Chapter 7:

#Barfista

In true anti-hero fashion, things kept snowballing.

Biochemistry—another college pre-med weeder class. They deliberately scheduled the seminar for eight a.m. to filter out those who overslept after a late-night pub crawl. Those of us who made it sat bolt upright, running on the 100 milligrams of caffeine coursing through our veins.

By the fourth day of class, attendance had dropped even further; only half the room was filled. As I walked past the rows of students, I could feel their eyes on me. Rubber-necking. That came with the territory of being the resident "psycho." Don’t let it get to you, Prin. Cliques had already formed—freshman year really was just the fifth year of high school.

As I entered the auditorium, I was faced with a crucial decision: Where do I sit?

The front row was Derm Row—pre-meds with dreams of dermatology and influencer patients.
“Did you see that rhinoplasty on Botched? Her new best friends are oversized Ray-Bans and a balaclava,” one of the Splice Girls chirped to the classmate beside her.
Probably a legacy from a six-figure prep school, now living her next chapter at Pritzker.

Then there were the wannabe Orthopods in the back row, radiating a mix of sweat and pine-scented body spray.

“Bro, the gym down the street has the most sigma personal trainer. I’ll send you his number,” one pre-med jock said—sprawled across his seat like Goldilocks in Baby Bear’s chair, long legs everywhere.

“Check out this pic my dad sent—supracondylar fracture. Sweet break, huh?”

They huddled around the phone, zooming in on the X-ray like it was a piece of fine art.

I sat there feeling like a foreigner in the land of power-tool surgical gear—no Duolingo in sight. It was way too early in the morning to be learning a whole new language.

The non-artificial filling of this Oreo-cookie auditorium—girls in flowy floral skirts and their goateed male counterparts—were the pre-meds drawn to infectious disease.

My classmates’ stares as I stood on the staircase made my skin prickle. I retreated to the farthest section of the auditorium. Shake it off, Prin. Who cares what they think?

I finally sank into a seat, facing a sea of empty rows. Just after settling in, I was relieved to see Madison plopping down beside me.

“Can you believe how many people are in this class?” she said, not seeming to notice the vacant seats all around us.

A student nearby craned his neck to glance at us, then shared a chuckle with his classmate.

Madison shot me a look. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous of how smart you are. I can’t believe you saved that woman’s life. And don’t worry, the whole Barfista thing will blow over soon.”

I felt my face heat up as I peeled off my jacket. “Barfista? What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t seen the video?” She looked surprised.

“What video?” The tension in my voice was clear.

She pulled out her phone. “It’s on this campus blog, Sus2Discuss.” I’d heard of that underground gossip blog—very popular among the Pritzker crowd.

Madison pulled up a meme. It showed me in my white coat, with the baby barfing into my jacket and hair. The video looped with the word “Barfista” written underneath.

“Oh my God.” I stared at it in disbelief. 

Madison tried to console me. “They’re just jealous you saved that woman. Pre-med students are ridiculously competitive, and the Pritzker med students didn’t like being outshined by a college freshman.”

I laughed despite myself. “I’m not even a barista.”

Sure, I’d worked at a café in summers past—prologue to my current coffee addiction—but these days, I was a hostess.

Waitress, barista—guess all blue-collar jobs blur together for students who’ve never had to work one.

But could the meme actually threaten my future BleederBoard ranking? Or worse—get back to my professors?

A prickling heat crept up the back of my neck as my thoughts torpedoed into worst-case scenarios.

After class, I sat with Madison outside for lunch. She told me about her family vacation in the Cinque Terre while I nibbled on a bite-sized half-sandwich left over from the Bistro. What a dream. I wasn’t sure which I envied more—the beautiful Italian coastline or the idea of having an actual family to travel with.

“Are you ready for the biology lab next week?” Madison asked, repositioning herself on the grass as she opened her lunch container. “Which lab are you in?”

“I’m in the Monday and Wednesday morning sessions.” I stuffed the sandwich wrapper into the outside pocket of my bag.

“Me too. Want to be lab partners?” She’d read my mind.
“Hopefully you’ll reverse my losing streak. My last partner at Coronado hooked up with my high school boyfriend. We had a major falling out after that.”

It was the first flicker of aggression I’d seen in her expression—but just as quickly, it melted away with the passing breeze. Something told me I wouldn’t want to end up on her bad side.

Biology lab required each of us to choose a lab partner. While one of the more studious classmates might have been a better match, I wasn’t exactly exchanging friendship bracelets with anyone. I couldn’t quite figure out why Madison was being so nice to me. Maybe it was because I had tutored her in high school, or maybe she was just the rare kind-natured anomaly in this pool of competitive sharks. Either way, I needed a friendly ally, and she was offering.

“Sure.” I replied, brushing my fingers through the soft grass.

 “The TAs, two sophomores, have nicknames—Dr. Zayn and Dr. Niall.”

I raised an eyebrow. “As in the boy band, One Direction?” My Coronado Prep acapella group had kept me up to date on millennial boy bands. “What is this, prep school all over again?”

“Prep school on steroids,” she half-joked. “A lot of students just got their trust funds when they turned 18 this year, and now they’re acting next-level crazy. I’ve even nicknamed my school crush ‘Harry Styles.’”

“Who’s that?” I asked, lifting my sunglasses to the sun as a breeze played with my ponytail.

“Quinn Ozler, of course.” She grinned sheepishly.

“As in the Ozler family? They have descendants here?”

“Oh, yes. Not only is he a legacy, but he looks nothing like his great-grandfather, Abraham Ozler. Thank goodness!” She laughed as we packed up our things and headed back to class.

As I slowed my pace back to class, I reached into my backpack and noticed a small blue hourglass taped to an index card, half-sticking out of the outer pocket.

“Your days are numbered—like mother, like daughter.”

My thoughts spiraled backward, retracing every moment I’d left my backpack unattended—Lecture Hall. By my locker. The cafeteria during lunch.

Multiple people.

Multiple chances.

Someone was stalking me.

Someone who knew my mother.

The Barfista hype evaporated—well, almost.

I would find out who this was.

But now, I was on the clock.

And each day was just another grain of sand slipping through the cracks.

***