“It’s an illusion,” Crosbie says. This is some running joke he and Nora have based on a TV show I don’t understand, but I get enough to know I have to call the tricks illusions.
“And it’s none of your business,” he continues. “You had your chance. Sprint!”
After five more intervals, everybody’s dripping with sweat and it’s time for the cool down. Not that we tell Dane or Choo. “All right,” Crosbie says, setting his watch. “Ten minute brisk walk, then we repeat.”
Even though I know he’s messing with them, my wobbly legs still threaten to give out at the word “repeat.”
“Have either of you guys heard about this sports gig with Ivanka Ling?” Dane asks, mournfully eyeballing the entrance to the building as we stride past it. Already my skin is cooling and my breathing is evening out, a good sign. Crosbie’s in a similar position, but Dane and Choo, whose sports require different conditioning, still look ready to faint.
“I know who Ivanka Ling is,” I say. “But I don’t know about any sports gig.” Ivanka Ling is the host of She Shoots, She Scores, a nightly Oregon sports program that covers not just major league games, but college athletics as well. She’s drop dead gorgeous and knows more about sports than anyone I know, except maybe Andi.
“They’re looking for a student to host a one-minute special interest segment,” Dane says. “They sent out an email. One night a week they’ll have a student co-host sit in, and they’ll do a one-minute monologue on a topic of their choosing. They’re holding open auditions at colleges across the Pacific Northwest and will announce a winner before the holidays.”
“No way. That’s huge.”
“Like you didn’t know,” Choo scoffs. “Ivanka Ling herself probably texted to tell you about it first.”
“I swear I had no idea.” I’ve met a lot of girls, but never Ivanka Ling.
“Well, you will soon enough,” Dane says.
“Are you guys trying out?”
“Definitely.”
I look at Crosbie. “How about you?”
“Probably. These muscles look good on camera. But enough chatter.” His watch beeps to mark the end of the walk, but to those who don’t know, it sounds like a start signal. “Sprint!”
Dane and Choo do their best to run, their pace half of what it was earlier, their shoulders slumped. Crosbie and I don’t move.
“You really didn’t know about the Ivanka thing?” he asks from the corner of his mouth.
“Not a clue. But I’ve been ignoring my emails since I’m pretty sure Bertrand’s put some sort of stalking virus on my computer.”
Crosbie’s familiar with my lamentations on Bertrand’s special brand of advising. “Did you get out of that Hospitality class?”
I sigh. “Nope. German 101 is full.”
He nods ahead of us, where Dane and Choo have noticed we’re not running and are now glowering at us furiously as they start back. “It’s probably for the best,” he says. “Because when they break your legs and you can’t run anymore, you’re going to need a backup plan.”
* * *
I contemplate running the following Friday when I return home from the gym to find Bertrand sitting on my front steps. He’s wearing a green T-shirt that allows him to blend into the front door.
“Shit,” I mutter as he stands. I consider my options but figure it’ll be humiliating to be wrestled to the ground in broad daylight, so I stay put and try to maintain eye contact as he glowers at me, deeply unimpressed.
“Guess what today was?” he asks, slowly descending.
“Um...” I say, scratching my ear and avoiding his stare. “Friday?”
“Intro to Hospitality.”
“Was it?”
“Cut the act, McVey.” He pulls a rolled up piece of paper from his back pocket, extending it to me. It’s kinked in the middle from where he sat on it, but since he looks equally inclined to paper cut my eye as pass it to me, I take it and skim the minute lettering.
“Film Theory 1?”
“That’s right. If hotels aren’t your thing, perhaps you can watch movies and, say, think about them.”
I sigh. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s your third year and you’re undeclared. You’re here on a cross country scholarship—you really think that’s going to matter once you graduate? I know you got out of a small town and Burnham’s a big place so you think because you’re popular here the world’s going to be easy, but it’s not. Burnham’s not a big place, and you’re not a big shot. There’s a thousand more guys lining up to take your place, and it’s not your job to fight to keep it, it’s your job to plan for the next big thing. And it’s my job to help you plan.”
