The week before classes, I make a decision: it's time to shed whatever's left of my old, bubblegum self. Not that I can afford to throw everything out and start from scratch, but mentally? Those pastel hoodies, the band tees, and every last pair of chunky sneakers are dead to me.
I want to show up here like I belong—not as some overeager freshman, but like I know exactly who I am. Or at least, like I'm getting close.
So I go full Marie Kondo on my closet. There's a keep pile, a donate pile, and an "I wish I could set these on fire" pile. Stella's half-watching me over the top of her textbook.
"You're good?" she asks.
"Just… updating my life," I say.
She smirks. "Looks like you're banishing ghosts."
I hold up a neon crop top with "CUTE BUT PSYCHO" across the chest. "Would you ever wear this?"
She laughs. "Not if you paid me."
Exactly. Into the donate pile it goes.
When I'm done, what's left feels like a stranger's wardrobe: simple jeans, tanks, a couple of thrifted blazers, my old leather jacket, clean white sneakers. I lay it all out, snap a pic, and for the first time, it actually looks right.
Stella glances over. "Minimalist. Nice."
"That's what I'm aiming for."
She raises an eyebrow. "Rebranding, huh?"
"Something like that."
She nods. "Good look. Definitely says 'college student' more than 'high school TikToker.'"
Then it's Instagram's turn. I scroll back through years of posts and delete anything that feels fake. The ring light selfies, the sponsored skin cream shots, those "productive day" vlogs that were 90% staged. All gone.
Now my feed is sparse: a photo of me with a book and coffee, a sunset snapped from my window, a blurry shot Zoey took when I actually laughed. No cheesy captions, no hashtags, no desperate comments begging for likes.
I'm not nuking my account, just letting go of the old highlight reel.
Mid-edit, Zoey FaceTimes me. "Hey, are you okay? You just deleted, like, half your Instagram."
I laugh. "Yeah. They were embarrassing."
"But that was your whole thing."
"Was. I'm kind of over it."
She's quiet, then: "Okay, who is this and what did you do with Avery?"
I let her tease. "It's still me—just… an upgrade."
She gives a mock gasp. "Is this about Liam? Or, God forbid, Madison?"
"Neither."
"Then what's up?"
I hesitate, then say, "Figuring out who I am, without all the noise. For once."
She pauses, then says softly, "Kinda deep for you, Lane."
I snort. "Thanks, I guess?"
She grins. "Just don't go all tortured poet on me."
"I'll try."
After we hang up, I check Parker's Instagram. He's posted a photo—a battered old book, a coffee cup, sunlight streaming in. Caption: Rereading Baudrillard. Still relevant.
I screenshot it, then Google Baudrillard. Apparently, he's all about simulation and how realness is basically extinct in a world obsessed with images and branding. It hits a little too close to home.
It's weird, realizing I've spent three years selling a version of myself—and people totally bought it. But Parker? He'd spot a fake in a second. That's literally his job.
If I want him to take me seriously, I need to show I'm more than a collection of pretty pictures.
So I dive in. Baudrillard. McLuhan. Debord. I read them all, even if half of it flies over my head. My notebook fills up with half-legible quotes, and Stella keeps giving me looks.
"You realize class doesn't start until Monday, right?"
"I know."
"Then why are you acting like you're cramming for the bar?"
I shrug. "Just want to be ready."
She laughs. "You're a mystery, Avery Lane."
On Saturday, an email lands in my inbox: FINAL CONFIRMATION – ENROLLMENT STATUS.
It's not earth-shattering, but it's real. I'm in. No more "what ifs." This is actually happening.
I just stare at the message for a second, letting it sink in. New city, new school, new rules.
And somewhere out there, Parker has no idea I'm about to walk into his world.
I screenshot the email and toss it on my Insta story: officially a bruin.
Almost instantly, the replies start flooding in. Zoey's first—YESSSS BITCH—then old friends, random followers, even some brands I ghosted.
And then—Parker.
He reacts with a thumbs up.
It's barely anything, but it's enough.
I close out of Instagram and open my planner.
Monday: First day. Media Psych at 10 with Professor Parker.
I write it down three times, press hard on the pen, underline it.
This is where things begin. Not the revenge, not the games—the shift.
By the time I walk into that classroom, I won't be the girl he brushed off at dinner.
I'll be the one he can't ignore.
And once I get his attention, everything else will fall in line.
-----
Sunday morning, UCLA's running this "last chance" campus tour for any freshmen who missed the main events. I don't actually need the walkthrough—I could navigate campus blindfolded at this point—but I sign up anyway.
Parker's supposed to be speaking.
We meet outside Royce Hall at nine sharp. There's the usual crowd: a bunch of slightly anxious first-years and their parents, plus a tour guide who's clearly running on caffeine and school spirit. She walks us through all the usual highlights—famous grads, best food trucks, the library that's supposedly haunted.
I'm mostly zoning out, just waiting for the real reason I showed up.
When we reach the communications building, the guide launches into her pitch: "This is where our media and comm students spend most of their time. It's a top-ranked department, lots of big names teach here."
Parents murmur approvingly.
Right then, the door opens and Parker steps out.
He's wearing jeans and a button-down, bag slung over his shoulder, looking like he's just stepped out of a coffee commercial. He's busy with his phone, not even seeing us at first.
The tour guide calls out, "Professor Parker!"
His head comes up, and after a beat, he tucks his phone away and heads over. He's the picture of calm, but I catch his gaze flick to mine—recognition, a split-second of surprise.
I hold his eyes.
The guide introduces him—"Professor Ethan Parker, teaches media psych and theory." Parents toss out a few questions, and he answers like he's done this a hundred times, but his attention keeps drifting my way.
