*Note: Click the Youtube link above to listen to the Audiobook Version of this chapter voiced by Kristen Maglonzo featuring music by Ok Go, The 1975, The Dangerous Summer, Hidden In Plain View, and Alex & Sierra.

Alex

First alarm. 8:00 AM. Snooze.

Second alarm 8:30. Snooze.

Third Alarm. 9:00 AM. Snooze

Fourth Alarm. 9:30. Snooze--

--wait a minute.

My first class starts at 9:30.

Crap on a popsicle!

Ladies and Gentlemen of the universe,

Crack open Webster's dictionary, flip to the letter "f" and you'll probably find Alexandra Summers written in BOLD next to the definition of failure.

Why?

Because that, my friends, is exactly what I'm doing this morning.

Today might as well be the most important day of my collegiate life, and I'm late for it. LATE. Like-kiss-your-academic-career-goodbye-level-late.

And I can't find my jeans. Or any of my semi-decent clothes for that matter, because apparently spending last night eating Campbells's soup with my boyfriend was more important to me than unpacking.

I jolt out of bed and ransack the nearest suitcase for anything other than pajamas to put on. I pull out the first thing I find and dress myself faster than Flash Gordon.

Outfit Item #1: Pink short-shorts. Weird, but they'll have to do.

Outfit Item #2: Neon yellow work-out tank top--hideous, but my fashion options went out the window when I decided to smash my snooze button into a coma.

Runway ready or not, I have to go. I should've been gone twenty minutes ago, but Sleepy Depressed Alex decided to put an end to all that. I swallow down the sting of my impending lateness, and stumble across the jungle of boxes and books littered across my side of the floor.

My half of our lovely little dorm room looks like a bomb went off while Indigo's side is the picture of...hippy OCD? 

If the giant tie-dyed sarong masquerading as a wall decoration didn't give away her 1970's obsession at first sight, her mini-Jim Morrison shrine sure did. 

Not only that, but she keeps all her weird little trinkets immaculately organized. The only thing that isn't confined to a pre-assigned space is her incense.

The whole room reeks of it, and she kept it burning all night long which isn't the worst thing the world, but after eight hours of sleeping in it, I'm gonna smell like a flower child. 

I have a three-hour, eight-person seminar, this morning and I'm pretty sure the guy or girl assigned to sit next to me is gonna regret their decision.

I scamper over to the bathroom and gasp at my puffy ghost face of a reflection before tying my hair up into a ratty bun. Thank God Kai left last night. If I didn't give him a hundred reasons to abandon our relationship yesterday at Enzo's, the state of my face this morning would've sealed the deal.

I'm so grody right now there isn't even time to brush my teeth so I grab my travel-sized bottle of Listerine and swash more than the recommended dose around my mouth till everything burns. I spit in the sink, dash back outside, and swipe my books and my lap top off the desk.

My 9:45 warning alarm sounds off in my pocket, and I sprint for the door until reality stops me dead.

I'm not in New Jersey anymore.

I can't just pop outside whenever I want to without worrying about running into you-know-who.
Now he's only a door away, and I'll have to spend every moment of my life avoiding him.

What if he sees me?

What if he's watching right now?

Even if he isn't, what if I run into him outside?

Oh God.

I can't do this.

I.

Can't.

Screw class, I'll just stay here.

Wait. No, no, no that's a drop-out decision.

You can do this, Alex.

Inhale, exhale, sprint.

Inhale, exhale, ready, steady, go for it!

I wrench open the door and bolt towards the stairs as fast as my legs can carry me. The harder I run, the harder it is to breathe, but I'd rather suffocate than run into him----again.

I still hear it, the slow creak of his door, the crash of his feet against the frame, the silent screech of tension in the air between us.

If I hadn't left with Kai, he might've said something.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but the thing is, I don't plan on saying anything to him ever again.

Because when it comes to Elias King, sticking with the eternal silent treatment is the best option. A text message ding cuts through the quiet.

I shove my book/laptop pile under my arm and check my screen.

Text Message from Indigo-Rose at 9:45 AM:

IR: Hey Lex, you coming to class today?