“I—”
“I don’t care what you’re about to say. Class is Wednesday at ten. I’ll be here at nine-thirty. And if you’re not out this door, I’ll be in there at nine thirty-one.” He nods at the apartment and I have a terrifying vision of him pulling back the covers and cooing “Wakey, wakey!”
“I hardly even watch movies,” I protest.
“Don’t worry about it,” he calls, walking away. “They’re just moving pictures.”
I scrub a hand over my face and am still staring at the course description when a female voice calls my name. I look up to see a sleek black car parked at the curb, the passenger door opening and a long pair of shapely legs sliding out. The legs are followed by a short skirt, fitted top and dark jacket, then the immediately recognizable face of Ivanka Ling. For an endless second I stare in disbelief as she walks up the path, her heels clicking on the pavement. A million thoughts race through my mind, but the most logical conclusion is that Bertrand drugged me and I’m hallucinating.
“Hi, Kellan,” Ivanka says, her red lips parting in a smile.
“Hi, Ivanka Ling,” I hear myself say back.
Her laugh is like a tinkling bell, and everything about her is perfect and polished, just like on TV. I’m vaguely aware of a large guy in a navy suit standing next to the car, watching us. A bodyguard.
“Do you know why I’m here?” she asks.
“No.”
“You haven’t heard about the student auditions?”
“I...” The conversation at the track comes back to me. I’d forgotten about it as soon as I came home and didn’t even check my email to see if I’d gotten the memo.
“We’re expecting thousands of applications,” Ivanka continues. “And from those we’ll select four hundred students to audition. Four hundred students from ten different colleges,” she adds, waiting for me to do the math.
Four hundred. Ten. Forty students from each college can audition. Thousands of applications.
“Okay. Right.”
“Now, we have a bit of leeway with the selection process, and there are a few star students we’re really hoping to see succeed. They’re charming, they’re smart, they’re athletic. They’re camera-ready.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m not sure I’m convincing her I check any of the requisite boxes, but she just waits patiently. Hopefully everyone else she’s approached has also gone mute and drooling.
“I’m here to personally invite you to apply,” she says when I don’t offer. “And to give you this.” She extends her hand and I accept the glossy business card she’s offering. “It has my personal phone number and email,” she says. “If you have any questions about your application, or you’d like me to review it before you submit, don’t hesitate to get in touch. We think you have a lot of potential and would make a great segment host.”
“With you,” I say dumbly.
“Of course,” she says. “You were planning to apply, weren’t you?”
I may be stupid right now, but I know the answer to this question. “Absolutely.”
“Excellent. I look forward to hearing from you, Kellan.”
I study the shiny business card. “You will. Thank you.”
She winks. “Thank you.”
I wait until she’s gone, then go inside and si
t on the couch and stare at the business card some more. Ivanka Ling may not be world famous—or even famous on the east coast—but out here she’s a big deal. And two minutes ago she was standing at my door step, giving me her phone number, and asking me to get in touch. Personally asking me to apply. Basically promising me one of the audition spots.
* * *
All too soon Bertrand’s back. I watch through the front window as he comes up the walkway, noticing me and waving. A canvas shopping bag dangles from his finger and I squint at it as I lock the door and join him outside to shiver in the chilly September air. Fall comes early at Burnham and there are twice as many leaves littering the ground as there were yesterday.
“Guten Morgen,” he says.
“I’m going to assume that means good morning and ask you to shut up.”
“I brought you something.”
“I don’t want it.”
He sticks the bag in my hand. It’s not very heavy, but the weight of the objects inside bumping against my thigh tells me what it holds before Bertrand does. “They’re your text books,” he says. “Only two, lots of pictures.”
“Wonderful.”
We walk half a block in silence. “Want to know why I signed you up for film theory?” he asks.
