One Tiny Lie A Novel

school.”
    A rare frown furrows Connor’s brow. “You know you can still apply to med school with a humanities major, don’t you?”
    “I know, but sciences are easy for me.”
    “Huh.” Connor’s eyes appraise me curiously. “Beautiful and smart. A deadly combination.”
    I duck my head as a blush creeps into my cheeks.
    “Well, here we are.” He gestures toward my hall. “Gorgeous building, isn’t it?”
    I tip my head back to take in the Gothic architecture. Normally, I’d agree. Now, though, I find myself disappointed because it means my tour, and my time with the smiling Connor, is over. And I’m not ready yet.
    I watch as he backs away, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It was nice to meet you, Livie from Miami.”
    “You too, Connor from Dublin.”
    He kicks a loose stone around with his shoe for a few awkward seconds as I stand and watch. Then he asks, almost hesitantly, “We’re having little party over at our house this Saturday, if you’re interested. Bring that wild roommate you talked about, if you want.”
    With my head tilted and my lips pursed, I say, “But I thought you said the parties were over once classes started.”
    His eyes search my face, a thoughtful gleam in them. “Unless it’s an excuse to invite a beautiful girl over.” Then his cheeks redden and his gaze drops to the ground.
    And I realize that, on top of being good-looking, Connor is about as charming as they come. Not sure how to answer, I simply say, “See you Saturday.”
    “Perfect. Say, eight o’clock?” He rhymes off a street name and house number and, with one last, wide grin, he takes off at a slight jog as if late for something. I lean against the bench and watch him go, wondering if he was just being nice. And then, as he’s about to slip behind a building, he slows and turns to look back in my direction. Seeing that I’m still watching, he blows a kiss my way and disappears.
    And I have to press my lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot.
    This day is definitely looking up.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Diagnosis
    While I’ve attempted to experience as many of Princeton’s campus-coordinated events as possible as a way of immersing myself in the spirit and culture, Reagan has decided to immerse herself in as many beer-and-vodka-coordinated events as exist. And she’s decided that I need immersing along with her. It’s because I want to please my lively roommate that I ended up at dorm parties every night this week and in bed each morning with heavy eyelids. That, and I also hoped I’d run into Connor again. In the back of my mind, there was a fear of running into Ashton, too. In the end, hope won out over fear.
    Unfortunately, I never saw Connor. But I also didn’t see Ashton. I did meet a few more freshmen, though, including a Korean girl named Sun who’s as new to the whole partying scene as I am and sort of attached herself to me on Thursday night.
    I honestly don’t know how Reagan is going to survive the heavy workload of classes here. Her books sit in a pile on her desk, unopened. Not even a flip-through. I’m starting to believe that she’s not a student, that Kacey and Dr. Stayner have somehow planted her here. I can almost picture them cackling while they hatched this plan. Student or not, though, I’m happy to have Reagan as a roommate. Except when she puppy-dog-eyes me into drinking with her.

    Ceaseless knocking on our door wakes me up.
    “Kill me now,” Reagan moans.
    “I will, but can you get that first?” I mumble, burying my head under my pillow, pushing a textbook with exceptionally sharp corners out from beneath me. I had managed to sneak out of the dorm party two floors up and come back to get some reading done late last night. The clock read three a.m. the last time I had checked. Now it reads seven. “It has to be for you, Reagan. I don’t know anyone on campus,” I rationalize, curling my body up tighter.
    “Shhh . . . they’ll go away,” she whispers. But they don’t. The knocking increases in strength and urgency, and I’m starting to get concerned it will wake up half the floor. As I lift myself to my elbows, ready to crawl out of my top bunk and answer it, I hear Reagan’s defeated groan and rustling sheets. She makes a point of stomping to the door. She throws it open with a quiet curse and something about Satan.
    “Wake up, sleepyheads!”
    I bolt upright so fast that the room starts to spin. “What are you doing here?” I ask in a