by Margot Wood
“Thanks, it’s from the Jane Fonda Collection,” he says, and then we settle into one of those nice, awkward silences I hate. He crosses and uncrosses his legs. At least I’m not the only one who’s nervous.
“So, how do you want to do this?” He asks, breaking the silence.
“What do you mean?”
“We could start with a casual, neutral conversation until a few hours go by and we eventually work our way to the real reason why I’m here, or we can skip the foreplay and just jump in, feetfirst.”
“More like headfirst, but sure, let’s shorthand it,” I reply. “What’s the real reason you’re here?”
“To be your friend again.”
I lean against the wall and cross my legs in front of me. I look down at the coffee-oil swirls in my mug. “I don’t know, Micah. How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because I owe you,” he says and then pauses, collecting himself. “And because I’m shutting down the Third-Floor Report.” Whoa. I was not expecting that. I look up at him. He continues, “The day after I went home for break, my dad pulled me into his study. At first I thought he was going to give me his typical Why aren’t you like your brother speech, but then he went to his desk and pulled out a printed copy of my article from The Daily Beacon—the one on the American tuition debt crisis—the one you printed and mailed him before winter break. Elliot, he wanted to tell me how proud he was of my article.” Micah tilts his head back and starts fanning his eyes.
“It’s so weird seeing you have feelings,” I joke because it’s true. This is a side of Micah he has never shared with me before.
“Shut up and let me finish,” he says sweetly. He reaches for a tissue on Lucy’s desk and dabs his eyes before continuing. “Elliot, my dad has never, not once, told me he was proud of me, and he’s been especially angry with me ever since I chose to go to Emerson instead of USC like he and my mom did, like my brother did. So when my father told me he was proud of my article, I felt seen and supported for the first time in a long, long time.”
“That’s great, Micah, honestly,” I tell him. “But I don’t really get how this is about what you did to me and shutting down the Report.”
“Because I owe you. After the thing with my dad, I spent the rest of the break thinking about how much I enjoyed writing that article and how the Third-Floor Report is no longer serving its purpose. I mean, yeah, I love writing about all our trashy lives, a part of me will always love trash, but it isn’t fulfilling me like it used to and it isn’t helping me stand out in the program like the tuition piece did.”
I drink the last of my coffee and set the mug aside. “Here’s what I don’t get: If you’re shutting down the Report, why are you still pumping me for details about that night? How do I know you won’t change your mind next week and post about it then?”
Micah’s face collapses. “Because when Rose told me that what I wrote about you and Kenton was way off base, it made me sick to my stomach. I don’t want to be that kind of journalist and I don’t want to be that kind of friend. So, this is me, taking the extremely long-winded way of saying I’m sorry. I am sorry I said those things and I am sorry for any damage I may have done to your friendship with Lucy.” He finishes talking and takes a huge breath. He wraps one hand across his waist and rests his head in the other. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable before. I came back this semester vowing to find a way to forgive Micah and if I don’t do it now, I never will.
I get off my bed, walk the three steps across the room, climb onto Lucy’s bed, and settle in next to my friend.
“Do you want to know what happened that night?” I ask him quietly.
“Only if you want to tell me,” he says.
“I do.”
So I tell my friend.
And my friend listens.
It’s been three weeks since the second semester started and Lucy and I still haven’t talked. It was rough there those first few days; coming home to utter silence has left me feeling . . . lonely. But I’m doing my best to branch out and make new friends. Brad and I are both in the Storytelling and Writing Short Scripts class and we’ve partnered up for a project. We met a couple of times at the library and together we wrote a script for an animated short based on a hilarious theory Remy concocted about dogs and why they sniff one another’s butts. During the first brainstorm session with Brad, Remy called and I was going to send it to voice mail but Brad insisted on talking to her, so I put Remy on speakerphone and listened while Brad and my little sister came up with this insane story that we then turned into a script. And now, I guess we’re friends—or at least friendship-adjacent.
