What witnesses? Ryan sneered as Chase raised a fist behind Maya's head and Emily kept filming. Maya didn't flinch. She calmly asked if he was threatening her while the entire courtyard stayed silent. A battered brass key marked Crown Bridge, 417 swung from her backpack.
Then the administration doors opened and the man walking toward them was about to make Ryan regret every word. Move. Ryan Whitmore planted himself in the middle of the red brick walkway, forcing Maya Carter to stop so suddenly that the used textbooks in her arms shifted against her chest. For a second, nothing else in Crown Bridge University's main courtyard seemed to change. The fountain kept spilling silver water into its stone basin.
Oak leaves scraped across the bricks in the October breeze. Somewhere beyond the administration building, a bell marked 15 minutes until the next class. But around Maya, conversations were beginning to die. She looked at the young man blocking her path. Ryan was 22, tall, polished, and dressed in the kind of clothes that seemed chosen to look casual while costing more than Maya's monthly rent back in Jefferson Heights.
A Navy Crown Bridge jacket rested over his shoulders. The small Founder's Society crest embroidered near his chest caught the morning sun. Maya adjusted the three books pressed against her white blouse. Excuse me. She stepped right.
Ryan stepped right. She moved left. So did he. A few students sitting on the fountain rim laughed. Maya heard it.
She kept her expressions still. I have class in Heritage Hall. I know. Ryan smiled. That made it worse.
Behind him, Chase Miller leaned against the stone railing with his hands in his pockets. At 21, Chase had the heavy shoulders of someone who enjoyed making people notice his size. Beside him stood Emily Collins, 22, perfectly composed in a cream sweater and expensive boots. Emily already had her phone in her hand. Ryan looked Maya over slowly, her faded backpack, the carefully mended strap, the second hand textbooks with somebody else's highlighting still visible along their edges.
Then his gaze settled on the small brass key, hanging from a worn blue cord attached to her backpack. So you're the transfer. Maya met his eyes. My name is Maya. I didn't ask.
Another laugh came from the fountain. Maya felt heat rise beneath her collar, but she refused to let it reach her face. She had known this feeling long before Crown Bridge. She had felt it in expensive stores where clerks followed her through aisles. She had felt it while standing beside her father at apartment offices years earlier, watching managers study their clothes before deciding how politely to speak to them.