I stick my empty cup in Andi’s hand and saunter into the middle of the circle like I’m happy to be doing this. Like I’m showing her what living life really means. “He’s not wearing any socks!” someone shouts.
“Take off your pants instead!” someone else cries.
I make the mistake of looking at Andi, who gazes back blandly. Her indifference irks me and I use my toe to flip the die over to top, then with great flair grab the collar of my T-shirt and pull it over my head. There was a time in my first year that I went a week without wearing a shirt, eager to show off my well-earned six pack. I got a lot of well-earned teasing from my friends, so I started wearing a shirt again. Now it’s gratifying to hear the catcalls and whistles that fill the room as I drop my shirt on the floor, and I grin at Jackie, who’s bobbing nervously in her very high heels.
The host opens the door and ushers us inside. At the last second I look back at Andi, expecting to see her watching, angry or offended or jealous or something, but she’s not even there. Something inside me that has no business caring withers in disappointment.
“So...” Jackie says, nibbling on a nail. “Should we...?”
She’s got her hair pulled back in one of those half-up looks, with the top part kind of teased like a princess. I reach over to push a stray piece behind her ear. It’s stiff with hairspray and again I smell apples. I discreetly wipe my hand on my jeans.
“You’re really pretty,” I tell her. It’s simple, it’s honest and it always works. Right on cue, she blushes.
“Thanks. You’re really hot.”
I can’t imagine Andi ever calling me hot. I mean, I know I never told her she was pretty, but I never thought about her that way. She was just Andi. My neighbor. My friend. My nemesis. And, for six weeks, the best sex I’d ever have.
“One minute down!” I hear the host bellow through the door.
I hear Jackie swallow. “Um, do you think we...?”
“What are you up for?” I ask, kind of hoping she backs out.
“Oh, whatever,” she says. “What do you like?”
“I’m easy,” I tell her. “If you like it, I like it.” That was my philosophy when I started here. I wanted every experience I could get. I learned a lot with Andi, but I learned a lot more at Burnham. Something tells me Jackie hasn’t learned much yet.
“Have you done this before?” I ask.
“Oh, sure,” she says too quickly. “Seven Minutes in Heaven. Who hasn’t played?” She crosses her arms across her chest, probably wishing she still had her bra.
“It’s stupid,” I say. “They like to rip open the door before the time’s up and catch you in the act.”
“Th-they do?”
“Yeah. It’s funny. Or so they say.”
She looks at the door. “Oh.”
“Maybe you don’t want to start your year that way?” I offer. “With, you know...an audience?”
“Right,” she says hastily, her laugh a little too shrill. “I thought you were going to say ‘a bang.’ Start your year with a bang.”
“That too. I mean, it’s only the first week.” Looking down at Jackie in the yellow glow of the bare bulb, she looks painfully young and I know I’m not going to touch her. I’m not a douche bag, no matter what the list of names written on the wall of the Student Union bathroom might suggest. No matter that the person who’s known me longest doesn’t want to be associated with me.
I cross my arms and lean back against the empty wood shelves. “What’s your major?” I ask.
“Oh,” Jackie says. “I’m undecided.”
* * *
Four minutes later the door is unceremoniously wrenched open, everyone gawking to witness our embarrassing embrace. But Jackie and I just stand serenely, facing the door and holding hands.
“Fuckwit,” I mutter to the host as we step out.
“Disappointed, McVey!” he shouts, as the room laughs and boos in equal parts. Our clothes are in the center of the floor and I scoop up both items and pass Jackie her bra.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“Any time.” A few people overhear and misinterpret, but I don’t care what they think. I yank on my shirt and try to pretend I’m not looking for Andi, but I am. And she’s nowhere to be seen. I wonder if she left because I went into the closet. Or maybe she went to find a game of her own. She never liked to lose.
“Would you excuse me?” I ask Jackie. “I need to find someone.”
“Of course,” she replies. “See you.”
“You bet.”
The crowd has already lost interest in our exchange and whoops it up when the next couple loses their pants before entering the closet bare-legged. I ease my way out of the room, but Andi’s blonde head is nowhere to be found. I squeeze through the mass of people in the kitchen, my flip-flops sticking to spilled beer and other unidentifiable liquids. I grin and say hi whenever my name is called, but don’t stop.
Eventually I spot Andi talking to Dane and Choo along with a couple of her volleyball teammates. Her hands are empty and I know she probably forced herself to drink that first warm beer, then dumped whatever else she was given. She doesn’t see me so I watch her for a moment, looking animated as she tells some sort of story, everyone listening intently before bursting into laughter. I guess she didn’t care about the closet after all.
There are a hundred girls here that are more my type. Girls who dress up and do their hair and paint their nails; girls who don’t consider tearaway track pants a wardrobe staple. But I don’t look away from Andi until I hear someone else shout my name. Immediately I duck down like I dropped something, then stay hunched as I shoulder my way over to the front door, propped open with the half-dead potted plant from the porch.