And as for my other classes? Well, I’m taking another media arts core class, Introduction to Visual Arts, and the other two courses fulfill more of my gen ed requirements—Literary Foundations and Introduction to Ethics. I’m not gonna lie to you, reader, they are bone dry and not as fun as screenwriting, but I am doing everything I can to pay attention and learn.
And I’ve been trying to eat healthier too. Vegetables are still disgusting and kale can go fuck off, but I haven’t touched the cereal bar once—NOT ONCE—in these past three weeks. At first, I wanted to die from sugar withdrawal, but it turns out, if you eat healthier food, you kinda start to feel less like a slug. On Thursdays, both my classes are over by two in the afternoon, so I’ve made a habit of setting up shop in the dining hall after class for lunch and staying through dinner to study.
And that’s where I am now—huddled in the corner of the booth, facing the window, with my hoodie up and my headphones on, as I work on a paper for my Literary Foundations course. But out of the corner of my eye I see a tray slide onto the table. The tray has a bowl of potato and kale soup with a small side salad. I know who eats like that. I pull my headphones off and swivel around to see Lucy standing by the booth holding a second tray of food.
“Can I sit here?” she asks politely.
“Of course,” I reply. Lucy takes a seat opposite me and slides the second tray over to me. On it is a chocolate chip waffle and a bowl of Froot Loops. I almost start crying right then and there but stop myself because I know those tears are reserved for whatever conversation we’re about to have. Lucy reaches for her soup and starts eating while I dig into the waffle.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat real food for dinner,” Lucy says in between sips.
“Why would anyone eat real food when there’s breakfast available 24/7? But also, I had some steamed broccoli, like, four hours ago,” I say tentatively, unsure of the steps to this particular dance. Are we friends? Are we not friends? Are we roommates? Does she still hate me? Every heartbeat feels like a punch in my chest. We eat in silence for a few minutes and when we’ve finished, she looks up at me.
“I spoke with Rose,” she says, pausing to take a breath. She looks uncomfortable, like she too would prefer to pretend the past had never happened. “She told me what really happened with Kenton.”
“Oh” is all I say. I can feel heat creeping up my cheeks, and a rock is working its way to the middle of my throat as another wave of shame washes over me. I can’t look her in the eyes, so I reach for a napkin and start shredding it into tiny pieces. “You know, then?”
“I know. I am so sorry he did that to you,” she says.
“I should have told you right after it happened.”
“Yes, you should have. I spent the entire break blaming you for why Kenton and I broke up. I was so mad at you, Elliot. I hated you.”
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. The truth fucking stings. “That’s why you haven’t been sleeping in the dorms?”
“No,” she says, her voice getting soft again. I look up at her. “I called Rose the day before the semester started to tell her I’d be finishing up the year off campus, and that’s when she told me the truth.”
“Wait, if you knew this whole time, why have you been staying away?”
“Because I am heartbroken!” she cries out. She doesn’t even care that p
eople are looking. “I gave Kenton everything, Elliot. Everything. The Kenton I knew could never do something like this.”
“It’s not just you, Luce—no one saw this coming.”
“Maybe I didn’t know him at all,” she sighs. “Because I can’t stop asking myself the same questions over and over. How could he do this? Why did he do this?”
I start shredding the napkin again. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot too. I know it’s not my fault for what happened after I told him no, but I can’t help think maybe it was me.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“There was something he said that night that I can’t get out of my head. He assumed I’d be open to hooking up with him because of Project Tender Chicken. I dunno, I guess I never thought people might misinterpret my intentions with it—especially at a place like Emerson.”
Lucy shakes her head. “Even if that were true, that wouldn’t give Kenton a pass to do what he did. You can’t let what happened with Kenton stop you from doing what you want.”
“I’m not, I haven’t,” I tell her. I lean back in the booth and look out the window down at the snowy street below us. “I stopped Project Tender Chicken before the Kenton thing, actually. It was fun, but something about it didn’t feel right in the end. I started feeling lonely, like it wasn’t enough. I don’t know, I’m still trying to figure it out.”
