"No way!"
"That's sick, bro."
"I wish I didn't run away when it started,"
"You're always a chicken."
Students crowded in the hallway, gathering around phones and tablets. A single video was circulating across the entire unofficial Hamilton Hall meme page.
Titled, 'always knew insects were attracted to candy'.
"She threw her jacket?!"
"Damn, he looks hot." a girl giggled, twirling her hair.
"Get a hold of yourself, Sara. He's extinguishing a goddamn fire." Her friend massaged his forehead.
"And, he's bloody thirty."
Someone corrected, "Twenty-nine."
"Shut up!"
They all went quiet, turning their focus back to the screen.
"Holy shit, isn't that Charles White?!"
"The hell is he?"
"The Dean of the College, moron!" someone else said, exasperated.
"Why did they even allow such dangerous stuff this year?"
"I mean, the idea was good..."
"Shut up, y'all are such Goodie-Two-Shoes."
"I am not-"
"What is going on here?"
A sharp voice cut through the commotion. Heads turned at the sound.
"P-p..."
As if having seen a tiger, everyone immediately ran for their lives.
In a few seconds, the corridor was deserted.
Professor Collins sighed, rubbing her face. "Don't these kids have anything better to do?"
"I mean, I would do the same." a voice joined.
She turned, brow raised.
Professor Victor walked with his usual laidback calm, a hand in his pocket while his coat was draped on the other arm.
There was a bandage near his brow, and the area near his lips glinted with ointment.
"'Beatrice Collins, the coldest and most insensitive professor to walk this Earth, throws her leather jacket to save her students!' Makes quite the headline."
Her eye twitched.
He laughed, "'and she even asked the poor Nathaniel Victor if he was alright!'"
"Do you have a death wish?"
"Maybe," he smirked, "God knows what kind of torturous methods you have in store for me, now that I've seen that side of you."
She rolled her eyes.
Why was she marrying him again?
. . .
"And that was all the certificates for this year's Innovation and Culture Expo."
Mr. Timothy spread his arms wide, a warm smile on his face.
"The projects this year were incredibly creative and useful, albeit a little... dangerous."
"On that note, I am sure the entirety of Hamilton Hall is aware of one of such projects that caused quite a bit of chaos this week, commonly referred to as... 'The Jacket Fire Incident' by students."
Someone laughed in the crowd.
Timothy pretended not to hear that. "And I am also sure everyone knows the names of those chivalrous professors who took control of the mishap. Even if not, please give a standing ovation to..."
"Beatrice Collins and Nathaniel Victor!"
Two figures stood up from their seats and hesitantly stepped to the stage while thunderous applause echoed in the Auditorium.
Professor Collins' eyes twitched uncontrollably, while the forced smile on Professor Victor's face never wavered.
"Truly, an admirable display of heroism!" someone from the lowest row cheered.
Beatrice was hyperaware of the man standing next to her, whose foot would not stop tapping.
Suddenly, a mic was thrust into her hands.
Flustered and embarrassed, she passed it to Nathaniel, who threw it back at her.
Whispers were heard in the speaker as the mic was tossed from one to the other.
"...why should I?"
"...stop being an arse!"
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Phones snapped and authority arched their brows.
Victor, who just realized how ridiculous they must've looked, snatched it back from Collins and steeled himself.
"I-... um. it is an honor," he stared, already regretting his words, "But, uh, it's purely instinct that I... involved myself. And... uh... I-I would not be standing here without... the assistance of my... colleague, Bee-...atrice. Beatrice."
He spoke those last words through gritted teeth. Professor Collins stretched her lips, which looked more like an expression of agony than one of joy, and nodded along.
Nathaniel passed it to her again, but instead of making another speech, Beatrice simply shoved it back into Mr. Timothy's hands who watched with a smile and a raised brow.
They both hurried off stage, hearts pounding wildly against their ribs.
. . .
Cans crowded the small coffee table on one side, while the other side displayed lace, pins and paper.
"Should we invite your old school friends as well?"
"No, absolutely not."
"Why not?" Chelsea tapped her chin with a pen.
Beatrice let out a deep and irritated sigh.
Not only was she covered in measuring tapes and stabbed a few times as well, but her mother wanted to invite even the most unrelated people to a wedding she did not want.
"I'm inviting them," she decided, scribbling on the guest list.
"Do not," she warned. "If you're not going to listen, why ask me in the first place?"
She shrugged. The other sighed.
"We're done with the measurements, ma'am," the lady with the clipboard spoke.
"Great!" Chelsea got up to see them out, "When can we pick up the dress? The wedding's in ten days."
"Oh, you can pick it up after four days at most." she smiled, "The miss has such an ideal body type, it won't be hard to tailor her dress."
Beatrice bit back a scoff.
Ideal?
Shoulders too broad, arms too jacked, thighs too dense.
This was the same body she was always insecure about.
"Perfect! We'll stop by the boutique next week."
Chelsea guided the team of women out the door. Only then did the tension ease from Beatrice's shoulders.
"Finally."
She slumped back on the couch, grabbing a can of beer.
Marriage is so exhausting.
Especially a forced one.
She gulped it down, the sting of the alcohol calming her nerves a bit. She was supposed to drop by her parents' only to get the measures for the dress taken, but now, her old bedroom sofa seemed more comfortable than her own bed back in New York.
She rested her head against a bolster, allowing her thoughts to wander as Born to Die played quietly in the background.
Somewhere in the depths of her memory, someone used to sing a melody much like this one. The tune was often off-key, and the singer had never possessed much of a voice, yet there had been something strangely comforting about it.
The polished version left her strangely hollow.
They like their girls insane.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
"Goodness, I told you to clean this mess!" Her mother's voice filled her ears once again.
"Leave me alone," she managed, not looking up. She knew her mother wore an exasperated expression.
"But we have things to-"
"Get out."
She froze.
"...Bea?"
"I said get out."
The room went quiet.
A second later, she heard the clacking of heels and the thud of a door.
Beatrice didn't need to hear her to imagine what she would have said.