Over the Fence Box Set

by Aarons, Carrie

  I bite my bottom lip until I almost draw blood, and suffer out the rest of this ride from hell with fat, ugly tears rolling down my cheeks.

  1

  Miles

  I can’t believe I fucking got roped into this. I hate dancing. I hate getting up early even more.

  Walking through the Theater Arts building, I’m so fucking lost and late it’s not even funny. This building is like one big giant clusterfuck of weird thespians and dancing freaks, and I feel the need to cup my balls tight before I even enter the next wing of classrooms. You know, to make sure they don’t disappear in a cloud of fairy dust.

  My asshat fraternity brothers nominated me as this year’s contestant in Dancing with the Greeks, the campus’s version of a bragging rights competition. Everyone wants to win the Mount Olympus Trophy. Everyone, that is, except for me.

  I want to be the best damn baseball player this college has ever seen, crack multiple beers as soon as it hits three o’clock, light a bowl, and find me a hot fucking one-night-stand. But apparently, I’ve been doing too much of that recently, as noted by my current predicament. Someone doesn’t like it, and my actions have landed me here.

  Last week I accidentally broke another chair and three “treasured” pledge class plaques at the Kappa Eta Sigma house. Apparently, this isn’t the first time. I swear I can’t remember the other destruction I’ve caused …

  Plus, Owen has been handing me my ass every time he sees me. Trying to “talk.” He threatens all kinds of things, but as long as I keep performing on the field, I know he won’t report me to anyone.

  But the Kappa Sigs, they’ve had enough. They nominated my ass for this tutu competition, telling me if I don’t do it, I’ll be kicked out.

  I’m a legacy, expulsion from the frat would be tantamount to social suicide. Not to mention I wouldn’t ever be allowed back for those kick-ass parties.

  But the main reason I accepted the punishment? Charles Farriston would never let me hear the end of it if I ceased to be a Kappa Sig. Just another failure his son would present him with.

  So here I am. Trying to find the rehearsal room, and my partner for the six-week competition, at nine thirty on a Saturday morning in October in this godforsaken mystery of a building.

  I stop a guy in an old-school page-boy costume. “Uh yeah, ’scuse me? Can you tell me where room 602 is?”

  He flips his gaze my way, and I see his eyes widen in appreciation as he does a slow head-to-toe sweep of my body. I slouch into myself a little, uncomfortable with this dude’s gaze trailing over my junk. I like gay dudes just fine, but it doesn’t mean this whole thing isn’t incredibly awkward.

  “Sure, big guy. Just down that hall, hang a left and it’ll be the first room on your right.” He points in front of him, and I swivel my head to assess his directions.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Anytime, hunk.” The guy winks at me and places his newsboy cap on his head. I can feel his eyes checking out my ass as I make my way down the hall in the other direction.

  I follow his instructions and stop outside the designated classroom. Finally. You’d think this place was the Labyrinth or something.

  I’m about to grab the handle and turn it to walk into the room, but a flash of movement catches my eye. I pause, creeping on the person who I assume is my partner, flitting around the room.

  She’s tall, for a girl, and elegantly thin with a killer ass. Or at least that’s what I can see from here. She has long, shiny black hair that swings in a ponytail down her back. Besides that, I can make out her legs, toned and long. Legs that would look mighty fine wrapped around a man’s waist. Preferably my waist. Hey, if I have to do this thing, there might as well be benefits.

  I can make out the lilt of a song, something slow but with an up-tempo beat. Fast enough to dance to, but not something they’d ever play at any of the bars I frequent.

  And that’s what she’s doing. Dancing. But using that word doesn’t do justice to how she’s moving her body.

  It’s more likes she’s floating, her toes barely skimming the floor before she pushes off for the next move, dip or turn. Her arms are like the branches of a weeping willow tree; elegant and beautiful in their movement but strong as steel underneath. Her back bends in ways not natural to a human, and when she does one of those leap things, it looks like her legs might snap off of her body. But they don’t. She controls them, not even making a sound as she lands.

