Paper Promises

The knock on your door comes at 11:47 PM, which is either an emergency or a booty call, and you're not sure which one you're hoping for.

You're still in your pajama pants. An old band t-shirt with a hole in the armpit. Your hair's a nest because you gave up on being a person around hour six of studying for a midterm you're probably going to fail. The knock comes again, sharper this time. Three quick raps. Impatient.

You open the door.

Stela stands in the hallway of your dorm, and she looks like she just walked out of a warzone. Not metaphorically. There's actual dirt smeared across her cheekbone, a fresh scrape on her forearm, and she's wearing that same leather jacket you've seen her in three times now, patched at the elbow with duct tape and what looks like actual stitching, the kind you'd do with a needle and thread if you were, say, surviving the apocalypse instead of studying for Intro to Psych.

She's also holding a paper bag that smells like grease and salvation.

"You look like shit," she says.

"Hi to you too."

"Can I come in or are you gonna make me stand in the hallway like a fucking weirdo?" She doesn't wait for an answer. She's already pushing past you, her shoulder brushing yours, and you catch the smell of her. Smoke. Sweat. Something metallic underneath, like she's been working with her hands. She drops the bag on your desk, kicks off her boots, and collapses onto your bed like she owns the place.

Which she kind of does, at this point. You've known her for three weeks, and she's been in your room more than your roommate has.

"Brought food," she says, gesturing at the bag. "You're welcome."

You close the door. "What is it?"

"Don't ask questions. Just eat."

You open the bag. Two burgers, fries, and a milkshake. The good kind, from the place off campus that charges way too much. You look at her. She's staring at your ceiling, her braid coming loose, dark hair spilling across your pillow.

"This is like twenty bucks of food," you say.

"So?"

"So, you told me last week you were living off ramen and dumpster bread."

She snorts. "Dumpster bread. That's a good one. I'm stealing that." She rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. "I had a good day. Don't make it weird."

You don't make it weird. You sit on the floor with your back against the bed, unwrap a burger, and take a bite. It's perfect. Greasy and salty and exactly what you needed at midnight on a Tuesday when your brain is fried and your stomach's been growling for hours.

Stela watches you eat. She has this way of looking at people, like she's cataloging them. Noting weaknesses. Calculating angles. You've noticed it before, the way her green eyes flick around a room, tracking exits and threats. You asked her about it once, and she said she grew up in a bad neighborhood. You didn't push.

"You're not eating," you say.

"I ate earlier."

"You're a terrible liar."

"I'm a fantastic liar. You're just too smart for me." She grins, and it's crooked, one side of her mouth higher than the other. "Fine. Give me half."

You hand her the other burger. She takes a bite, and for a second, she looks almost soft. Almost normal. Then it's gone, and she's back to being Stela, sharp edges and wary eyes.

"So," she says, mouth full. "I need a favor."

"Of course you do."

"Don't be like that. I brought food."

"You brought food so you could ask for a favor. That's transactional."

"Everything's transactional, babe." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "That's the first rule of survival."

You've heard her say things like this before. Survival. Like she's not just a college student scraping by on part-time jobs and questionable life choices. Like she's something else entirely. You don't know what her deal is. She showed up in your life three weeks ago at a party you didn't want to go to, and she was the only interesting person there. You talked for four hours. She told you she was a scavenger, and you thought she was being edgy. Then she pulled out a screwdriver and fixed the host's broken speaker system in ten minutes, and you stopped thinking she was being anything other than exactly what she said she was.

"What's the favor?" you ask.

She sets the burger down. Sits up. Crosses her legs, and now she's serious. The shift is sudden, like a door slamming shut.

"I need you to be my girlfriend."

You choke on a fry. "What?"

"Not for real. Fake. For like, a month. Maybe two." She's not joking. Her face is stone. "There's a guy. He's been sniffing around, trying to get me to work for him. He's persistent. And he's got this thing about people being unattached. Thinks it makes them desperate. Easy to manipulate."

"And you want me to pretend to date you so he'll leave you alone?"

"I want you to pretend to date me so he'll think I have something to lose. Someone who'd notice if I disappeared." She says it matter-of-factly, but there's something underneath. Something tight. "It's a bluff. A good one. He'll back off if he thinks I've got ties."

You should say no. This is insane. You're a nineteen-year-old college student with a midterm on Thursday and a student loan debt that already keeps you up at night. You don't need to get tangled up in whatever this is. Whatever world Stela actually lives in, the one she only hints at with scraped knuckles and late-night visits and a backpack full of tools that don't make sense for a normal person.

But you're also curious. You've been curious since the moment you met her.

"Why me?" you ask.

"Because you're normal," she says. "You're a civilian. You've got a dorm room and a meal plan and a face that doesn't look like it's been in a fight. He'll believe it."

"Thanks. I think."

"It's a compliment." She leans forward. "Look. I wouldn't ask if I had another option. I don't. You help me out, I owe you. And I pay my debts."

"What kind of debts are we talking about?"

She smiles, and it's not a nice smile. It's the smile of someone who's been keeping score her whole life. "The kind that matter."

You should say no. You should tell her to find someone else. You should finish your burger and go to bed and forget this conversation ever happened.

Instead, you say, "What do I have to do?"

Stela's eyes light up. Just for a second. Then she's all business again.

"Nothing complicated. We hang out. We act like a couple. He'll see us together, he'll draw his own conclusions. I'll handle the rest."

"That's it?"

"That's it." She pauses. "There's one more thing."

"Of course there is."

"He's going to test it. He's going to push. See if we're real." She looks at you, and for the first time since she walked in, she looks uncertain. "You might have to, you know. Sell it. Physical stuff. Nothing crazy. Just enough to be convincing."

Your face gets hot. You can feel it. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh." She smirks. "Don't worry. I don't bite. Unless you want me to."

"Stela."

"I'm kidding." She's not, entirely, but you let it go. "So? You in?"

You look at her. This strange, sharp girl with her scavenged clothes and her survival rules and her eyes that miss nothing. She's trouble. You know that. But she's also the most interesting thing that's happened to you in years, and you're not ready to let that go.

"Yeah," you say. "I'm in."

She grins. It's real this time. Bright and crooked and almost happy.

"Good," she says. "Now finish your fries. We start tomorrow."