jessica Whitmore: she's what happens when you marinate privilege in insecurity and garnish it with daddy issues.
Everything about her screams money—the eight-hundred-dollar blonde, cheekbones that could cut glass, and that particular brand of cruelty that comes from a lifetime of yes-men and no consequences.
When her eyes land on me, I recognize the look immediately. It's the same one the admissions committee probably gave my application before they saw my test scores.
"Though I'm sure scholarship girl has theories about working-class hands," she says.
There it is—the dig designed to remind me that I'm visiting this world on a visa, not a passport.
I learned early that girls like Jess smell fear like sharks smell blood. Show weakness, and they'll circle until there's nothing left but bones and bad credit. So I smile, sweet as the antifreeze my roommate definitely doesn't keep under her bed.
"Actually, I prefer hands that can sign checks without daddy's permission," I say, watching her perfectly filled lips tighten.
Liv laughs, pulling me closer on the leather banquette, and her proximity feels like both shield and spotlight.
"God, you're savage. I love it. Way better than that ancient ex of yours—what was his name? Kilian?"
The vodka chooses this moment to go down wrong, burning like truth.
"He wasn't that old."
"Forty-five isn't old?" Liv grins, but there's something sharp underneath all that sunshine. "I mean, at least if you're going to date someone who remembers the Clinton administration, make sure they have a portfolio to match the receding hairline."
"Speaking from experience?" I deflect, because defense is just offense waiting for its turn.
"Speaking from observation." Liv's phone lights up, and I watch her entire demeanor shift—spine straightening, brightness dimming then blazing back twice as strong. "Oh, perfect. Mom's with her book club friend again tonight."
Sophia snorts. "Your parents need to just divorce already."
"Tell me about it." Liv's voice carries exhaustion older than her years. "Twenty years of affairs on both sides. At this point, staying together is just mutual assured destruction."
This catches my attention. Both sides?
"Your dad too?" Mia leans in, hungry for gossip.
"Katherine the research assistant, Rebecca the senior, probably others." Liv scrolls through her phone with practiced indifference. "Mom retaliates with her own roster. The yoga instructor, the contractor, that sommelier from her wine club. It's like they're competing for who can destroy the marriage harder while still showing up to faculty dinners together."
"That's fucked up," I say, filing this information away.
So the perfect professor has a history. The noble educator who deleted my photos has fucked his students before. Interesting.
"Anyway," Liv brightens artificially, "Dad says Sunday works for tutoring. Four o'clock at our place. He says he had a change of plans."
The table goes quiet in that specific way that makes your skin prickle.
Mia and Sophia exchange a look loaded with subtext. Jess sets down her martini with deliberate slowness.
"Your dad's tutoring her?" Jess's voice drips honey cut with cyanide. "At your house? How... accommodating."
"He's helping because I asked him to," Liv says, but she's watching me with that strange intensity. "Dad's big on academic support."
"I'll bet he is." Jess examines her manicure like it holds secrets. "Especially for pretty freshmen who conveniently befriend his daughter."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I set down my drink.
"Oh, did I stutter? Or wasn't that covered at whatever public school you crawled out of?" Jess leans forward, predator recognizing prey. "We all know this game, sweetie. Befriend the rich girl, get daddy's attention, see what else you can squeeze out of the situation."
"Jess, stop." There's warning in Liv's voice, but also fear.
"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. She shows up and immediately latches onto you, and now she's getting private tutoring at your house?" Jess's smile could strip paint. "It's practically scripted."
The funny thing about being accused of something you haven't done—it makes you wonder why you haven't.
If I'm going to be convicted anyway, shouldn't I at least commit the crime?
"You're right," I deadpan. "My master plan was definitely to fail Political Thought, risk my scholarship, and humiliate myself academically just to get invited to a house I've already been to. Truly playing the long game here."
Sophia snorts. Even Mia cracks a smile. But Jess's eyes narrow.
"Joke all you want, but we both know what you are." She stands, smoothing her Balmain dress. "Opportunistic little climbers who think proximity to money means access to it."
"Still better than someone who peaked at conception," I shoot back.
"At least I don't have to spread my legs for tuition."
"No, you just spread them for validation. How's that working out?"
Liv stands abruptly. "Okay, we're done. Jess, you're being a bitch. Elisa's my friend and Dad's helping her because I asked. End of story."
But the way she says it—fierce, protective, rehearsed—tells me she's trying to convince herself. She knows her father's patterns.
"Whatever." Jess grabs her clutch. "Just remember I called it when this goes exactly where we all know it's going."
"Where's that?" I ask.
Jess pauses, looking back with a smile sharp as winter. "Sideways, honey. It always goes sideways with girls like you."
She stalks off with Mia scrambling after her, leaving silence thick as smoke.
"Ignore her," Liv says, hand on my wrist. "She's just protective."
"Of what?"
"Good question." Liv's laugh sounds like glass breaking. "Sunday at four, yeah? Wear something... normal."
Before I can ask what normal means to someone whose closet probably has its own zip code, Sophia drags us toward the dance floor. But Jess's words echo louder than the bass.
It always goes sideways with girls like you.
Good, I think, letting the strobes fracture everything into broken mirror pieces, each one reflecting a different version of who I might become.
Sideways is so much more interesting than straight ahead.