AS: On my way, I totally overslept. Did I miss anything major?

IR: No, just a lot of rambling and a super lame powerpoint. Wanna ditch? There's a new crystal store on 3rd Street I wanna check out. Our room's feng shui is totally off.

AS: I would, but I really can't miss class. Scholarship duties. Sorry.

IR: Bummer. Well, if I'm not around when you get here, don't freak-out. My horoscope says I'm due for an adventure today, so I may peace out in the next few minutes. Universe duties.

AS: Okay, cool. See you later I guess?

IR: Depends. I don't choose my path, Lex, the universe has already chosen it for me. But let's get lunch at Covel dining hall later. Cool?

AS: Cool. Yeah. See ya!

IR: Namaste.

When it comes to the wonderful world of weird roommates, Indigo definitely tops the list. But even with all her weirdness, I hope she'll still be in class when I get there. 'Cause if she isn't, I'll probably have a full-fledged first day panic attack. 

Fact.

***

"Ms. Summers, I presume?"

If Mr. Rodgers and Julia Child had a baby and raised her in a rainbow flower patch inside the "Land of Make-Believe", I'm pretty sure she'd be my professor. No joke.

The second I sneak into my claustrophobically small class room, a woman dressed in what might as well be Joseph's technicolor dream coat along with a pair of yak fur boots, waves me over.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, I'm late, I got lost on the way over and I--"

"Kick that excuse in the kaboose and come and join us, young lady! You're just in time!"

She points me over to an empty seat next to a super smiley red-head with Pippy Longstocking pigtails.

This place is basically a support group meeting for weirdos who write stuff.

Perfect.

I like this class already.

I scan the room for Indigo only to discover that she, as expected, has successfully ditched class. I'm kinda jealous. Walking around Santa Monica in search of "feng shui crystals" sounds like a dream.

But what's done is done.

I'm not Indigo.

I'm not a rebel.

I'm a girl who's quietly trying to blend into the background, so she can tune into her first lesson with Professor Yak-Boots.

"Now that our lovely friend, Ms. Summers is here, I'd like to officially welcome you all to Creative Writing 191--"

My heart flutters a little. I've only been looking forward to this day since I stalked the class description during registration. See below.

"An introductory freshman seminar focusing on the works of a select contemporary author (1950 to present). Students will study a set of pre-determined texts and write original reactionary pieces in response to the works of a mystery modern great."

Imagine--a whole semester dedicated to one of the masters like Maya Angelou, Kurt Vonnegut, or maybe George Orwell.

My fingers tingle at the possibilities--so I start listing them in the margin of my notebook. As long as we don't waste time on authors who write stories dealing with love, loss, or romance, I'll be happy as a clam.

"--This year's class is particularly special because we will be spending the entire quarter studying the inspired debut work of the extremely talented--"

Harper Lee? Jack Keroac? J.D. Salinger?

"--UCLA Writer in Residence of 2015, Mr. Elias Alexander King!"

The whole class bursts into applause, but I can't feel my hands, or my arms, or my--anything.

Before I can do anything, like force my body out of this chair, out of this class, and out of this building, the door opens.

The door opens, and a boy who looks like Elias is standing in it.

But he's different, smaller--like someone took a razor to his ego and cut away the excess. All that nausea-inducing confidence he used to carry around seems miles away this morning. He smiles sheepishly at the class, hugs his laptop to his chest and joins the professor at the front of the room, while I hide behind my notebook.

"H-hey guys, thanks so much for signing up for this class, I'm really excited to be working with you this year--"

It's been a year. A whole year and to my horror time has been incredibly kind to Elias King.

His stupid shoulders are broader and more pronounced.

His formerly ramen noodle arms are toned.

And he's got this scruffy looking stubble thing going on which means he somehow figured out how to grow facial hair.

Good thing I'm over the whole rugged/boyishly handsome look.

I'm also over the gorgeous green-eyed messy haired thing too.

I have officially moved on.

Moved right on along.

I am not flustered.

I am not dazed or confused.

