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“Okay, fine. So we make it clear you get the final say. You’re basically choosing a boyfriend, so hopefully, you’re the winner in the end.” She taps her lips the way she does when she’s thinking. “We start by picking through everyone who signs up, whittling that initial group down to two finalists. Then you choose the guy you wanna sleep with. Like our own version of The Bachelorette, but instead of a proposal at the end, you get your card punched.”

I roll my eyes at her weak attempt at humor, still unconvinced about her far-fetched plan. “I don’t know.”

“I wasn’t finished.” Her grin widens. “We play this in rounds. Round one happens exclusively on campus. The guys can buy you lunch, walk you to class, stuff like that. If they make it to the next round, they get to take you on a chaperoned date.”

I laugh. “And who’ll chaperone us? You?”

“Maybe?” She shrugs. “I haven’t gotten that far yet. But I figured you’d be more comfortable with no kissing or touching until at least round three. And absolutely no sex until the end. That way we can weed out the jerks who only entered to get laid. By the time we get to the last two, we’ll come up with—oh!” Nicole’s eyes stretch wide.

I’m almost afraid to ask. “What?”

“The final round is the spring formal!”

“That’s less than two months away.” I shake my head. There’s no way we can pull this whole thing off in that short a span of time. “That gives me less than two months to find the perfect guy and seal the deal.”

“If we stretch it out beyond that, we risk running into finals.”

“Good point. So you’re suggesting I go to the spring formal with two guys?”

“Yes! And you announce the winner at the end of the night! Sort of like the prom scene in She’s All That. It’s perfect. And we all know what happens after prom.” Nicole waggles her eyebrows.

“You’re ridiculous. Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“According to Jeremy, I watch way too many John Hughes movies and bad reality TV. Besides, I feel guilty. I lost the list. I owe you to at least make this process as painless as possible.”

“I have a feeling it’ll hurt in more ways than one.” I shudder at the thought.

“Come on, Kennedy. This is all my fault. At least let me make up for it. I’ll take care of everything.”

Famous last words.

12

When I reach the dining hall Monday morning, there’s a line forming outside, and Nicole’s standing front and center, taking down names on an actual clipboard.

We stayed up late ironing out all the details of the new plan. Under Nicole’s supervision, @GetLaidList now has its own dedicated social media account, hopefully diverting the attention from the original post. So far, my nameless, faceless nemesis has managed to thwart any attempt to uncover their identity, but as of this morning, our account has 237 followers and climbing.

“Driver’s license.” Nicole holds out her hand to the brawny football player in front of her.

He pulls his wallet from his back pocket, and I swear, his biceps are as big around as my waist. If the rest of him’s that big . . .

A fist tightens around my stomach, stealing my appetite.

Nicole scribbles down his information and snaps a picture of him with her phone.

“Next?” Despite her bored tone, the sparkle in her eyes says she’s loving every minute.

Since she was the one who lost the list, Nicole has accepted full responsibility for her elaborate game show plan, leaving me with the simple task of picking the winner.

I choke out a laugh. As if picking the perfect guy is the easy part.

“There you are!” Nicole’s excitement is contagious as she hooks her arm through mine and pulls me aside. “I wasn’t entirely sure you’d show up this morning.”

Eyeing the growing line of guys, I force a toothy grin. “And miss all this?”

“A little less teeth.” She elbows me in the ribs. “You’re trying to attract guys, not repel them.”

Assuming I even want to attract any of these guys—particularly the muscle-bound meatheads. Keep it together, Kennedy. You’re playing along, remember? “What’s the tally?”