Under The Umbrella

Chapter Four: Tutors & Butterflies

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Weeks robbed by.

That’s how it felt.

One minute it was 1:54pm and Cassie was saying _Start from the beginning_. The next it was three weeks later and Josie was still trying to deal with Cassie’s excessive season.

Excessive. Relentless. _Unhinged_.

Because Cassie did not let it go.

Not the umbrella. Not the collapse. Not the _two packs of noodles with egg_. Not the _Hydrate_. Especially not the _Hydrate_.

Cassie brought it up every day. At breakfast. “You hydrating, Miss Amazon Package?” At night. “Orwell Ferguson, o. The noodle pastor.” In the middle of lectures she’d text: _Did you remember to breathe today or you need your landlord to count it for you?_

It was too much.

So Josie did something stupid again.

She started skipping classes.

Because she did not know how to face him again.

It was irrational. She knew it was irrational. FUTA was massive. Thousands of students. The odds of running into Orwell Ferguson between LT1 and the library were slim. Astronomical, even.

But her brain didn’t care about odds.

Her brain said: _What if you turn a corner and he’s there? What if he sees you and asks about your water intake? What if he scans you again? What if you cough?_

So she stopped going.

It started with one lecture. _Just today. I’m tired._ Then two. _The rain looks bad._ Then a week. _I’ll catch up._

Now it was 10:23am on a Tuesday and Josie was home.

Alone.

Cassie had thermo. 8am to 11am. Three hours of freedom.

The dorm was quiet. Too quiet. You could hear the ceiling fan wobble. You could hear the neighbors arguing about stolen milk two doors down.

Josie was on the floor.

Back against her bed. Knees pulled up. Bouncing Cassie’s ball off the wall.

_Thud. Catch. Thud. Catch._

It was an old basketball. Faded orange. Cassie used it for stress. Said dribbling helped her think through fluid mechanics. Josie used it to avoid thinking at all.

_Thud. Catch._

She was denying it.

That was the problem.

She was denying the fact that this guy she just met had an effect on her.

It wasn’t a crush. God no. It couldn’t be. He was _weird_. He forgot umbrellas. Diagnosed allergies. Fed her like a stray and dismissed her like a delivery.

But.

She remembered the way he moved in the kitchen. Precise. Silent. Like he’d rehearsed it.

She remembered _Hydrate_. Said with his eyes on the steering wheel. Like it mattered.

She remembered the scan. Clinical. Anticipatory. Like he was _waiting_ for something.

And she hated that she remembered.

_Thud._

The ball slipped. Rolled under Cassie’s bed at 10:24am.

Josie didn’t go after it.

She just sat there. Staring at the black umbrella propped in the corner of the room.

It hadn’t moved in three weeks.

Neither had she.

---

Josie lasted two more days.

Two days of _thud, catch_. Two days of instant noodles and Cassie’s voice in her head: _Orwell Ferguson, o. The noodle pastor._ Two days of checking her phone like Dr. Adekunle would email _Attendance is mandatory or die_.

He didn’t email.

He did worse.

Friday. 9:04am.

Josie was on the floor again. Dorm goblin mode. Hair in a bun. Oversized FUTA shirt. Staring at the ceiling fan like it owed her money.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She ignored it.

It buzzed again.

And again.

_Fine._

She answered. “Hello?”

“Josie Adebayo?”

Her stomach dropped.

It was Mrs. Funke. The department secretary. Voice like a filing cabinet. “You are to report to Dr. Adekunle’s office. Now. EEB 301.”

“Why—”

_Click._

Josie sat up at 9:05am.

_No. No no no._

But she went.

Because Mrs. Funke didn’t ask. Mrs. Funke _summoned_.

EEB 301 smelled like old textbooks and disappointment. Dr. Adekunle was at his desk. Balding. Glasses. Marking scripts with a red pen that had seen war.

He didn’t look up. “Adebayo. You’ve missed six lectures.”

Josie opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

“Seven,” he said. “Including today.”

Her throat was dry. _Hydrate,_ her brain whispered. _Shut up,_ she told it.

Dr. Adekunle finally looked at her. Over his glasses. “This is Engineering Thermodynamics II. Not kindergarten. People fail this course.”

“I know, sir. I’m sorry. I’ve been—”

“Sick,” he finished. “Yes. Your attendance sheet says otherwise. It says absent.”

Josie stared at the floor....