Skye Warren

Though I think the most telling points are your hands. Your fingers, to be precise.”

Cinderella.”

A borrowed dress from a roommate fairy godmother. An unlikely flirtation with a modern-day rich guy. And a ticking clock running out on our encounter.

I’m lost in a sea of sensual uncertainty,

­ity isn’t only about a hymen or about inexperience. It’s about the body accepting intrusion that has never come before. It’s about invasion

the other reason that Romeo and Juliet isn’t childish, the main reason, is that it’s about a young woman taking charge of her life in a society determined to strip her of her agency. What is more grown-up, more mature, than taking control of your life?”

And with a determined hope that makes me realize why someone would bother patiently explaining the meaning of obscure words like amerce and caitiff and ropery to a bunch of tired, hungover teenagers.

belief that nothing matters, for whether someone is good or evil, happy or sad, rich or poor, they will turn to dust in the end. So there’s no reason to strive, to struggle. No reason to worry about rules or safety. No reason to give a damn.

Sweet and Full-bodied
“This dress is too short,” I say, tugging at the hem. It reveals too much of my thighs, making it hard to walk without flashing everyone. The material is stretchy but not enough. When I pull from the bottom it drags down the top, making the neckline even lower.
“That’s the point,” Daisy says.
She’s my best friend, roommate, and the leader of this particular escapade. She also has the body of a runway model, which means this slinky, barely-there little black dress looks classy on her. It looks like it belongs in this lobby with its marble floors, chandeliers, and velvet seating.
Instead of garish, the way it looks on me.
Usually my clothes attempt to hide my large bust.

Control. Danger. Identity.” He pauses, and I feel the way he does not look at me so acutely it’s like passing beneath one of the large buildings—cold and dark. Shocking after the warmth of his regard. “Sex.”
There’s a titter of laughter at the word.
There’s a podium for him to stand at with a microphone, but he clearly doesn’t need it. Nor does he sit down at the large table with a desk chair behind it. Instead he sits on the table, his legs hanging down, supremely comfortable in front of a hundred curious eyes.
He produces a small book from his back pocket, worn and yellowed from years of use. I don’t recognize the cover, at least not from this far away. It’s not from the library. His personal copy, then. He opens it to the beginning. “Enter Sampson and Gregory, with swords and bucklers, of the house of Capulet.”

between rounds of forbidden sex. “Maybe that’s why he took the job. So he could spend more time with you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
The bus slows at my stop, held up by the heavy flow of pedestrians. They always get right of way on campus, regardless of what the crosswalk says.
“Maybe give him a chance? It’s nice to have a father who cares.”
He looks over at me and smiles, a real smile that makes him look kind. It was this smile that got me to go out with him that first time. “Maybe. You were good for me, Annie. Kept me humble. Reminded me that there are people who have it harder than me.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
He holds up his fist.
I shake my head, but I’m smiling as I fist-bump him back.
Hathaway Dormitory has its own cafeteria, but it’s small and greasy. Convenient for quick meals, but nothing like the other dorms have. Good thing the scholarship meal plan lets you eat anywhere. Which means I can make the trek across campus to Mayfair Dormitory, the newest and most expensive University-owned dorm.
That’s where I’m meeting my friend Carlisle. We met last year in Biology class, where we were lost in a sea of science majors. We kept our heads above water together. And then stayed in touch, despite our disparate backgrounds.
I text her when I get there. Downstairs.
Be right there!
The lobby area has couches and tables for studying. I grab a seat and pull out my phone. Without my permission I find myself typing in Professor Stratford’s name. Daisy was right when she said I shouldn’t look at his books, shouldn’t find out more about him.
But the curiosity is excruciating.
I find his photo on the faculty page of Tanglewood University, along with a short biography focused on his academic interests and a bibliography of his published works. I’ll have to come back to those later, because right now I’m interested in something a little more personal.
It’s in the archives of the internet, a very old engagement announcement for William Stratford and Arabella Baldwin. Her family is well known for philanthropic works, the article says, which I assume means rich as hell.
She appears in a more recent society photo at a charity event, a gorgeous woman with full lips, a slender figure, and blonde hair in a high coiffure. It’s never been more obvious that Will and I could never work. This elegant creature is a match for him. Not me.
I also find information about Cormac Stratford, both his entry on the faculty pages and articles about his discoveries. My eyes widen. He won the Nobel Peace Prize. Yeah, I suppose that qualifies as a big deal or whatever, as Brandon said.
There are also a few articles about the third brother.
Asher Stratford is a lauded composer who wrote his first sonata at age eight. He disappeared from the spotlight two years ago. Some spec