Page 7 of How I Ruined Everything by Kissing My Roommate

“Nonsense, Iris,” Dr. Alvarez said, unmoved. “You’re both brilliant students. Work together, please. Now move.”

I glowered and hauled my chair over, dragging it with a painful screech across the linoleum until I was forced to sit next to Sophie. Our knees were close enough to brush, and the accidental proximity was a violation of all the terms of our Cold War.

“Relax, Hart,” Sophie murmured, flipping open her notebook—which, to my shock, was already highlighted and annotated. “I promise I won’t contaminate your precious GPA. What side do you want? I can handle the ‘Capitulation’ stance.”

I snatched a copy of the reading list from the table. "I’ll handle the entire argument, thanks. I assume I’ll be doing the heavy lifting since you were too busy at practice to do the assigned reading."

Sophie didn't smile. Her eyes—that startling blue—met mine, suddenly devoid of their usual easy amusement.

"Performance of Femininity as a Shield," she stated, her voice sharp and serious, quoting verbatim. "'A woman's strategic display of hyper-femininity is not a sign of surrender to the patriarchy, but a calculated camouflage, an 'unassuming' vessel to carry a subversive intellect.'—That’s Butler, page 87. And I'm arguing it. I find it deeply reductive to assume that competence only comes in a hoodie."

My mouth, for the first time in our acquaintance, snapped shut. She read the text. And she quoted it.

"Don't sound so surprised, Hart," she continued, leaning in just enough that I could smell the faint, clean scent of her soap—not sweat, not perfume, just clean. "Just because I spend my life being looked at doesn't mean I haven't studied why I'm being looked at."

The intellectual spike of attraction was a physical jolt, hotter and more terrifying than the physical attraction itself. The "vapid" label I'd slapped on her slid off like cheap paint. She's smart. She’s challenging. She’s everything I claim to want but wrapped in the packaging I desperately fear.

I shook my head. This was just another part of her show. She was a good liar.

When we were called to present, the air in the room grew charged.

"The Shield is fundamentally a self-imposed limitation," I stated, my tone even and academic. "It’s a costume that makes the individual easily consumable. By choosing to embody the 'cute girl in the ponytail,' you become easily digestible for the structure you claim to fight. You are giving away immediate power by playing on the visual field. That is capitulation, dressed up as strategy."

Sophie faced the class, but her body language—shoulders squared, arms loosely folded—was aimed at me. "Power is adaptation, Iris. The world always looks. Femininity is a visual field we're forced to operate in, whether we wear a dress or a hoodie. The Shield argues that since you cannot escape the looking, you must control the interpretation."

"Interpretation doesn't equal control," I countered instantly. "It's a rationalization for conforming. The minute you rely on being 'unexpected,' you've conceded the baseline assumption that you should be underestimated. You waste energy on presentation that should be spent on performance."

Sophie's eyes narrowed slightly, acknowledging the strength of the point. "And you waste energy on being prickly. My argument is that the Shield provides an 'unassuming vessel' for subversive action, as Butler suggests. It's a strategy of survival. For instance," she continued, her voice dropping a fraction, "I am able to get funding for my all-women soccer clinic because I present as the harmless, golden girl captain, not the aggressive revolutionary. I use their assumption against them."

I pressed the attack, driving the point toward her personal life. "And what about personal performance? You're playing to the expectations of a specific audience. That doesn’t challenge the norm but supports it. You’re trying to act like everyone else around you, to play the roles that are socially acceptable instead of the ones that are true. Isn’t that the role women have been subjugated to for years.”

There was a personal agenda under my argument. She’s brought her boyfriend to the party despite confessing her disinterest in men. And it made me uncomfortable that she was unexpectedly smart.

“The shield can be honest too. The choice to dress a certain wat to leave a certain impression, is still a choice. On the contrary, you assuming I’m a dumb jock because of the way I dress proves my point. That’s how powerful the shield is. Even an intellectual like you is unable to look beyond first impressions. Why shouldn’t women use it to their advantage?”

I inhaled sharply as Dr. Alvarez smiled, my weakness out in the open. She had argued well, pointing out my own prejudice to me. And she’d maintained her composure perfectly, however, before delivering her final strike. I felt cornered.

“That was a good debate,” Dr. Alvarez said as the bell rang. “Good point, Sophie.”

My blonde roommate beamed, making my heart skip a beat. I turned away, slightly nervous and miffed. I realized, with a sickening mix of defeat and the thrill of having been truly challenged, that I had failed to take her down. Instead, she had seen through my academic argument, identified the source of my hostility, and used it to land a devastating, personal counterblow.

I hadn't just lost the debate. I had just lost control of the war.

As we went back to our seats, Sophie said. “It’s good to hear your voice, finally.” I blinked, realizing she was referencing our cold war. Her blue eyes met mine and I felt winded from walking two steps. “I thought you’d lost it.”

“Oh, I very much have a voice,” I replied. “And you might be hearing a lot more of it during the debate.”

She smiled, never taking things I say personally, whic

I realized, with a sickening mix of defeat and thrill, that I was completely, utterly outmatched. Sophie Mercer was not a shallow attention-seeker. She was an intensely focused, frighteningly intelligent woman who saw the entire field.

And now, she saw me. And I loved it.

The intimacy of the debate had left me vibrating with a tense, manic energy. By the time I returned to Room 418, I felt utterly exposed and desperate to rebuild my walls. The room was blessedly quiet. Sophie’s side was empty; the assumption was that she was at practice, sweating out her intellectual triumph.

I hauled my chair to the easel, intending to attack a fresh canvas, but I couldn't focus. I needed a witness, a reset button, someone to confirm that I was right to hate Sophie Mercer.

I sent Maya a frantic text: EMERGENCY. Code: Yellow Cadium. Bring wine.