Adrian Lessons by L.A Rose

“She’s going to use this situation to her best advantage, so whatever she asks you to do, just do it.”
    Elise pokes her with a pen. “You think everyone’s a sociopath.”
    “Everyone is a sociopath.”
    “ What is that, ” roars June-Ann, and we all stop to instinctively cower. June-Ann is pointing at my bag, which has slipped open to reveal its contents.
    “A tampon?” I try.
    “Besides the tampon. Cleo Reynolds, don’t you dare lie to me. Adrian King gave you that flower.”
    I knew I should have thrown it away. It’s just that yellow roses are my favorite. Although there’s no way Adrian could have known that.
    I shrug, knowing June-Ann can smell lies like she can smell fear. “Yeah, he left it outside my door this morning with a note asking me out again—”
    “HE GAVE YOU A ROSE…!”
    Tanisha and Elise huddle together for safety. June-Marie grabs a copy of Introduction to Psychology and beats me with it, chasing me out of the room. “Get out of here. You’re an insult to women everywhere!”
    So much for the Psychology’s Club’s help.
    I trudge down the stairs, pausing to stick the stupid rose upright in a bookcase. It looks a little lonely, so I make it a note that says ‘Free to a good home.’ Then I add, ‘Warning: may contain traces of playboy.’
    Since this morning, Adrian has asked me out three times. Once with the rose. Once during lunch, when he showed up in the dining hall, deposited a strawberry cupcake in front of me—again, my favorite—and left without a word. Two rolled-up movie tickets were stuck in the buttercream frosting.
    Five girls congratulated me on my way out of the hall.
    The last time was an hour ago, in the library. I was innocently reading when he came up behind me, put his arms over my shoulders, and seductively whispered, “Dinner, this Friday?” into my ear.
    At least, he got to the “Dinner, this Fri—” before I screamed and accidentally punched him in the nose.
    His only response to my desperate apologies and attempts to mop the blood of his shirt was a “In Japan, a nosebleed is considered a sign of attraction.”
    I’m surprised I’m not in the middle of a full-blown facial period.
    Any other day, the fact that Statham’s resident sex guru has become inexplicably obsessed with me would take greater precedence in my life.
    But Marie still hasn’t spoken to me since yesterday.
    Nor does she speak to me the day after that.
    Or the day after that.
    It’s sort of fascinating, sharing an apartment with someone who won’t speak to you. You can follow them around the kitchen for an hour while they make dinner, enumerating every single thing you love about them in detail—from the cute ankle hair they always miss while shaving to the drool spot they leave on their pillow every morning that miraculously always conforms to the shape of Kentucky—but they still won’t acknowledge your presence or put a piece of garlic bread into your open and waiting mouth.
    Amazing.
    I changed her phone alarm music to To Forgive by the Smashing Pumpkins. I tried to make her pancakes. Admittedly I set the stove on fire, but at least the firemen were hot. I’ve offered her cookies, booze, apology letters, Adrian’s movie tickets, my body, and a pony. Eventually I got fed up and sat on the edge of her bed, chanting “Marie Marie Marie Marie” for twenty minutes while she calmly read her book.
    The girl has a will of steel.
    I understand why she’s mad. I did the one thing I swore up and down and sideways that I’d never do—admit that I write her sex scenes.
    Our freshman year at Statham, we were assigned roommates. She was a shy, romantic bookworm who spent the first week of school hiding down our room, and I was a weirdo who spent the first week with my head in a toilet.
    Because I had the flu! Not because I was drinking my little freshman heart out. You’re so judgmental.
    Okay, I was also drinking my heart out, but that’s beside the point.
    Anyway,