The third floor of Buchanan, the main library on campus, was bleak. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and the scent of burnt popcorn circulated through the air conditioning ducts. I wished I could say it was the first time I'd put off writing an article until the day it was due, but my dad didn't raise a liar.

I was soaked from head to toe, a very damp idiot in a sundress, and as I stood there, slapping the side of an ancient copy machine, my phone started to vibrate somewhere in the depths of my backpack. It was Hanna, demanding, "Why are there granola bars all over the bathroom floor?"

"The bottom of the box gave out. I was in a rush," I explained, groaning as the abomination in question—my article—began chugging out of the printer at a snail's pace. "I'm in hell."

Just as the last page finally emerged, Andre's text buzzed: 'Professor's here. He's calling attendance MOVE UR ASS.' I snatched my crumpled article and bolted, sandals squelching, towards the elevator. As the doors were about to close, a very large hand appeared between them. "Going down?" Bodie St. James asked, his eyes dark as thunderclouds.