The grade hit the portal at four-oh-five. A big, fat red F glared back at her.

It did not come as a surprise to her because she did not write anything.

Cheryl just slumped back in her dorm chair, one leg thrown over the arm, cherry popsicle in her mouth. The cold juice dripped down her fingers onto the bare skin of her thigh. Sticky, warm, slow. Her hand twitched, dragging lightly along the slickness, brushing her inner thigh without thinking. The way it felt made her shiver. She ...