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. Riley's half-watching me over the top of her textbook, occasionally glancing up when I mutter something particularly harsh about a clothing item.
The room smells like the lavender sachets Mom packed in my suitcase. Late afternoon sun slants through our single window, dust motes dancing in the light.
"You're good?" Riley asks, marking her place with a highlighter.
"Just... updating my life," I say, holding up a sequined crop top that screams desperate for attention.
She smirks. "Looks like you're banishing ghosts."
I hold up a neon crop top with "CUTE BUT PSYCHO" across the chest. It's wrinkled, smells faintly of the perfume I wore in high school. "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 I found at a vintage shop in Sacramento, my old leather jacket that actually has character, clean white sneakers. I lay it all out on my bed, snap a pic, and for the first time, it actually looks right. Intentional. Adult.
Riley glances over, setting down her anatomy textbook. "Minimalist. Nice."
"That's what I'm aiming for."
She raises an eyebrow. "Rebranding, huh?"
"Something like that."
She nods, going back to her reading. "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 where my smile looks plastic. The sponsored skin cream shots with captions I didn't even write. Those "productive day" vlogs that were 90% staged, filmed three times until they looked spontaneous. All gone.
Each deletion feels like shedding skin. Like becoming someone new.
Now my feed is sparse: a photo of me with a book and coffee, natural lighting. A sunset snapped from my window, no filter. A blurry shot Zoey took when I actually laughed at something stupid. 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. Her face fills my screen, concerned. "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, spine cracked from multiple readings. A coffee cup with a faded university logo. Sunlight streaming in through what looks like his office window. 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. Makes me think about every carefully curated post, every filtered photo, every performance I've given.
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. The language is dense, academic, nothing like the blog posts and captions I'm used to. My notebook fills up with half-legible quotes, question marks in the margins. Riley 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, shaking her head. "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. A chance to be someone different. Someone better.
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 after the Madison drama.
And then Parker.
He reacts with a thumbs up.
It's barely anything, but it's enough. It means he's paying attention.
I close out of Instagram and open my planner. The pages are still mostly blank, waiting to be filled.
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. The morning air is cool, unusual for late August in LA. 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's wearing a UCLA shirt that's probably older than she is, enthusiasm radiating off her like heat.
She walks us through all the usual highlights. Famous grads, best food trucks, the library that's supposedly haunted. Parents take photos. Students pretend they're not nervous.
I'm mostly zoning out, just waiting for the real reason I showed up.
When we reach the communications building, its modern glass facade reflecting the morning sun, 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, navy blue, sleeves rolled to his elbows. 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 with obvious pride. "Professor Ethan Parker, teaches media psych and theory." Parents toss out a few questions about class sizes and research opportunities, and he answers like he's done this a hundred times. Professional, engaging. 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. I can smell his cologne now, that same woodsy scent from the reception.
"Avery, right?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, probably too quickly.
"Didn't expect to see you on a campus tour," he says, adjusting his bag.
I shrug. "Figured I'd get one last look around before classes start."
He studies me, and I can see him trying to figure me out. "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. Show up late, sit in the back."
I meet his eyes. "I'm not most students."
He actually smiles at that, and it transforms his face. Makes him look younger. "No, you're not."
A pause, and there's this electric silence between us. Not awkward, just... thick. Charged.
He nods at the building behind us. "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, and I feel the weight of his assessment. "Tough track. A lot of theory. Not everyone makes it through."
"I'm not afraid of tough."
He seems to be sizing me up, trying to decide if I'm bluffing or just stubborn. "Why media psychology specifically?"
"Because I've been living in it without understanding it. Seems like it's time to learn."
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, and I can see him trying to end the conversation. "Well, I should get going—"
I cut in, "You're teaching Intro to Media Psych, right? Mondays and Wednesdays at ten?"
He nods slowly. "Yeah."
"I'm enrolled."
For a second, he looks genuinely surprised. Maybe even a little thrown. His expression shifts, something flickering behind his eyes.
"Well, I'll see you in class tomorrow, then," he says.
"Can't wait."
He holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer, and I swear something passes between us. Understanding. Recognition. Something.
Then he turns and walks off.
I watch him go, my pulse hammering against my ribs. My hands are shaking slightly.
Somewhere behind me, the tour guide's still rattling off facts about the building's architecture, 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 Riley 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 student union is packed, the air buzzing with nervous energy and awkward small talk. Bodies pressed together, the temperature rising from too many people in too small a space. A DJ's trying way too hard in the corner, spinning songs everyone's already sick of. The bass thumps through my chest. The snack table is a sad display of stale chips and lukewarm soda in plastic cups.
Riley jumps right in, chatting up a knot of pre-meds near the windows. I linger near the wall, nursing my drink, watching people try to out-cool each other. Everyone's performing, just like I used to.
Then I spot Parker by the faculty table, deep in conversation with a sharp-looking woman from the department. Gray pixie cut, killer blazer in emerald green. She gestures while she talks, animated and confident.
What's he doing at a freshman party?
Riley 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, Riley."
She just winks, then gets pulled into another conversation.
I look back at Parker. He looks relaxed, almost happy, which throws me. He's laughing at something the woman said. Then he scans the crowd, casually, like he's just people-watching.
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. Thrilling.
Riley nudges me hard enough to spill my drink. "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 creeping up my neck. Can feel his eyes on me like a physical touch.
Eventually, Riley drags me into a circle of freshmen. One guy won't shut up about his startup podcast about cryptocurrency. Some girl's showing everyone her camera, going on about aperture and lighting. I fake interest, nod at the right moments, 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. A current running underneath everything.
At one point, that woman he's with nudges him and says something with a smirk. She's clearly teasing him about something. He tries to brush it off, shaking his head, but she keeps grinning. Like she knows exactly what's going on.
Riley 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 I'll never use. Listen to someone rant about their old volleyball coach. Try to look engaged while 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, Riley's ready to bail. As we weave through the crowd toward the exit, we pass close to the faculty table. Parker looks up at exactly the right moment. Our eyes lock for a split second, and I hold his gaze. Steady, unblinking. Then I walk past like nothing happened.
Outside, the night air is cool. A relief after the stuffiness inside. Riley's practically giddy. "That was electric! I've never seen such fireworks at a college mixer."
"It was nothing," I protest, but I'm smiling.
She snorts. "Keep telling yourself that."
Back in our room, I flop on my bed and stare at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck up there last week stare back at me.
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 to the empty room. 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 with the caption "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. My heart is still racing slightly, adrenaline humming through my veins.
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.