I am cool, calm, and--completely lying to myself.

Because he still--

--gets to me.

He bothers me.

In less than seconds, he slithers under my skin, into my pores, and invades parts of me I didn't think he'd reach.

But he reaches everything.

His lopsided smile leaves me raw, because my whole body remembers the way it felt against my lips.

I remember so much of him.

Too much.

All his beautiful and broken parts.

All his jagged pieces.

All of his lies.

I remember just how much of me he took with him when he disappeared, and a year old ache comes roaring back into the pit of my stomach.

I used to be able to drown it out, to reason myself out of feeling anything.

But the pain's come back even worse this time, 'cause Elias King doesn't look like a little boy anymore. He looks old enough to have realized that he should've taken responsibility for abandoning me, or at least tried to explain things.

But he didn't.

He didn't.

He ran away like a child, while three hundred and sixty five days of silence magically turned him into a man.

But that's the thing about maturity, sometimes the illusion's only skin deep.

"--As you probably know, I'm kinda new at this whole author thing so, go easy on me. I put a lot into this book, so I hope it makes you feel something at the end of the day. Anyway, I'm sure you've noticed that I'm better at saying things on paper than I am at giving speeches, so I'm gonna let Professor Hayes take over from here. Thank you."

Pippy Longstocking bursts into a fit of giggles so obnoxious the sound grates against my ears like metal on concrete. If this were a normal class, with normal people, under normal circumstances, I'd shush her or punch her in the face. But seeing as this is the classroom from hell, I can't make so much as a peep or else he'll see me.

Again.

Luckily, he hasn't yet.

But if he does, I won't be able to escape, and if I can't escape I'll--

"Thank you so much, Elias. We're all very excited to have you here. Now that you've shared a little bit about yourself with the class, I'd like to spend the next few minutes letting the students introduce themselves to you. Okay?"

Are you kidding me?

"Sounds good to me," he says.

Elias sits down next to Professor Yak-Boots and sinks into his chair. I'm sinking into my chair too, but for totally different reasons. I need to disappear. ASAP. Maybe if I quietly slide onto the floor and crawl out the back, no one will notice.

"Lovely! Let's start with Mr. Piper in the corner here! Stand up, young man!" She says.

A willow wisp of a boy gets up out of his chair, brushes a wall of sweaty blond bangs out of his eyes, and waves to Elias and the rest of the class.

"Hi, I'm Will. I'm from Boston."

Professor Yak-Boots gestures for him to keep going which naturally gives Will a small scale panic attack.

"And why did you decide to pursue the whimsical, wild, world of writing, Will?"

"Because my parents made me."

The slap stick smile on professor Yak-Boots' face fades a little.

"Okay, well, I hope you learn to love it as much as the rest of us do, young man! Next!"

My stomach lurches into my throat. One down, five more to go--which means I have approximately five-ish minutes to figure a way out of here.

Sneaking out should be a piece of cake, especially considering the fact that I look like a 1980s aerobics instructor/neon-addict.

Way to screw yourself, Alex.

"Hi, I'm Annie Berkowitz. I'm from Upstate New York, and I chose this major because I hope to be a best selling author one day."

Well, she's got the name for it, but that attitude is heinous.

Whatever.

Annie Berkowitz doesn't matter. Making my great escape matters, and I've only got four people left to do it.

"Thank you so much for sharing, Annie, I'm sure you'll exceed your lofty aspirations! Next!"

A group of not one, not two, but four students stand up in unison to introduce themselves. The brunette beachy guys throw their arms around the two girls who I assume are their girlfriends and smile at Elias like he's some kind of god. This...is getting weird.

"Hey, Elias. My name's Kyle. I'm from San Diego."

"My name's Sadie, I'm also from San Diego."

"I'm Ross, I came up with these guys from San Diego."

"And I'm Gabbie--"

Pippy Longstocking has a real name. I prefer the one I gave her.

"--I'm the last of the San Diego crew. Mr. King, we were all so inspired by your book that we decided to study writing because of you. It's really amazing seeing someone from our hometown taking such huge strides in the publishing world." 

