Dinner kicks off at seven, and Mom and I end up at table twelve, surrounded by a patchwork of nervous freshmen and their parents. The tables are set with heavy silverware and folded napkins that look like swans. Everything smells like expensive catering, that blend of roasted vegetables and something citrusy in the air.
There's a girl from San Diego who wants to be a doctor, a business hopeful from Portland. Everyone's fumbling for conversation, joking about cafeteria food and the horror of communal bathrooms. The girl next to me keeps twisting her napkin into knots. Her dad won't stop talking about his own college experience at Berkeley, comparing everything to "back in his day."
I do what's expected. Smile, nod, answer when I'm spoken to. Play the role of the sweet, excited freshman who's thrilled to be here.
But my mind isn't in the room.
I catch myself scanning the faculty tables near the front. They're elevated slightly, like a stage. My eyes fix on Professor Ethan Parker, who's planted in his chair like he's carved out the space himself. He talks, people lean in. When he laughs, it's this low, easy sound, not forced like Liam's always was. Not performative. Just genuine amusement.
Mom elbows me gently. "Avery, honey, they're asking what you're most looking forward to."
I blink. The pre-med girl is looking at me expectantly, fork paused halfway to her mouth. "Oh, uh, the communications department, I guess. And all the networking stuff."
The pre-med girl lights up. "The alumni network here is wild. My cousin graduated three years ago and she's already working at Cedars-Sinai."
"Yeah, totally," I say, almost on autopilot. The words feel hollow in my mouth.
But really, I'm watching Parker.
He stands up, heads for the bar with the kind of sure-footed ease only people who never doubt themselves seem to possess. His movements are economical, purposeful. No wasted energy. I watch him order a drink, something amber in a crystal tumbler. Fiddle with his phone, scrolling with his thumb. Then he glances up.
And our eyes lock.
The air shifts. Or maybe that's just me.
I look away so fast my neck hurts, cheeks burning. I grab my water glass, pretend the condensation running down the sides is suddenly fascinating. My heart hammers against my ribs.
"You alright?" Mom whispers, leaning close enough that I can smell her perfume.
"Just hot," I mutter. The ballroom is warm, but that's not why my face is flushed.
After dinner, there's the usual parade of speeches. The dean welcomes us with talk about "limitless opportunity" and "shaping the future." Professors pitch their departments with practiced enthusiasm. Alumni tell stories that blend together, all variations on the same theme: I came here lost and left found. I only half hear any of it, because my attention keeps drifting back to Parker.
He's in his seat, occasionally checking his phone. When one professor makes a joke, he smiles but doesn't laugh. There's something reserved about him. Controlled. Like he's always maintaining a specific distance from everything around him.
When the speeches wrap up, the crowd starts to scatter. Mom finds someone to bond with over housing costs and meal plans, two mothers united in their concern over how much everything costs. So I'm left holding my glass of sparkling cider, feeling more awkward than ever in my borrowed blazer.
I should be out there meeting people. Making connections. Playing the networking game. Instead, I wander off to the windows, staring at the campus bathed in lamplight. The night has cooled the air outside, and through the glass I can see students floating between the dorms like fireflies. This'll be my life soon. Those paths. Those buildings. This whole universe I'm about to enter.
"Nice view, isn't it?"
A voice at my shoulder. Deep, calm. The kind of voice that makes you pay attention without trying.
I turn. Parker is standing beside me, whiskey in hand. Up close, he's even more imposing. Taller than I realized. The scent of his cologne is subtle, something woodsy and expensive.
"It's gorgeous," I say, a bit too quietly.
"First time here?" He swirls his drink, ice clinking against glass.
"I toured last year, but it's a whole different thing at night."
He nods, looking out at the campus. "The place has a certain glow after dark. During the day it's all rush and urgency. At night, you can actually think." He studies me, and I feel the weight of his gaze. "You're a freshman?"
"Communications."
He reaches out. "Ethan Parker."