  It’s hard to catch my breath as I watch her. She’s good. She’s more than good. I can tell she feels about dancing how I feel about baseball, and I haven’t even met her yet.

  I probably shouldn’t be standing here, infringing on her private moment. It suddenly feels wrong. But I can’t stop. Watching her puts this feeling in my chest, and I haven’t had a feeling in the husk that is now my heart in probably a year and a half. Ever since my goddamn ex dumped me like the miserable pile of shit I now am.

  Maybe this competition isn’t going to be so bad after all. On one hand, my partner is sexy. I mean I haven’t seen her face yet, but I could just tell. And on the other, she’s a damn good dancer. If I can actually win this thing, the frat brothers will worship at my feet. We’ve never won the Mount Olympus Trophy.

  Not wanting to be any later than I already am, and feeling a little bad for interrupting her solo performance, I push into the classroom.

  The ancient wood door makes a creaking noise, announcing my arrival. Mystery Partner completes the turn she’s spun her body into, and when she comes around to face me, the most brilliant smile I’ve ever seen is gracing her extremely full, cherry-colored lips.

  And then it promptly vanishes.

  “Wha … what are you doing here?” The girl scowls, her body almost flinching as she backs up a couple of steps before she bumps into the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall.

  And then I realize who she is. Chloe.

  Minka’s happy-go-lucky best friend. The girl I chewed out a year ago at the Freeboro Fair. Chloe.

  “You’re …you’re my partner? For Dancing with the Greeks?” I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “You’re my competition partner? No …” she whispers the last part almost to herself, and I see something cloud her violet-colored eyes. Is that fear I see in them? What the fuck?

  “There has got to be some kind of mistake. Are you even old enough to be here? I mean you can’t be in a sorority. Seriously?” Great. Another chance to make things right with this girl and this is how I start off.

  It’s not that I have something against her. I even think she’s hot. But something about her Miss Mary Sunshine Act always pisses me off. It’s more than I can handle these days. I remember when I used to be like that. Happy and carefree. Goofy. Maybe that’s why I can’t fucking stand her.

  Not to mention something about her just reeks of entitlement. She knows she’s perfect, and she definitely doesn’t hesitate to give off the vibe that she knows it. I’ve dealt with enough of that from my raving narcissist ex, thank you very much.

  She looks like she might cry from my comment. Ah, shit.

  “I’m a freshman. Pledged Zeta Phi Zeta earlier in the year. I was picked to dance, because well, it’s my major. But don’t worry, you won’t have to dance with me. I’ll talk to the coordinators. I’ll drop out.”

  She says these words in a hurried monotone voice while collecting her bag, sneakers, and water bottle off of the hardwood floor. She doesn’t even bother to change out of her dance shoes—I think they call them pointe shoes—before all but running to the exit.

  And with that, she’s scurrying out the door, trying to get away from me as fast as she possibly can.

  Part of me is glad I won’t have to put up with her cheery personality for the next six weeks. The other part of me knows I’ve just royally screwed myself. Where the hell am I going to find another partner?

  2

  Chloe

  College is everything I thought it would be. And more.

  Th
e elite-level dance program Grover University boasts about is teaching me more than I could have ever thought possible. In the last week, I’ve executed ten grand jetés in my ballet techniques course, and landed them flawlessly. Previously, I could get the extension, but I’d come down from the seriously hard turn sounding like an elephant was stomping on the studio floor, crooked and haggard in my positioning.

  Minka and I get to eat lunch together almost three times a week after our class together, Sociology of Sexuality. I personally enjoy watching her ears turn pink with embarrassment for an hour every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. That girl is having more sex than me and she is still so prude when talking about it.

  I pledged Zeta Phi Zeta during the last week of August, otherwise known as Rush Week, and gotten in. Besides the silly and sometimes annoying tasks during Hell Week, it has been going great so far. I moved into the house where forty other girl lived, and it fills the gap in my heart that has since been empty with homesickness.

