Just Consider It

Sitting in psychology class was definitely not a favorite pastime of mine. Why did I even choose it when I picked my course schedule? What did psychology have to do in the study of business? My mother had explained that it helped to understand my customers more. Please. I was going to be the CEO of the most powerful company in the world. I didn’t need to understand anyone but me and what I wanted.

But of course, because I was in this class, I had to be the best at it. That was who I was. In every single subject, I whipped everyone’s asses simply because I could.

For the first time in over five years, however, I was actually (dare I say it?) nervous about the grade I was getting. The teacher, Professor Keen, always posted the grades from best score to worst. If we worked hard on the assignments, she always said, then we shouldn’t be embarrassed of our scores. It was a pity that she taught psychology; if she was a professor for something more practical, like mathematics or English, we would most definitely get along.

I was majoring in business, which was the only real reason why I put up with a stupid class like this. Why would anyone care about what someone else was thinking? It didn’t matter to me. But stupid Professor Keen had given out an essay to write on personality disorders and how they affect not only the victims, but the people around them. I’d worked hard on it, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t get me the best grade.

Unfortunately, we were allowed to view our grades at the end of class, instead of the beginning. Another reason why I hated psychology.

“All right, everyone,” Professor Keen said. She didn’t even have to raise her voice; she was just one of those teachers who had the mysterious power to quiet down the class immediately. Then again, there were only about twenty people in my class, anyway. “Today I’ve prepared a power point presentation on the different disorders and illnesses you might come across, should you choose to make this a profession, and how to deal with them in the best way possible.”

Perfect, I thought sourly. Forty minutes of pointless ways to get inside someone’s head when they clearly want nothing but the opposite. If it was me who had PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) or bi-polar disorder, I wouldn’t want someone asking me how I was and to open up and tell them my entire life story.

Now, I’m not the most religious of girls, but I sent a silent thanks to whoever was up there when my phone silently vibrated in my back pocket. I had turned the brightness down so it couldn’t reflect from my glasses, which I had chosen to wear that day instead of my contacts. They were not a necessity anymore, but on days when I either a) felt lazy or b) wanted to look smarter/intimidating, I wore them.

It was from my older sister, Avery:

Can you watch Mason today? I have a job interview to go to.

I sighed. I was done with classes for the day, so I didn’t have anything else to do. I loved my nephew, but I really didn’t do that well with kids. Or babies, for that matter. But what else was I supposed to say? No?

So I wrote back, Okay. I’ll stop by when class ends.

Thanks, sis!! You’re a life saver!!! xoxo

And that was exactly what annoyed me about Avery. Whenever she texted me, each sentence had to be dramatized by exclamation points. I was more of a period type of girl. Sighing, I put my phone away and forced myself to concentrate on the presentation.

At long last, forty minutes later, Professor Keen turned off the computer and switched on the lights, announcing, “All right, everyone, you may now view your essay scores on your way out. Remember: if you worked hard on it —”

“—then you shouldn’t be embarrassed of your score,” I finished to myself, rolling my eyes. I shoved my books into my bag, stood up, and followed the rest of the class to the door, lagging behind so I could take my time and view the score for as long as I wanted.

Everyone else merely peeked at it with an unconcerned look on their face as they walked out. What kind of idiots were they? Did they not care? They were obviously going nowhere in life, unlike me.

I finally stepped up to the sheet and searched for my name. Bronwyn, Bronwyn, Bronwyn . . . ah! There we go.

BRONWYN, HERO:

I blinked, hardly daring to believe what I was seeing. I had only gotten a nine out of twelve on the essay. A nine. A nine! That meant . . . my score wasn’t the highest. My score wasn’t the highest. I wasn’t the best. Someone had beaten me. But who? I didn’t even want to look, because I already had a feeling I knew.

“Hey, Hero,” an annoyingly familiar voice greeted me from behind. Very slowly, I turned, trying to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach.

Niall Horan, the bane of my existence, was smiling at me in that superior way of his. I hated everything about him, from his blond hair that had a few streaks of brown in it, to his bright sky-blue eyes that always sparkled with mischievousness. Niall had chosen to go to the same college as me, unfortunately, and ended up in the same psychology class as me, too. He was arrogant, superior, sarcastic, and (this was the worst of all) . . . smarter than me.

“So how’d you do on the essay?” he asked, smiling at me a little.

“Fine,” I answered curtly.

“Did you do the best? I know how much beating people means to you.”

With great difficulty, I spit out, “No.” He knew that I knew he’d beaten me. Oh, how I hated him.

“Oh,” Niall looked surprised. “Better luck next time, eh?” He grinned at me, and I resisted the urge to strangle him. Instead, I nodded and stepped around him, practically stomping away.

“Hero,” another voice called after me. I turned and saw Professor Keen.

“Yes?”

“I wanted to talk to you about your score,” she explained. I sighed and stopped, leaning against the wall and allowing her to catch up to me. “Hero, I know that your grades in all your other classes are flawless, but in this one . . . you’re just not up to your usual standards, and I’m concerned.”

I gritted my teeth. “Well, what do you suggest I do to build them up?”

“I was thinking about a tutor?” she suggested.

I gaped at her. Me? Get a tutor? I was the one who usually tutored people! My grades never slipped. This was not possible. “Like who?”

Professor Keen showed me a name on her clipboard that she’d circled. “How about him? He’s number one in the class and quite the people person. I think you’d like him.” She pulled out a manila folder with the tutor’s information and held it out to me.

I stared at the name for a few seconds, feeling my blood boil beneath my skin. I was pretty sure that smoke was practically gushing from my ears, and if spitting fire was possible, I definitely would’ve been doing it right then.

But I took a long, slow breath, counted one, two, three, and smiled my best I’m-Hero-Bronwyn-and-I’m-always-composed smile. I said as politely as I could muster, “Thank you so much for your consideration, Professor. I will definitely think about the tutor.” I took the folder from her, turned on my heel, and walked out.

As I pushed open the door and moved out into the cool air, I breathed in again, one, two, three, before making a mental note to throw away the folder as soon as I got back to my dorm. I would consider a tutor, but not the suggested one.

Call it intuition, but I just didn’t think Niall Horan would be a good match for me.