“So what happened that night hasn’t put you off sex?” she asks.
“Hell, no!” I say boldly and we both laugh. “I haven’t been with anyone since Thanksgiving, Luce. THANKSGIVING. I’m afraid if I go any longer my lady cave is going to start collecting cobwebs.” Lucy smiles but there’s a hint of sadness behind it. I reach out across the table and hold her hand. “And you? I hope Kenton hasn’t ruined the whole concept of dating and relationships for you.”
She takes a moment to think about it and then says, “No, I don’t think so, but I think next time I have to get to know someone first before I decide to give them my heart. But . . . can I be honest with you?”
“Always.”
“I hate that I miss him. Because I do, I miss him so much,” she says and she starts to cry.
“Maybe you don’t miss Kenton. Maybe what you miss is the relationship, the feeling of belonging to someone and them belonging to you in return.”
“Maybe,” she says through her tears. “But it’s more than that. I’m angry too. Angry that my first time wasn’t meaningful, important, or special. Angry that I won’t be able to look back on my first time without feeling anything but regret that I gave it to someone who tried to rape my best friend.” She finally looks up at me and tears are streaming down her cheeks.
I want to say something, anything that will comfort her, but I am having a hard time processing her experience in all this. I spent so much time assessing my own feelings I forgot that Kenton was Lucy’s first boyfriend. Kenton may have tried to hurt me, but he betrayed her. It’s so easy for me to hate him but it’s so much more complicated for Lucy.
I squeeze her hand. “There’s nothing I can say right now that will make this part of your life fast forward but I wish there was. I would take all this pain away for you, if I could.”
“Thank you,” she says, pulling her hand away from mine and then tucking her hair behind her ears. I slide out of my side of the booth and scooch in next to her. She folds her hands into mine and I rest my head on her shoulders.
“I’m really glad you’re back,” I tell her. “As nice as it is having the room all to myself, it hasn’t been the same without you.”
“Same,” she says and she rests her head against mine and we stay like that for a moment until she lets out a deep, cleansing breath. “I’m relieved to be back, actually.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I can’t stay at home anymore, my mom is driving me insane,” she laughs.
“No way, Carol is a total babe. No one that hot in their forties is allowed to be annoying.”
“And yet, she is!” Lucy jokes. “But I’m serious, I told her and the rest of the family that I am not coming home on the weekends anymore.” I sit up straight and give her a skeptical look.
“Whoa, for real? But your family is so important to you.”
“They still are, but if I am willing to take on this much debt to pay for student housing, I might as well live here and get my money’s worth. I may be the first one in my family to go to college, but in a way I haven’t even left my home yet.”
“I can be your new home,” I say and she smiles.
“You already are.”
She wipes her eyes and her fingers come back smudged black. Lucy reaches across the table and grabs a clean napkin. “Don’t ever buy into the marketing hype. Waterproof mascara is total crap,” she says as she dabs her eyes. I wrap my arms around her waist and squeeze her. “Ugh, Elliot, I thought we practiced this,” she grunts as she wriggles free from my grip. “You’re hugging way too tight. Here, let me show you.” She embraces me and it’s 100 percent pure hot chocolate. I melt into her arms.
“I missed you so fucking much,” I coo lovingly into her hair.
“You know, we’ve only been on a friendship break for, like, a month,” she says.
“I don’t care. Anything longer than a day feels like a lifetime apart from you.” I close my eyes and squeeze Lucy even tighter.
And just like that, I have my best friend back.
* * *
1 Aren’t you so glad you’ve joined me on this journey?
2 I know I’ve only mentioned it in passing but I have ADHD, and not in the casual, problematic way people like to self-diagnose. I am clinically diagnosed and have struggled with it all my life, and yes, prescription medication helps, but it’s not a miracle cure. I don’t like being on meds; they make me feel flat and robotic, which is why during most of high school and all last semester I sold my meds instead of taking them. But I need them and now I’m choosing to be better about taking them.