I gulp in fresh air as though I’ve been living under water. There’s sweat at my temples and in the small of my back and I try to look casual and not strangely panicked as I hurry down the tiki-lit path toward the sidewalk. Toward freedom. I’ve never been the guy who left a party first, and this isn’t exactly what I envisioned for Kellan 2.0, but right now all I want is to go home.
It takes about twenty minutes to cover the short distance from the steps to the street, and as much as I want to make my excuses and run away as fast as I can, I force myself to stop, smile, shake hands and meet people. That’s what I’m here for, after all. That’s who I am.
Eventually I extricate myself and hustle down the sidewalk, keeping my eyes down and pretending not to hear anyone else who calls out. I take the first right so I can get off the Frat Farm and away from the crowds. It’s just a block but it makes a huge difference, the road dark and quiet except for the hum of the streetlamps. The lots here are large, giving the people unfortunate enough to live behind a fraternity a bit of a buffer, and soon the thud of the dance music is just a distant memory and a lingering headache.
I start west toward home, pausing when the slap of my flip-flops is echoed by another set of shoes. I glance over my shoulder to see a figure a block away, face hidden as she reads something on her phone. My recently calmed heart immediately starts pounding again.
She’s tied up her hair, but she’s still wearing the white tank that clings to her non-existent curves, the long black skirt swishing around her million-mile legs. I should probably start running in the opposite direction, but instead I stay exactly where I am and wait for her to notice me. It takes another dozen steps but she finally does, halting about fifteen feet away and staring in surprise. With any other girl I might suspect her of following me, of this being a careful performance, a phony “What a coincidence!” But even from here I can see the tiny map app glowing on Andi’s phone.
“Are you lost?”
She looks at me for a second, then holds up her phone. “Not if this map is right.”
“Campus is ten minutes straight ahead, then make a left at the pool. That’ll take you to the bookstore. You can probably find your dorm from there. I assume you’re in a dorm.”
“Yeah,” she says. �
��Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I want to say more, but she made herself pretty clear the last time we spoke, so I nod stiffly and turn to resume walking.
“Kell,” she says quietly.
I stop. I should stomp off like the wounded warrior I am, but I stop as soon as she says my name. At least I don’t turn around. “What?”
“I’m sorry about how things went the other night.”
“When you told me you didn’t want to be associated with me?”
“Yeah. While wearing a chicken suit and one stripper shoe.”
I look at her when she stops beside me. “What the fuck, Andi?”
“Are you really upset?”
That’s probably my cue to say of course I’m not upset, I don’t care at all, but what I actually say is, “Of course I’m upset! That was rude.”
“It looks like you got over it pretty quickly.”
I know she’s referring to my seven minutes in heaven. “Nothing happened in the closet. I wasn’t in the mood.”
One of her dark brows lifts. “No? Because the volleyball team went on a campus tour earlier this week, and you know what one of the stops was?”
“What?” As soon as I ask, I want to take it back. I know the answer.
“The Student Union bathroom and the infamous lists. Fortunately I already knew what I’d find because you told me on the mountain that there were a few names on it.”
“Andi—”
“You didn’t mention it was seventy-six—”
“Seventy-what?! It wasn’t that high the last time I saw it.”
“No?” she asks sweetly. “How high was it?”
For a second, I’m stupid enough to open my mouth to almost answer. Then I clamp it shut. “Never mind. We all have pasts.”
She snorts out a laugh. “No kidding.”
Voices ring out in the dark and Andi looks around, paranoid she might be spotted in my company and become entry number seventy-seven. To be fair, those additions to the list are not real, they can’t be, because I haven’t hooked up with anybody in eons. I did, however, try to get back to business on a number of occasions, and it’s possible those attempts were documented by someone with a black marker and too much time on their hands.
The voices fade as they move in a different direction, and Andi and I start walking toward campus. “Is it okay to talk to you under cover of darkness?”
“Yes, but please stick to the shadows.”
I roll my eyes. “How are you liking Burnham? Is it what you expected?”
“So far so good.”
“Are you living life?”
“So to speak.”
“Speaking specifically, are you hooking up with anyone?”
“Kellan.” She sounds like an exasperated teacher.
“Well, that’s what living life means.”
“That’s what it means when you say it. To other people it can mean other things.”
“Like what?”
“Like enjoying my classes, going to practice, making friends, being in a new place. Feeling...different.”
I suppose I can relate to that. “That’s good, I guess.”
“Well, I’m glad it meets with your approval.”
“I didn’t say I approved. You’re still boring.”
“At least I don’t have gonnorhea.”
“You don’t have any friends, either. What kind of loser leaves the Welcome Party early?”
“Um, you?”
“I’m going home to hook up with somebody,” I lie.
She makes a show of peering around the deserted street. “Does she know?”
“Ha ha.”
“Oh wait—wrong question. Does everybody else know?”
“Wow. Not even an Ivy League school can teach you to be funny.”
She’s laughing at her own joke. “Some things you’re just born with.”
We approach the edge of the campus, the buildings dark and quiet. I see a few clusters of students walking around and know we’ll have to part ways. “Do you know where you’re going from here?”
“Does anybody really know where they’re going?”
