Portland rain had a way of getting into everything. Into the drafty windows of Hedley Hall. Into the hems of jeans and the soles of boots. Into the mood of sixty students from every major on campus, packed into a lecture room at 9 a.m. for PHL 214: Logic & Critical Thinking, the gen-ed everybody put off as long as they could.
Ivars Dalkeith had put it off until senior year. Now he sat where he always sat: last row, far left, back to the wall, where he could see the whole room and the room never thought to look at him.
Grey hoodie two sizes too big. Black wire glasses. Headphones around his neck, no music playing. The black hair hung low enough to hide the teal underneath, and the septum ring was flipped up and out of sight. He looked like exactly what he wanted the front row to think he was: a tired scholarship kid who did the reading and nothing else.
His pen tapped against the desk. A bass line. He didn't notice he was doing it.
At the front, Professor Aldergate was fighting the projector again. Every few minutes his eyes drifted toward your seat, then quickly away.
Ivars knew why. Everyone did.
Three weeks ago, Aldergate had written an argument on the board, coffee in hand, and called it
"a textbook example of a valid argument."
If it rains, the quad floods. The quad is flooded. Therefore, it rained.
And you, who hadn't said ten words all semester, had looked up and said, calmly and not even loudly,
"That's affirming the consequent. The sprinklers could have flooded it. It's invalid."
Then you'd gone back to your notes, as if you'd pointed out a typo.
The room went so quiet you could hear the rain. Aldergate had stood there with his coffee for a long, awful moment before he said,
"...Yes. Quite right. Thank you."
Ivars had stopped tapping his pen.
He'd noticed you before that. Hard not to, when your name and his kept trading the top quiz score every week and wrecking the curve for everyone else. But he hadn't really looked until you took a tenured professor apart in one sentence and didn't even look up to enjoy it.
He hadn't stopped thinking about it since.
That was a problem. Ivars didn't do problems. He solved them, or he sold the solution, or he made sure they became someone else's.
So he'd solved this one, too. It had cost him exactly one favor, owed to the Bursar by a TA with a gambling habit and access to the course roster.
"Alright, alright."
Aldergate gave up on the projector and pulled the course page up on his laptop instead.
"Final project partners are posted. Each pair gets a real campus controversy from the Ellsworth Ledger. Map out both sides, find the fallacies, present in December. Topics were drawn at random, so no complaining."
The list scrolled down the screen. Names in pairs. People craned their necks, swore, high-fived, sighed.
Dalkeith, Ivars / you: "Legacy Admissions at Ellsworth: Tradition or Rigged System?"
There it was. Exactly where he'd arranged for it to be.
The topic made the corner of his mouth twitch. A scholarship kid arguing about whether the system was rigged, from the back row of a partner list he'd rigged himself. He'd appreciate the irony later.
A few rows down, you read the screen and went still. Then you turned in your seat, scanning the rows, clearly trying to figure out who the hell Ivars Dalkeith was.
His phone buzzed against his thigh. He glanced down.
Noor: iv Noor: saw the list lmao Noor: partners huh Noor: totaly random im sure Noor: dont be wierd w ur partner
He turned the phone face down without answering.
Their eyes went past him once.
Then they came back.
Ivars didn't wave. He didn't smile. He held your gaze for exactly one second with the same bored, unreadable expression he gave everyone, then went back to his notes.
His pen started tapping again. Faster this time.
When Aldergate dismissed the class, Ivars let the room thin out. Then he slung his canvas bag over one shoulder, walked down the steps, and stopped beside your seat, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. Up close he was taller than people expected, and broader than the hoodie let on.
"Professor."
His voice was low and flat, almost bored.
"Guess we're partners."
One corner of his mouth twitched, so slightly it might not have happened.
"For the record, you were right about the sprinklers. Aldergate still flinches when it rains."
He pulled a folded index card from his pocket and set it on your desk. A phone number in neat, tiny handwriting, and underneath it: Library. Thursday. Don't be late.
"My number. Text me when you want to start."
He was already turning toward the door.
"Or don't, and I'll write the whole thing myself. Your call."
He didn't look back to see if you picked up the card. He told himself he didn't care either way.
His fingers drummed a bass line against his leg the whole way to the door.