"Once upon a time, I met the perfect guy. He had that Colgate smile, he had that suit and tie" - Karmin

• • • • •

I peel my face from my laptop keyboard and discover a random shirtless guy on the couch, chowing down on Cocoa Puffs and laughing at Tom and Jerry on the TV. He looks familiar, and could possibly be one of the guys I saw Effy at the bar with last night.

"Good morning!" he chirps.

"Morning," I mumble in reply. "You're with Effy, right?"

"Yeah, something like that," he chuckles, scooping another spoonful into his mouth.

"What time is it?" I say, squinting at the corner of my laptop.

"Quarter 'til eight," shirtless guy responds, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"Shit!" I yelp, racing to the bathroom.

I take the quickest shower of my life, leap into my clothes, do my hair and makeup in record time and am out the door before Effy even wakes up.

"Hey, could you pick up some more milk when you come back?" shirtless guy calls out as I shut the door.

Even in my rush, I can't help but laugh. Effy sure knows how to pick 'em.

I almost miss my train to school but slide through the closing doors just in time. Finding an empty seat between an elderly man and a polished business woman, I plop down and finally get a chance to catch my breath. My phone dings in my pocket and I pull it out to see a text from an unknown number.

Hope your homework went okay. Have a good day .xx

My homework! I boot up my computer, almost too afraid to open the photoshop document to see whether I made any progress last night. I exhale with relief, gazing proudly at my finished project. That explains why I stayed up so late.

Now for the other mystery, who is the sender of this text? I have about twelve contacts on my phone. It's a rare occurrence for any of them to text me, and even more rare for someone I don't know to text me.

Then my memory begins to clear up. Last night at the subway station, Harry asked for my number. I was so sure it was out of pity; I didn't think I'd actually hear from him. To be honest, I didn't want to.

It's not like I'm not attracted to Harry. I'm very much attracted to Harry, everything from his irresistible dimples to his tangly brown hair to his scruffy, low voice.

That's the whole problem. He's too damn attractive.

No guy like him is ever interested in a girl like me without some sort of catch, and I don't want to stick around to find out what the catch is. It's like the saying goes, if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.

I start to type a response but immediately decide against it. Maybe if I don't say anything back, he'll think he's got the wrong number.

In Color Theory class, it's hard to stay focused with a growling stomach as my professor lectures about pigmentation and hues. I'm not used to skipping meals but I should've at least grabbed a banana from the counter on the way out this morning.

During my break between classes, I make a beeline to the cafeteria and load up my tray with clam chowder, slices of sour dough and other delicious looking veggies. The tables are filled with students but I prefer to sit off to the side by myself. It gives me time to catch up on homework if I need to, sketch design ideas, or listen to my iPod. I can't do any of that if someone is with me.

As I plug my headphones in, Stanford and Ara place their trays down at a table close by. I pretend not to notice them as they entangle themselves and play tongue hockey. This is a university cafeteria, not your bedroom, I think to myself. People are trying to eat, jeez.

I hit the shuffle button and Acapella by Karmin pulses into my ears. I slather my bread with butter and dip it in my soup. "You and me are through though, watch me hit it solo, I'ma do it acapella," I mouth along.

Ara giggles obnoxiously, practically jello in Stanford's arms while he whispers something in her ear.

I turn up the volume on my iPod.

"Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh, I'ma do it acapella."

My second class is a breeze. Most days in Design Principles 102 feels like kindergarten. There's a lot of cutting, construction paper, and glue. Of course, we have to write essays explaining the message we're trying to convey or how we utilized the principles of design, but aside from that, it's the most hands-on class I'm taking.

Plus the instructor, Montrose, is quite a character. From the first day, he insisted that we call him by his first name. He always takes us on interesting field trips, and sometimes he'll bring one of his exotic pets with him.

"Don't forget, the figure-ground project is due this Thursday!" Montrose announces near the end of class. "Original pieces only, please. Do not photocopy them, do not email them. You will receive no credit and you will cry. And I will cry. And my toucan will cry."

He saunters around the room, nodding and making occasional quirky remarks about a student's work. "How intriguing," he says when he gets to my desk. He picks up my project and holds it an arm's length, tilting his head a bit.

His eyes focus on my creation for a minute, then they shift over to me. "Jules, I have something that you might be interested in."

He pulls something from his desk drawer and returns with a postcard in his hand. It's glossy with crisp, white letters on a geometric background, reading London Studios: the leading agency in graphic design.

"They've asked me to recruit candidates for their internship program, and I'd like to refer you," he says.

"Internship?!" I gasp. I didn't expect to even think about internships until my second or third year at UADL.

"I know it's still early in your education but I think you should at least submit an application and portfolio. Who knows? They might let you in early."

"Internship..." I whisper again.

"I'm not trying to force you into anything," he assures. "but London Studios is a massive name in design. Grad students kill each other for an opportunity to work there."

"Thanks, Montrose," I say gratefully. "But why me?"

He slides the postcard to me with an encouraging smile. "You have something unique to offer, Jules. I think they'll be quite impressed by you."

As I sit on the subway after school, I stare down at the London Studios postcard, rubbing the edges with my fingers until they become frayed and flimsy. It hasn't left my hand or my mind since Montrose gave it to me earlier today.

Even as I'm cleaning up popcorn crumbs underneath theater seats this evening, all I can think about is the internship. My boss nags at me for something again but my mind is too far gone to register what he says.

Later that night, I shut off my laptop after doing a bit of homework and get ready for bed. As I lay down, I pick up the postcard from my nightstand and stare at it once more.

"Internship," I murmur, smiling to myself, before yawning and switching off the lamp.

Notes