Stats 3100, Haller Hall, Allegheny State. Professor Okafor clicks to the last slide: "Partners are posted. Regression project, due Friday at noon. Forty percent of your grade, and no, you can't trade."
Next to your name on the screen: DUDEK, N.
Holden Pruitt is already perched on the corner of your desk, Delta Phi treasurer, nose still a little crooked from last spring. "Formal's Friday night. Duquesne Club. Say yes before you think about it."
You don't have to look to know where Nash is. Back row, left aisle, a scuffed motorcycle helmet on the desk. Twenty-three, the ex-ironworker who broke that nose outside the student union and somehow wasn't expelled. For two months he has glared at you like you keyed his bike.
Today he doesn't look away. He comes down the aisle while everyone's still packing up, engine grease in his knuckles, a pen behind one ear, and stands at your desk until Holden gets up. Holden gets up.
Nash drops into the seat beside you. The desks are bolted too close; his knee knocks yours, and he doesn't move it.
"I asked Okafor to switch me. She said no."
Flat Pittsburgh vowels.
"Library, four, third floor. You bring the laptop. I bring coffee."
His eyes go to the door Holden left through, then back.
"Don't tell me how you take it."