Eventually, the group starts to move on. I lag behind, pretending to check something on my phone.
He notices, and when the others are out of earshot, he comes over.
"Avery, right?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, probably too quickly.
"Didn't expect to see you on a campus tour," he says.
I shrug. "Figured I'd get one last look around before classes start."
He studies me. "Didn't you already get your acceptance months ago?"
"Yep."
"So why bother with this?"
I smile a little. "Wanted to get a head start. I like knowing where I'm going."
He laughs quietly. "Most students just wing it on day one."
I meet his eyes. "I'm not most students."
He actually smiles at that. "No, you're not."
A pause, and there's this electric silence between us. Not awkward, just… thick.
He nods at the building. "So, comm major?"
"Declared since spring."
"That was quick."
"I just… knew."
"You aiming for the media psych program?"
I nod. "That's the plan."
He looks me over. "Tough track."
"I'm not afraid of tough."
He seems to be sizing me up, trying to decide if I'm bluffing or just stubborn.
He finally says, "You've done your research."
"On UCLA?"
He raises an eyebrow. "On me."
I don't look away. "You're kind of a big deal here. Why wouldn't I?"
He smirks. "Most freshmen barely know their own schedule, let alone the faculty roster."
I shrug. "I like to be prepared."
He shifts his bag. "Well, I should get going—"
I cut in, "You're teaching Intro to Media Psych, right? Mondays and Wednesdays at ten?"
He nods. "Yeah."
"I'm enrolled."
For a second, he looks genuinely surprised—maybe even a little thrown.
"Well, I'll see you in class tomorrow, then," he says.
"Can't wait."
He holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer, then turns and walks off.
I watch him go, my pulse hammering.
Somewhere, the tour guide's still rattling off facts, but all I can think about is the way Parker looked at me. Not like I was some clueless kid.
Like he was genuinely interested.
I text Zoey.
Me: just bumped into him
Zoey: WHO
Me: the professor
Zoey: ARE YOU KIDDING
Zoey: I NEED DETAILS
I laugh and put my phone away.
Let her wait. I've got more important things to think about.
-----
Monday night, the student union is throwing its annual freshman mixer. I had every intention of skipping—those events are always more cringe than fun—but Stella is relentless.
"Come on," she pleads, slipping on her jacket. "You can't keep hiding out in here."
"I'm not hiding."
She arches an eyebrow. "You've left the room twice. Grocery store and laundry don't count, Lane."
I groan. "Fine. But I'm only staying for an hour."
She flashes a wicked grin. "Deal."
The place is packed, the air buzzing with nervous energy and awkward small talk. A DJ's trying way too hard in the corner, spinning songs everyone's already sick of, and the snack table is a sad display of stale chips and lukewarm soda.
Stella jumps right in, chatting up a knot of pre-meds. I linger near the wall, nursing my drink, watching people try to out-cool each other.
Then I spot Parker by the faculty table, deep in conversation with a sharp-looking woman from the department—gray pixie cut, killer blazer.
What's he doing at a freshman party?
Stella catches me staring. "That him?"
I shrug. "That's the professor, yes."
"Don't play coy. You've been reading his entire syllabus for fun."
"It's called being prepared, Stella."
She just winks.
I look back at Parker. He looks relaxed, almost happy, which throws me. Then he scans the crowd—and zeroes in on me.
My heart stutters.
He doesn't look away. Neither do I.
His colleague leans in, says something that makes him laugh, but his attention comes right back to me. It's unnerving.
Stella nudges me. "He's one hundred percent staring."
"Stop it."
"You stop it. He's practically burning holes in you."
I try to act nonchalant, sipping my soda, but I can feel the flush in my cheeks.
Eventually, Stella drags me into a circle of freshmen—one guy won't shut up about his startup podcast, some girl's showing everyone her camera. I fake interest, but my mind is somewhere else.
Every time I sneak a look, Parker's watching. Not in a weird way. Just… aware. Like there's something passing between us that no one else notices.
At one point, that woman he's with nudges him and says something with a smirk. He tries to brush it off, but she keeps grinning—like she knows exactly what's going on.
Stella leans in, whispering, "They're totally talking about you."
I roll my eyes. "You're delusional."
She just grins. "You wish."
The rest of the night blurs by. I collect a few phone numbers, listen to someone rant about their old volleyball coach, but my thoughts keep circling back to Parker—where he is, who he's with, how often our eyes meet across the room.
It's this silent, private game.
And I'm pretty sure I'm winning.
Eventually, Stella's ready to bail. As we weave through the crowd, we pass the faculty table. Parker looks up. Our eyes lock for a split second, and I hold his gaze—steady, unblinking—before heading out.
Outside, Stella's practically giddy. "That was electric! I've never seen such fireworks at a college mixer."
"It was nothing," I protest.
She snorts. "Keep telling yourself that."
Back in our room, I flop on my bed and stare at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes.
Zoey: tell me everything about the mixer!!!
Me: it was fine
Zoey: uh, DETAILS PLS?? don't leave me hanging
Me: Parker was there
Zoey: AS IN THE PROFESSOR???
Me: yeah
Zoey: AND?? did you talk??
Me: nope. He just saw me.
Zoey: girl, you're killing me
Me: relax. It's no big deal.
Zoey: this is dangerous, Avery
I stare at the message, then shrug. Maybe she's right.
But I honestly don't care.
I check Instagram. Nothing new from Parker, but when I check who saw my story—just a quick pic of the party, "new faces"—his name is on the list.
He saw it.
And that's all I need.
I put my phone away, close my eyes, and let myself breathe.
Tomorrow the real game starts. First lecture, first time we're in the same room with everyone else clueless to what's actually happening.
But he'll know.
And I'll know.
And that's where everything changes.