“Because you get a kick back.”
“Nope.”
“Then I don’t know and I don’t care.”
“Because I think you could do with some critical thinking.”
“I’m doing some right now.”
He smiles like I’m moderately clever. “You know, most people look at a movie—a picture, a song, a book—and see just the surface. They miss the hidden meanings, the subtleties, the nuances. Sometimes they miss the point.”
“Uh-huh.”
He studies me. “I mean, sometimes they see all there is to see—sometimes there really is no depth.”
A couple of girls run past in shorts and Burnham soccer T-shirts. They call out greetings and I wave back, feeling like an embarrassed teenager busted going to the movies with his mom.
Bertrand sighs as we reach the Klein Building. It’s one of the largest arts buildings on campus and hundreds of students flow through the double doors, many with the colorful hair and eclectic style of “I’m an art student” students. In my jeans and Burnham letter jacket I look like exactly what I am—reluctant to be here and sorely out of place.
Bertrand leads the way down the busy hall, the walls lined with framed film posters and stills from successful student productions. We stop in front of a set of blue doors, one of which is propped open with a trash can. The classroom is actually an auditorium, complete with a massive screen on the far wall, the picture frozen on the opening reel of a DVD, the “play” button highlighted. There are at least a hundred students scattered throughout, some laughing and talking, some nursing coffee, most just typing on their phones.
Bertrand jerks his chin, indicating that I should enter. “Enjoy.”
“Yeah,” I say, hiking my bag onto my shoulder and striding inside, if only to escape. He’s like a nagging conscience, if my conscience were a washed up former wrestler with a stalking habit. I’d like to hustle down the back row and out the doors at the other end of the room but I’m pretty sure Bertrand’s waiting there, so instead I shuffle down the steps, looking for a seat that’s going to offer some privacy as I sleep. Then I spot the back of a blond head with massive sloppy bun piled on top.
I know Andi’s reluctant to be seen with me, but she’s been next to me my whole life and going to her now feels like the natural thing to do. She’s sitting three seats in from the aisle about halfway between the front of the class and the doors. The chairs beside her are empty and I sit in the middle one, leaving a seat free on either side.
“Hey,” I say casually, not looking at her as I find my phone and turn it to silent.
I hear her move, see her knees shift slightly as she turns. Then freezes. “What are you doing here?” she whispers after a stunned second.
I catch a whiff of her shampoo and a glance out the corner of my eye confirms her face is clear of makeup and she thought sweatpants, flip-flops and a long-sleeve Oakland A’s shirt was a nice outfit.
“What are you doing here?” she repeats.
“I needed the credits.” And Bertrand made me, but she doesn’t need to know that. I reach into the canvas bag and pull out the first book, a thin soft cover title with film reels pictured on the front and Film Theory & Criticism for Beginners written in silver script. I pretend I’m reading and am not thrilled she’s talking to me in public.
“So you picked—”
“Hey!”
We both jerk in our seats at the alarming stage whisper that comes from over my shoulder. I twist around to see Marcela dropping into the seat beside me, everything about her Andi’s polar opposite. Her bleached hair has been painstakingly straightened to hang past her shoulders and heavy bangs brush against her brows. She’s wearing bright red lipstick, a black and gray plaid schoolgirl dress and red platform heels.
“I need a favor,” she says, dispensing with any preliminaries. She strums her fingernails on the wooden arm of the seat between us, the sparkly polish glinting in the overhead light.
I look away from the nails so they don’t hypnotize me. “What?”
“We need to start dating again.”
I sit up straighter. “I meant, What do you mean you need a favor? not, Which favor did you need? And in any case, no. Firm no.”
“Why not?”
“Have you forgotten Chrisgiving?”
“What’s Chrisgiving?” Andi asks, leaning in curiously. “Combination Christmas and Thanksgiving?”