His handshake is warm, steady. Confident without being crushing. The kind of handshake that says he knows exactly who he is.
"Avery Lane."
There's a flicker in his expression. Recognition. "You're the influencer, right? The one with the social media following?"
Of course. That's all anyone sees. I try to play it cool. "Yeah, that's me."
"Two million followers? That's a hell of a platform for someone your age."
There it is. The polite "but you're just a kid" dig wrapped in a compliment.
"I just turned eighteen. Nineteen soon." I hate how defensive I sound.
"Fresh out of high school." He sips his whiskey, and I watch his throat move when he swallows. "College is a big change. Freedom, responsibility, all that."
It's the voice adults use when they're talking down to you but trying not to show it. The patronizing tone wrapped in concern.
"I want to learn something real. High school was all surface."
"And you think college will be more authentic?" There's skepticism in his voice.
"I hope so."
He raises an eyebrow. "What's your angle? What do you want to study?"
"Media psychology. How people build identities online. Why we perform the way we do."
His expression shifts, just a bit. Interest replacing dismissal. "That's more specific than most incoming freshmen."
"I've lived online for years. Performed for millions of people. I should probably figure out what I'm actually doing." The honesty surprises even me.
His interest sharpens. I can see it in the way he turns to face me fully now, giving me his complete attention.
"Most kids just want the business side. Marketing, partnerships, brand deals."
"I already know that stuff. I've been doing it since I was fifteen."
He lifts his glass slightly, acknowledging the point. "So you're after the theory."
"I want to know why people believe what they see. Why they trust strangers online more than the people standing right in front of them."
"Why they trust you."
"Exactly."
He considers me for a second, and I can almost see him recalibrating his assessment. "We push students to think hard about this stuff here. It's not just about churning out content or building a following."
"That's what I want."
"But it's tough. The ones who think they know it all because they grew up online?" He pauses. "They usually flounder. Can't make the jump from practitioner to theorist."
There's that edge again. Friendly, but with a bite. Testing me.
"I'll handle it," I say, maybe too flat. Too defensive.
"I'm sure you will." He doesn't mean it. I can hear the doubt.
Someone calls for him from across the room. A woman in a navy dress, waving him over. He gives me a nod, already turning away.
"Have a good night, Miss Lane. Welcome to UCLA."
And just like that, he's gone.
Miss Lane.
That stings more than it should. So formal. So distant. Like I'm a child he just patted on the head.
I spot Mom still mid-conversation by the dessert table, laughing at something with a woman in a cream pantsuit. As I walk over, trying to look casual, I catch two women gossiping near the coffee station. Their voices are just low enough to sound juicy, that conspiratorial whisper people use when they're sharing something delicious.
"He's alone again," one says, fiddling with her pearl necklace. She's older, probably mid-fifties, with perfect highlights.
"Isn't he always? Never lasts with anyone." The other woman is younger, maybe forty, wearing too much lipstick.
"He was seeing that adjunct last year. That fizzled. She wanted commitment, apparently."
They both laugh, that knowing laugh women share about men who disappoint.
"He's got a type, though."
"Young. Smart. Never sticks around long enough to get serious."
"Vanessa must hate it. Her son's a freshman here now."
"Imagine your ex-husband teaching where your kid goes to school. Especially when your ex only dates twenty-somethings."
"Last one was, what, twenty-six?"
"Twenty-six, yeah. Grad student in the psychology department."
My fingers tighten around my glass. The cider suddenly tastes too sweet.
"Some guys never settle. Love the chase, hate the catch."
"Textbook commitment issues."
"Brilliant, though. Absolutely brilliant. Just emotionally unavailable."
They drift away, still whispering, heading toward the exit.
I look for Parker. He's back with his colleagues, laughing at something, perfectly at ease. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his drink. Completely unaware of the gossip swirling around him. Or maybe he is aware and just doesn't care.
With me, he was all polite distance. Professional. Dismissive.
Just a kid.
