I wish I could say it was the first time

I'd put off writing an article until the

day it was due, but my dad didn't raise

a liar.

The third floor of Buchanan, the main

library on campus, was bleak.

Florescent lights twitched overhead

and the scent of burnt popcorn

circulated through the air conditioning

ducts. Luckily, it was only the first

week of the semester, so no one was

around to watch me wrestle my USB

drive into a slot on the side of an

ancient copy machine.

I still hadn't finished unpacking into

the new off-campus apartment Hanna

and I had leased, but somehow I'd

managed to spend fifty-eight dollars on

Mexican food and leave an important

assignment until the last second.

The food thing was Andre's fault. He

was the one who kept suggesting we

grab lunch at Pepito's, our favorite taco

stand (a place where self control meant

nothing to me).

The second thing was all my own

doing, unfortunately.

But this morning I'd had hope.

I'd thought I'd pulled off another

successful feat of procrastination—

another last minute lunge across the

finish line that separated failure from

permissible mediocrity.

I hadn't accounted for the rain.

Garland, California (population thirty

thousand during the school year, and

half of that in the summer) was an

hour north of downtown Los Angeles.

We were used to droughts. But by the

time I'd made it to Buchanan, I was

soaked from the crown of my head to

the chipped nail polish on my toes.

I'd worn a sundress. I looked like an

idiot.

A very damp idiot.

And as I stood there, slapping the side

of the copy machine and dripping a

puddle onto the hideous grey-green

carpet beneath me, my phone started

to vibrate somewhere in the depths of

my backpack.

I groaned and dropped it to the floor to

begin a search and rescue mission.

There were only three people who

could realistically be calling me—

Andre Shepherd, Hanna Pham, and my

dad.

It was Hanna.

"Why are there granola bars all over

the bathroom floor?" she demanded, in

lieu of a greeting.

"I'm sorry," I said. "The bottom of the

box gave out. I was in a rush."

"Are you in class yet?"

"Nope. Buchanan. Third floor."

"Oh, shit. Is it Thursday already?"

The abomination in question had

started chugging out of the printer at

a speed of approximately two lines an

It was, in fact, Thursday—otherwise

known as deadline day at the Daily,

Garland University's school paper. Our

editor-in-chief wanted a hard copy

turned in to a box on her desk by noon.

Joke's on her, I thought.

My article was going to suck no matter

what format it was in.

The abomination in question had

started chugging out of the printer at

a speed of approximately two lines an

hour.

I groaned and pinched the bridge of

my nose.

"I'm in hell," I muttered under my

breath.

"Well, at least you finished it, right?"

Hanna offered. "Ellison can't get mad

at you if it's done. You did your best.

That's what counts."

I barked out a bitter laugh.

"Han, this is the worst thing I've ever

written."

"Yeah, but you spent, like, the entire

summer in Mexico City. I think you get

a free pass on this one. Visiting your

mom's family is more important than a

fluff piece about the football team."

Except it'd turned out more like a

celebrity gossip column than fluff

piece.

And I'd authored a lot of Jonas Brothers

fan fiction back in middle school, so the

standards of judgment were pretty low.