“It’s—Yes!” I say, pleased someone finally gets it. Then I sour again. “Still no,” I say to Marcela, who looks ready to argue. Last fall, while pretending to date, we’d hosted the inaugural—and doomed—Chrisgiving turkey dinner at my apartment. We were joined by Nora and Crosbie and Nate and his date, and by the end of the night, all relationships, real and pretend, were in tatters.
Marcela leans past me. “Who are you?” she asks Andi.
“Andi,” Andi replies.
“You two know each other?”
“No,” I answer. “I just sat here and she started flirting with me.”
“Oh God,” Andi says.
“Don’t feel bad,” Marcela tells her. “Everybody makes mistakes.”
“But only idiots make the same mistake twice,” I point out. “And trying to convince the same guy of the same stupid lie is a mistake. Also, why do we need to fool Nate again? Aren’t you two dating?”
“No,” she replies. “He’s an asshole. And we’re doing this precisely because he’d never believe I’d do the same thing again, and he’d totally believe you would.”
“I don’t like this logic.”
“Just come to the coffee shop tonight. I’ll give you a free brownie.”
“I don’t want your brownies.” I do, but I won’t admit it.
“What do you do with the brownies at the end of the night?” Andi asks.
Marcela and I look at her weirdly, but the conversation is interrupted when the instructor arrives at the front of the class and begins arranging papers on the table. I don’t think she knows the microphone is on because we can hear every shuffle and bump and her muttered rehearsal of the introduction to what’s probably her first ever lecture. She’s thin and cute, wearing some sort of retro dress and dark-framed glasses.
“See you tonight,” Marcela says, standing.
“Aren’t you in this class?”
“Yep.” Then she leaves.
Andi and I watch her go, then I turn back. “What was that about the brownies?”
“The volleyball team’s having a bake sale,” she says. “And I don’t know how to bake.”
Andi was always the kid who brought packaged cookies and store-bought pies to school events. The one time she and her mom tried to bake something the fire department had to visit thei
r house twice and the grocery store ended up giving them a free cake.
“When’s the sale?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. But forget the sale—what happened at Chrisgiving?”
My stomach grumbles and I want to ask more about this bake sale, but I also want to tell someone my version of the Chrisgiving story. “I made an amazing dinner,” I tell her, because that part always gets overlooked when someone recounts the tale. “With the best gravy ever.” I study my shoes. “Then some stuff came up and people got mad and ruined Chrisgiving.”
“What came up? The mistake you can’t make twice?” She peers down at my crotch. “Is it the gon—”
“No,” I snap, defensively covering my lap with the text book. “And don’t say that here. I mean, I’m not going to make that mistake again, either, but it wasn’t with her.”
Andi nods at the seat Marcela had just occupied. “She’s really pretty.”
“Yeah, she’s hot.” I’m about to say how she’s in love with Nate but won’t admit it and I’m not interested in that drama, but then the instructor, Ms. Shaw, taps the microphone, clears her throat and pushes her glasses up her nose. We sit through the stilted introduction and talk about foundation of film and deeper thinking until she turns off the lights and cues up a black and white movie. I close my eyes and drift off to thoughts about how maybe this class won’t be so bad after all.
“Hey.”
A sharp elbow in my ribs jars me painfully awake. I blink and look around, trying to orient myself. Students stand and stretch, collecting their bags and climbing the stairs to the exits. The lights are on, the screen is dark, and Andi’s looking at me with a raised eyebrow. “Sleep well?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I like this class.”
She rolls her eyes and stands. “Move.”
I shift my legs so she can squeeze past, then gather up my things and follow her out of the room. A peek at my watch says it’s just after lunch.
“What are you up to now?”
“I have practice.”
“When are you going to prepare for this bake sale?” I ask, hoping to prolong our contact for reasons I don’t care to analyze.
“I’ll go to the store tomorrow morning and get some cookies. The sale’s not until the afternoon so I have time.”
Undeclared (Burnham College #2) Page 6