I think about Liam. Madison. The way Parker looked through me like I was barely there.
What if I wanted to hurt Liam the way he hurt me? Not with another boyfriend my age. That would just confirm what everyone says, that I'm immature, that I was never good enough for college-level love.
But his dad?
The one he looks up to, the one he idolizes, who just dismissed me as Miss Lane?
That'd sting.
I shake it off. It's nuts. He's a professor. I'm a student. Lines you can't cross. Ethics violations. Career-ending scandals.
Still.
If revenge had a blueprint, this would be it.
I don't say a word to Mom on the drive home. The freeway is dark, headlights streaming past us in the opposite direction. She gushes about the evening, the campus, how proud she is of me. How I'll do amazing things there. How this is such a fresh start.
I watch the headlights, mind spinning.
Liam hurt me. Madison turned on me. Parker brushed me off like I was nothing.
What if they're all part of the same equation? What if solving one fixes the rest?
It's reckless. Maybe impossible.
But I can't shake the thought.
Back in my room, I fire up my laptop. The screen glows in the darkness. It's past midnight, but I'm wide awake.
Search: Ethan Parker UCLA.
His university profile pops up. Papers with titles I barely understand. Awards from organizations I've never heard of. A photo that's probably five years old, but he's handsome, yeah. More than handsome. There's something more. Real authority. The kind of presence Liam only pretended to have.
I skim through his research. Media manipulation, the way people perform online, parasocial relationships, the construction of digital identity. All the things I want to study. All the things I've been living without understanding.
Which means we'll cross paths.
Which means opportunity.
I pull up Instagram. His account's private, fifty followers. Probably just family and colleagues. No personal posts visible, just a profile picture that's the same as his university photo. I send a follow request anyway, knowing he probably won't accept it.
Then I dig up an old podcast interview from two years ago. Some media studies show I've never heard of. Plug in my headphones.
He sounds different in it. Looser, even funny. Self-deprecating in a way that feels genuine. He lights up when he talks about his work, his voice animated in a way it wasn't tonight.
"We're all playing a role, whether we admit it or not," he says. "The real question is, are we the ones in control, or is the performance controlling us?"
I stop the audio. Rewind. Listen again.
My whole life's been a performance. Every post, every caption, every "candid" smile carefully staged. I've curated myself into existence.
Madison called me desperate. Liam called me a kid. Parker called me Miss Lane, like I didn't matter. Like I was just another freshman in a sea of thousands.
But what if I could make myself impossible to ignore?
What if I walked onto campus and made them all rethink every word they ever said?
I open my notes app. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Game Plan:
Make him notice me Get into his world: classes, office hours, research projects Prove I'm not just a kid …
Number four hangs there.
What comes next?
Make him want me?
Make Liam watch from the sidelines?
It sounds insane. The kind of thing that only works in movies or revenge fantasies. But the idea sticks, growing roots in my mind.
I erase the note. Shut the laptop. The screen goes dark.
Lie back on my bed, stare at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars I put up when I was fourteen are still there, faded now.
"You took him from me, Madison," I murmur to the empty room. "I'll take the one person you can't touch."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Zoey: how was dinner?
Me: wild
Zoey: DETAILS???
I don't know how to explain this thing growing inside me. This cold, focused resolve that started out as self-defense but is turning into something way more dangerous. Something that feels like power.
Me: i'll tell you tomorrow
Zoey: you better
I set the phone down. Pull my blanket up.
Let myself picture it for just a second.
Walking into his class on the first day. His eyes meeting mine across the lecture hall. The moment of recognition. The shift in his expression when he realizes I'm not going away.
The moment he realizes I'm not just another student.
The moment Liam finds out.
The moment Madison finally understands what it feels like to lose.
It's just a fantasy. A dark daydream born from hurt and humiliation.
Maybe it's impossible.
But for the first time since everything fell apart, I feel something besides hurt.
I feel like I might actually have a shot at taking back control.
And that's dangerous enough to keep me going.