Elias smiles at the clan of tall, beautiful, San Diego people like he's known them forever. Great. Maybe he can be friends with them, and they can waltz around campus while the paparazzi document their perfect lives. 

"Thank you, guys. It's great to meet such nice people from back home," he says. 

Elias's face falls when the word nice leaves his lips, but nobody notices. Nobody but me. I remember the night he slammed his fists into the metal of Tanner's car when his "nice friends" from San Diego called him a murderer. 

I have my own set of memories about how "nice" he was to me when he sent me packing at 3:00 AM. I'm starting to learn that the Californian definition of nice is way more bendable than it should be.

"Oh, how fantastic! Common bonds between writers is a beautiful thing! Now, let's move on to our last student, Ms. Summers."

Did she just say my name out loud? Maybe she didn't.Maybe this is a nightmare or a really bad hallucination. Please wake up, Alex. Now. For the love of all that is holy wake up.

"Come on, Ms. Summers! Don't be shy! Put your notebook down, and stand up so we all can see you!"

I can't do this. I am not mentally or emotionally prepared to do this, but apparently my legs think otherwise, because suddenly I'm standing. 

My notebook falls to my side, and I feel more exposed in front of him than I have in a year.Elias's eyes light up the way they used to back when I believed he was a genuine person who felt genuine things. But he wasn't. Not then and not now.

I shift my focus over to Professor Yak-Boots and away from him, but I still feel him staring--asking a million silent questions I wish he wouldn't. My lungs constrict, and my legs go numb, but I fight the impulse to panic. 

He needs to see how much I've changed.

How different I am from the girl he left on the beach last summer. 

So I mold my trembling lips into a ghost of a smile and force myself to speak.

"My name's Alex, I'm from New Jersey and--"

A series of whispers break out around the class and stops me mid-sentence. 

"--and I want to be a writer because--"

The whispers bloom into giggles, and a gnawing ache in the pit of my stomach breaks my concentration.

"--I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?" I ask. 

"Not at all, Ms. Summers! Would anyone in the class like to share what they find so amusing about her introduction?"

I glance around the classroom and Annie Berkowitz has her hand raised and a shit-eating-grin smeared across her face. Professor Yak-Boots calls on her, and Annie picks up a paperback in one hand and points at the summary on the back with the other. 

"Nothing, Professor, I just find it ironic that she's from the same place as the protagonist in the book."

What?

"Great observation, Annie! Alex, maybe you can enlighten us about all the places the author mentions in the novel, since it's so close to home."

"Um, sure. Anyway, the reason why I want to be a writer is because it helps me keep my head above water when I'm struggling with something. I guess, it's more of a therapeutic path for me than anything else. Sometimes, it's easier to deal with the things I've been through on paper than in real life," I say. 

I regret speaking the second I sink back down into my chair. When you get too used to lying, speaking the truth feels stranger than it should. But I know he heard the honesty behind my words because he read them. Every single entry. Every single page I dedicated to him. 

And as many times as I've told myself sending him those journals was the right thing to do, I spend everyday wishing I hadn't. I wish I hadn't done a lot of things. But, I can't take them back now. 

All I can do is sit here while he watches me without any kind of readable expression on his face. But I know he's still listening, even though the whole room's quiet, he hears me straight through the silence.

"Wonderful, Alex! You've certainly come to the right place because this is the class where I'll expect you all to pour your hearts onto the page. If you're honest with yourselves and your feelings, maybe you'll be able produce the kind of emotionally impactful work Mr. King has. Now, I'd like you to take out your books and open up to chapter one, please. Today, we'll be discussing the power of brevity."

Everyone else in the class whips out dark blue paperbacks and flips them open. I raise a shaky hand as soon as I realize that I'm the only person without a copy. 

"Yes, Ms. Summers?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't have a copy of the book yet. What's it called?"

Elias stands up out of his chair all of a sudden and rips my attention away from everything. His wild green eyes bare straight into mine, and for a sliver of a second, he holds me completely and totally hostage. 

"Letters to Jersey."