  It’s the one thing I’ve been having a hard time with. Missing home. And especially my family. My big, loud, obnoxious Italian family. I love living in the Zeta house, mainly because it reminds me of our restaurant in Mitchum—people always running around, wielding utensils or notebooks, yapping about this or that. It restores a certain order to my life that I’ve become accustomed to.

  Well, I guess technically that isn’t the only hard thing about coming to Grover. Yes, I’ve always dreamed of coming here and had nearly shattered my mother’s extremely expensive Italian wineglasses with the shriek I let out when the acceptance letter came in the mail.

  But in all of my dreams as a little girl, none of them included having to avoid a very angry Miles Farriston on campus.

  Sure, I knew in the back of my mind when I applied here that this was his school. I’d even highlighted that fact as a positive before he reamed me out last year.

  But now, jeez. I’m like a ninja spy, trying to avoid all the places I thought he would be. I don’t need one of his infamous tongue lashings again.

  But it’s pretty hard to dodge the best friend of the boy your best friend is hopelessly in love with.

  So far, I’ve done an exceptionally good job. I don’t make trips with Minka to the boys’ house. I stay in my social scene with the sorority sisters on the weekends. And the number one no-go zone? The athletic fields. I stay far away from those.

  It’s just my luck that the one place I bump into Miles is the one place that is basically my sanctuary on campus. And to think I was so excited to be chosen as this year’s Zeta contestant for Dancing with the Greeks. Now I’m going to have to drop out, or beg someone in the house to trade places with me. Because no way am I putting myself in the path of Hurricane Miles.

  That’s what Minka and Owen have taken to calling him lately. I have to agree, it’s fitting.

  And speaking of the lovebirds. Minka and Owen make their way across Grover Grub, the café-like eatery on campus where I eat almost every meal. When your father is a world-class chef, campus slop isn’t going to cut it.

  The two are lost in their bubble of romance, and people around the café are turning to stare. Not that Minka and Owen notice this. When they’re together, it’s as if the world around them disappears.

  Not that I’m not extremely happy for my best friend, especially after all the stuff she had to put up with in high school. But I can feel the twinge of jealousy in my chest. I want what they have, and badly. Sure, I’ve had boyfriends. But I’ve never found that all-consuming, can’t eat, can’t sleep kind of love.

  Minka plops down in the other chair seated at my table, and Owen bends down to envelop her lips in a steamy kiss. I feel like a voyeur, and after a few seconds, I cough uncomfortably to get them to stop.

  “Later, bucs,” Owen addresses me by the nickname he’s given me, breaks off the kiss with his girlfriend, and heads out of the Grub. Minka gazes after him.

  “You two are perfect.” I sigh into my Waldorf salad. Yes, it’s true, we ballerinas eat like mice. I have a dream and I’m achieving it, even if it means sparing myself of Mama’s gnocchi in vodka sauce. Okay, maybe I eat two or three bites when she makes it.

  “No, we aren’t.” She rolls her eyes. “Half the time I’m scolding him for some arrogant, but charming, comment he makes. The other half, he’s trying to talk me out of my clothes.”

  “But you love each other.”

  “Yes, Chlo, but I’ve told you many, many times. Your idea of love is not a reality. Life isn’t a romance novel,” Minka says in as gentle a voice as possible, and I know she doesn’t mean to sound harsh, but it still stings.

  “Yes, Mrs. Love Expert. Anyway, I have some interesting news for you.” I push the salad around my plate, not making eye contact with her. She’s not going to like this.

  “And what’s that?” Minka tries to stick her face under mine, but her mass of curls gets caught on my lip gloss, causing me to laugh. I don’t know what I’d do if she weren’t here with me. We’ve been inseparable since the first grade.

  “Guess who my partner for Dancing with the Greeks is? You’ll seriously never guess.”

  Minka’s eyes daze out and she pulls at her fingers. This is her thinking face, one I’ve seen countless times. After a few minutes, she gives up. “I don’t know … just tell me.”

  “Miles Farriston.”

  “No! Oh, Chloe, you’re kidding!” Her voice is a mixture of confusion, laughter, and sympathy.