I groan. “Don’t tell me you think you’re smart, too.”
“Smart and funny. A real catch.”
“Maybe if you don’t talk, you can fool somebody.”
She smiles but doesn’t reply.
“You looked good,” I say before I can stop myself. “When I first spotted you at the party, with your hair down, the red lipstick. It was nice.” I’ve known her most of my life and that might be the closest I’ve ever come to telling her she’s pretty. She looks good now, too, with the lipstick worn off and her hair up, but I don’t tell her that.
She blushes and looks away. “Shut up.”
A couple passes by, so wrapped up in each other they barely notice us. Something low in my belly stirs, something that has no business coming to life when Andi’s around. Something that’s more than desire. Something like...yearning.
I clear my throat. “Well.”
“Well,” she echoes. “I’ll see you around, Kellan.”
“Right,” I say, because I can’t make myself say goodbye.
Again.
chapter four
I squint through the fog as Crosbie approaches the front doors of the Burnham Gym where I’ve been waiting for the past five minutes. It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning, one of the few times the track is free, and we’re meeting up to do interval training.
“I brought company,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder as two figures emerge from the mist. Neither Choo nor Dane look entirely willing to be here. By third year, most people have figured out how to arrange their classes so they don’t have to wake up early on a Monday, and I know if they’re here at this hour it’s because they lost a bet.
I pull open the door to the building and we file inside. The tiled floors squeak under our sneakers and the smell of chlorine permeates the air. Burnham has several gyms, but this is the largest and includes an Olympic-sized pool and regulation track field. We nod to the security guard patrolling the halls as we enter the men’s changing rooms and toss our stuff into lockers.
“How’d he convince you two to come?” I ask as we exit through the door that leads to the athletes’ track entrance. We don’t normally run out here for cross country, but there’s still something awesome about stepping onto the field at mid-point. The glowing orange track, the pristine green grass, the towering rows of seats—even half-obscured by fog, it’s awe-inspiring.
“...so we lost the bet,” Choo finishes, reminding me I’d asked a question.
“On a technicality,” Dane adds.
“That changes nothing,” Crosbie says, pressing a few buttons on his watch as we each claim a lane. “Ten minute warm up.”
Choo and Dane instantly start sprinting. This is what people do when their typical workouts don’t involve running for the next two hours. They’re rounding the bend in the track by the time Crosbie and I are on our tenth stride. “Suckers,” Crosbie says.
“Yep.”
He raises a brow.
“What?” I ask, a touch defensively.
“People said you left the party early.”
“I—”
“After spending seven minutes in the closet with a hot freshman cheerleader.”
“She’s a cheerleader?”
“What are we talking about?” Choo asks as he and Dane sprint past. “Did Kellan get another disease? Wrap it up, bro!”
“No, I didn’t—” But he and Dane are already out of earshot, cackling like idiots.
“Did you learn her name?” Crosbie asks.
“Jackie,” I say promptly.
He looks surprised. “Are you making that up?”
“Of course not. I’m always right.”
“More lies!” Dane cries as he and Choo zip past.
“Slow down, morons! You’re going to crap out at the halfway mark.”
“Never!” they sh
out. “We’re real athletes!”
They were invited to the Sports Banquet too, and they’ve been boasting as much as Crosbie. The awards aren’t until December, which means this is going to be a long year of reminders.
“They’re screwed,” I say.
“Yep. Can’t wait to see ’em suffer.”
Crosbie’s watch beeps to signal the end of the warm-up, and we pause at the starting line, stretching as we wait for Dane and Choo to return. I’m feeling pleasantly warm, the morning fog burning away as the September sun rises into the sky. “What’s next?” Dane asks.
“Fast jog,” Crosbie says. “One lap, then sprint to the far end. Fast jog to the other end, then sprint to start.”
Choo looks at Dane. “Sounds simple.”
“Ten times,” Crosbie finishes.
They both frown. “What—”
“And go!”
Dane and Choo try their best to outpace us for the first three laps, but by the fourth they’re sweating profusely and keeping pace.
“I need a volunteer,” Crosbie says as we jog around the track.
“No,” Choo and Dane say in unison.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s top secret.”
“I’m definitely interested,” Dane says.
Choo nods. “Me too.”
“Too late,” Crosbie says. “Position’s been filled. Sprint!”
They groan but sprint to the far end, stumbling a bit as we resume the jog.
“What’s the position?” I ask, trying not to gasp. My heart is pounding, my thighs are burning, and sweat glues my T-shirt to my chest.
“Can we talk about it in the showers?” Choo grunts. “Right now?”
“Sprint!” Crosbie shouts.
“Oh my God,” Dane moans when it’s time to jog again. “How much longer?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me what I’ve volunteered for,” I demand.
“Fall Open Mic Night at Beans,” Crosbie answers. “I need an assistant.”
“Where will Nora be?”
“Working. Plus everyone will suspect her to be in on it. And she’s too short.”
“Yeah, she’s the worst.”
“So what’s the trick?” Choo inquires.
Undeclared (Burnham College #2) Page 5
