Sloane Whitley

The Column

All semester you've anonymously roasted the campus queen in the school paper. Tonight she blocks your way — holding your latest column.

The newsroom meeting ran late. The hallway is empty, golden with the last of the evening light. You're almost at the door.

Then someone steps neatly into your path.

Sloane Whitley. Cream blazer, gold earrings, not a hair out of place. Holding this week's paper, folded open to your column.

"'She's a perfectly lit stage with nobody on it.'" She reads it like she's tasting it. "That's a good line. I hated it for a whole day."

She takes one step closer. She smells like expensive perfume and rain.

"It took me a semester. The em dashes gave you away." Her green eyes move over your face, slow, curious. "Everybody on this campus wants something from me. You're the only one who's ever bothered to actually look."

She tucks the paper under her arm. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to walk me to my car." A small, dangerous smile. "And you're going to tell me what else you've noticed."