2

I didn't even make it three steps outside Locke Hall before Karina latched onto my arm like she'd been waiting to pounce.

"Girl," she whispered, eyes wide. "What the hell was that?"

"Oh my god, don't start," I muttered, trying to walk fast and pretend like the ground hadn't just swallowed me whole ten minutes ago.

"I mean... she ate you up," Karina said, shaking her head dramatically. "Didn't even chew first."

"I said don't start," I hissed, pushing open the side door and stepping out into the muggy D.C. morning. "Can we not recap my humiliation like a damn highlight reel?"

"Fine, fine," she said holding up her hands. "But lowkey? I heard she's like that with everyone. Strict as hell. Real cold. No favorites."

"Makes sense," I muttered "she looked like she wanted to throw her heel at me."

Karina snorted. "If she did, it would've hit you dead in the forehead. That woman doesn't miss."

She wasn't wrong.

We crossed the yard, headed toward the cafe for breakfast. My stomach was growling, but my head was still back in that classroom. The easy she looked at me—it wasn't just irritation. It was something... heavier. Something focused. And it stuck with me, like a lingering echo I couldn't shake.

"I don't get why she's even teaching undergrad," Karina said as we stepped into the cafe. "She's overqualified as hell. Former prosecutor, worked on Capitol Hill, hella published—like what is she doing here?"

I shrugged. "Maybe she needed a change. Or a paycheck."

Karina grabbed two muffins and a fruit cup. "Or maybe she watching us for the FBI."

I gave her a look.

She grinned. "You never know."

We sat down at our usual booth near the window. The sunlight streamed in through the glass, and the cafe smelled like syrup and cinnamon. For a second, it felt normal again.

"So," she said, chewing on her blueberry muffin. "Tell me about this class. Like... what kind of work is she assigning?"

I pulled out the syllabus and laid it on the table between us. Karina leaned in, eyes scanning the list of readings and assignments.

"Damn," she whispered. "This isn't a class. It's a lifestyle."

"Right?" I said, sighing. "She's got us reading three full books by the end of the month and writing bi-weekly essays. Plus class participation, discussion panels, and. A final paper that's, like, forty percent of our grade."

Karina let out a low whistle. "And you had the nerve to be late?"

"I didn't plan to be late," I snapped. "The traffic here is horrible."

"You need to start waking up earlier."

"You need to mind your business."

She laughed, reaching over to snatch a piece of my banana bread. I let her. That's the kind of friendship we had. No boundaries. No filters. She'd been my person since diapers. Always would be.

Still my mind kept drifting.

Professor Harris.

Her voice. Her eyes. The way she didn't look away first.

"You're zoning," Karina said, waving a hand in front of my face. "You good?"

I blinked. "Yeah. Just... trying to process."

She raised an eyebrow. "Process what?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. "She's just... intense."

Karina leaned back in the booth. "You're into her."

I choked on my coffee. "What? No. I literally just met her."

"Exactly. And you already sound like a main character."

I gave her a look, but the worst part? She wasn't entirely wrong. I don't want to be into Kamala Harris. She's twice my age. She's my professor. She'd already threatened to drop me from the class on day one.

But there was something about her. Something sharp. Something magnetic.

I didn't say any of that out loud.

We finished eating, and I walked to my next class in a blur, trying to keep my thoughts straight. It didn't work. I kept replaying that moment—her voice, her words, her eyes on me like she already had me figured out.

By the time I got home that evening, I was exhausted. I threw my bag on the couch and kicked off my shoes. My phone buzzed again.

Mom: Call me when you get home. Just wanna hear about your first day!

I sighed and flopped on the bed. Melinda Green didn't miss a beat. She'd been texting since 8 AM, asking for pictures of my outfit, my schedule, what I packed for lunch. If I ignored her for too long, she'd send Joshua to call me on speaker.

I dialed her number.

"Mariah!" She answered immediately. "How was it?"

"Long," I said closing my eyes. "I'm tired already."

"Well that's how you know it's gonna be a good year," she said cheerfully. "Tell me everything. What professors do you have?"

I hesitated for a second.

"...one of them is Kamala Harris."

Silence.

Then—

"Wait. The Kamala Harris?"

"Yeah. She teaches political science now."

"Oh my god. Is she nice? Is she short in real life? She always looked short on tv. Like... 5'2 energy."

"She's not nice," I said, rolling onto my stomach. "And she's not short."

"Oop."

"She called me out in front of the whole class for being late."

My mom tsked. "That's what you get. I told you not to stay up so late."

I groaned. "I know mommy."

She laughed, and I let the sound calm me for a second.

We talked for a while longer—about her job, about my dad's new obsession with grilling—even though he barely knew how to light the propane. I let it comfort me. Remind me that home was still home.

But even after we hung up, and I curled under the blanket with my laptop on my stomach, I couldn't stop thinking about her.

Kamala.

Her voice, her poise, her eyes.

And the way, for just a second, I could've sworn she saw me.

Not just as a student. But something else.

I shut my laptop and stared at the ceiling.

God help me.

Senior year just started, and I was already in too deep.

____________________

Chapter 2: complete 😽 !!

And remember.. closed mouths don't get fed.