  “I would not kid about that, you know me better. It was awful, Mink.” I bury head in my hands, trying to wash the memory of Miles and me in the studio out of my brain.

  “What happened?” She’s suddenly sitting on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped under her chin waiting for the story. Glad I can provide her with her daily dose of gossip.

  “So I was in the studio early Saturday morning to get some solo practice in. I was rehearsing a new piece I put together, oh my God, Minks I could practically feel the next move adding itself to the choreography …” I stop myself when she waves her hands in a wrap it up motion. Okay, I get a little caught up when talking about dancing. “Yes, yes. So, I wasn’t really watching the clock, because I knew my partner would get there at some point. Then when I heard the door open, I looked up and saw it was almost half an hour after our scheduled time!”

  Lateness is my number one pet peeve. If you’re five minutes early, to me, you are just on time.

  Minka rolls her eyes at my outrage about the lateness, and then narrows them, pointing a long, mint green polished fingernail at me. “Wait, so this happened four days ago, and you’re just telling me this now? What the hell, Chloe! This is need-to-know intel.”

  “I know, I know, but I didn’t see you yesterday after skipping class. So anyway, when I turn around, there he is. Miles Freaking Farriston. Miles ‘Bad Enough I Have To Sit With You’ Farriston. In my studio. Then he goes all, ‘Are you even allowed to be in this competition?’ on me. Doing his usual sourpuss, pissed off routine. I told him not to worry about it, that I’d drop out. And then I left.” I shrug, trying not to look as affected as I feel. Miles could make me feel like the gum under his shoe like no one else could.

  “Are you serious? Wow. His dickishness has risen to an all-time high. I’m sorry, Chlo.” She places her hand on top of mine from across the table, giving me our classic finger-squeeze-for-support move. “But you shouldn’t have to drop out! You have been looking forward to it. Can’t you get him to switch with someone?”

  Like I hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t even want to get into it. Not if it means the wrath of Hurricane Miles. No, I’d rather just quietly go away, not incite his violence any further.”

  “You make him sound like a mobster, Chlo. I know he’s a little rough around the edges right now, but he’s an okay guy.”

  “You weren’t up on that Ferris wheel with him.” I don’t think I’ll ever get over that, no matter how much coaxing came from Minka and Owen.

  Minka picks
a piece of chicken out of my salad. I push it across the table, all but done with it. God, her and Kels could eat anything they wanted. Someday, I always told myself.

  “So what’re you going to tell the sisters?” She spears an apple, chewing it as her brown eyes stare right into me. She’s freakishly good at using those big eyes to decipher all of my feelings.

  “I don’t know … maybe I don’t need to tell them just yet.” I haven’t even thought about that. They are not going to be happy. The only reason I’d been voted in was that they thought I had a legitimate shot at bringing home the Mount Olympus Trophy.

  “They’re going to be pissed at you …” Minka sings this in a nanny-nanny-poo-poo kind of way. I told you about those big eyes. They’re like heat-seeking missiles right to my emotions.

  “I know. But there really isn’t anything I can do.”

  3

  Miles

  “There really isn’t anything I can do, Mr. Farriston.”

  I sit there, dumbfounded, as Oliver McKinney, Director of Fraternity and Sorority Life at Grover, doesn’t help me whatsoever. He always helps me! Last year, when Kappa Sig had gotten into some hot water with a fellow fraternity after essentially filling their sprinklers with red hair dye, Olly came to our rescue after I begged. Mostly, I think he’s threatened by the fact that my father is one of the biggest donors to Grover, in the Greek life department, and in general.

  But now? He isn’t helping me for shit. “Come on, Olly, just give me a new partner! It’ll take two minutes for you to do, and believe me, all parties will be satisfied.” I picture Princess Chloe’s face as she ran from the studio room.

  “No can do, Mr. Farriston, I am deeply sorry. You’ll just have to work it out with Miss Trabucco.”

  Fuck. I came to his office and explained the situation; that Chloe and I would not work out as dance partners. I spared him the gory details.