CHAPTER 14
Most mornings, Lucy and I are gently lured from our dreams by the smooth, nutty aroma of freshly brewed coffee trickling from Lucy’s programmable coffee maker. But this morning, at 2:30 A.M., a mere one week after my life finally returned to normal, we get blasted out of REM sleep by the ear-shattering screech of the fire alarms.
“WHATTHEFUCK?!?” I yell, disoriented by the flashing, red strobe light on our ceiling. I squint over at Lucy but somehow she is still asleep. “Lucy,” I croak to her and when she doesn’t stir, I grab one of the pillows beneath my head and throw it at her from across the room.
“Heyyyy,” she grumbles when it hits her face. “What the hell?” It takes her a second but her brain finally catches up and registers the alarm. She grimaces in pain as she covers her ears.
“Is that the fire alarm?” she shouts.
“Maybe it’s a false alarm? I don’t smell anything,” I yell back. Lucy shrugs sleepily and falls back down on her bed, pulling the comforter over her ears. But a moment later, Rose kicks open our door and smacks the light switch.
“What the fuck are you two still doing in bed?!” Rose shouts at us. Lucy pokes her head out from under the covers while I take a peek to see if Rose is wearing some kind of sexy nightgown or at least something totally bizarre and Rose-ish, but I’m disappointed to discover she’s already dressed in head-to-toe winter gear. Unhappy with our lack of progress, Rose stomps over to Lucy in a huff and rips her blanket off. “GET YOUR ASSES OUT OF BED!”
I glance out the window and gesture to it. “But it’s snowing,” I whine.
Rose closes her eyes and balls her hands into the tiny little murder fists I am so familiar with. “I swear to god, Elliot . . . as soon as I’m done making sure you are safe . . . I am going to kill you.”1 She turns on her heel and stomps from our room to Brad’s room and we hear her start the whole routine again. Lucy is the first to move. She gets out of bed, goes to her dresser, changes into the running outfit she laid out for herself just a few hours a
go, then pulls on the snow boots she always leaves by our door.
“Rose can be a real dick sometimes,” I complain to Lucy as I blindly reach under my bed for something to wear from the fine selection of dirty clothes that have accumulated there. I throw on some boxers and whatever shirt I grab first. I quickly scan the room for my snow boots but my side of the room is a mess and I’m running out of time, so I suck it up and shove my feet into Lucy’s back-up pair even though they are two sizes too small and bedazzled in silver sequins.
We abandon our room and head down the hall toward the line of bleary-eyed freshmen waiting to get into the stairwell. Once in line, Lucy and I glance around and realize we forgot to put on our coats. At least Lucy is in a sweatshirt and tights, I look down and sigh at what I’m wearing: two disco balls on my feet and a long, hot-pink sleep shirt that reads orgasm donor in big block letters across my boobs. Why must I be this way? I often ask myself. Why?
“Do you think I have time to go back and change?”
“Or at least get our coats?” Lucy also suggests but the line behind us pushes us forward and down the stairwell we go. The second I step outside, my teeth start to chatter and my nerps squinch into icicle tips and it looks like I’m smuggling two frozen Hershey’s Kisses under my shirt. I pull my arms inside to help keep warm but cold bursts of wind slip inside.
Lucy and I are separated almost immediately as we’re shoved out of the way by hundreds of pissed-off, under-slept students filing out of the Little Building. I push my way across snowy Boylston Street as I try to find Luce, but I end up running into Micah.
“You look like you just got a massage at a day spa,” I say in regards to the thick, white terry-cloth robe he is wrapped in.
“I did,” he says with a grin and pulls the fluffy robe tighter around his body. “And it came with a happy ending too,” he adds and tilts his head in the direction of a hot guy talking on his phone.
