Undeclared (Burnham College #2)

by Julianna Keyes

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “Because we don’t look the same?”

  Crosbie is shorter and stockier, like a wrestler; I’m tall and lean, like a, well, runner. Even with my face covered by black fabric, I don’t think anyone would mistake us for each other.

  “It’ll be fine,” he says dismissively. “The whole stage will be black, the background will be black, and there’ll be a box at your feet to help mask the slight height difference.”

  It’s actually a four-inch height difference, but I won’t point that out. I know he’s sensitive about it.

  “If you want to wear some padding to bulk up your slim frame...” he continues sweetly.

  “Stop calling me slim!” I toss a pillow at him.

  He catches it and laughs as he straddles the desk chair. “So what do you think? You’ll help, right?”

  Crosbie’s my best friend, so I nod with as much enthusiasm as I can muster for a black bodysuit. “Definitely.”

  “Awesome. We’ll work on your enthusiasm later.”

  I’m about to retort when a shrill clanging suddenly starts, making us both jump. “Oh, fuck,” Crosbie groans. “Fire drill.”

  “Or fire alarm,” I say, peering out the window at the wisps of smoke rising up from one of the lower floors. It’s Monday afternoon, sunny but cool, so we scoop up our jackets, Crosbie gathers his phone and laptop, and we exit into the crowded hallway to squeeze into the even more crowded stairwell with a hundred other students. Floor monitors shout ignored instructions, the bell keeps clanging, and no one seems particularly concerned as we shuffle down the stairs.

  The smell of smoke grows stronger as we reach the second floor and the sharp blast of sirens fills the stairwell as a door bangs open at ground level. We’re pinned to the walls as yellow-suited firefighters jog up the steps, so many I lose count. The air is smoky but the only heat is generated by the exhausted bodies slogging down sixteen flights of stairs, so everyone remains calm until we stagger out the fire door at the side of the building.

  “Damn,” Crosbie says, backing onto the grass and craning his neck to peer up at the corner windows on the second floor. Acrid black smoke pours out, but no flames.

  “That’s the common room,” someone in the group says. “I heard the microwave exploded.”

  “I heard someone set the couch on fire,” another voice chimes in.

  “I heard...”

  As the rumor mill warms up, Crosbie and I shift until we’re at the perimeter of the crowd. A hundred yards away is a small basketball court and a pond, both deserted despite the nice weather.

  The all-too-familiar opening notes of Destiny’s Child’s “Bootylicious” come from Crosbie’s phone, and I grimace as I hear Nora’s personalized ringtone.

  “Hey,” Crosbie says as he answers. “Yeah, we’re outside. I don’t know, there’s lots of smoke. Of course he agreed. You know he loves tight pants.” I kick him in the shin and he yelps and hops away. “We’re by the basketball court,” he continues. “Sure. See you in a bit.” He hangs up and turns to me, rubbing his leg. “Nora’s at work but they heard about the fire. They’re wrapping up and should be here in half an hour. We can grab dinner if you want.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Nora and Marcela.”

  “I’ll pass. Marcela’s gotten the idea that we should resume our fake dating so she can get Nate to ask her out or something. I don’t want a girlfriend, real or imagined, and I definitely don’t want to fake things anymore.”

  “But it was so convincing.”

  Crosbie’s gaze snags on something over my shoulder and I turn to see what he’s looking at, then immediately wish I hadn’t when I see Andi and Crick approaching the court. Andi’s wearing red track pants and a gray hoodie, Crick’s in shorts and a Burnham jacket, a basketball tucked under his arm. He has his head ducked to listen to whatever Andi’s saying, and that same tightness that squeezed my chest while we were baking makes an unwelcome return appearance.

  Andi spots me watching, and Crick notices as well. Crosbie waves and they come over.

  “What’s going on?” Andi asks, squinting at the smoky building.

  “Not too sure,” Crosbie answers. “But I think it started on one of the lower levels. Someone mentioned the common room.”

  “Which floor are you on?” Crick asks her.

  Pleasure and disappointment war for top billing. Pleasure that he doesn’t already know the answer, and disappointed that I don’t. We grew up three feet away from each other; for most of my life I’ve known exactly where Andi was. Now she’s here and somehow feels very far away.

  “Two,” she answers, knocking the ball from his arm and dribbling it across the court. She makes the basket and Crick watches appreciatively. Andi and I have been competing with each other since before we even knew what competition was, and every cell in my body urges me to run over there, steal the ball, and sink my shot. But Crick beats me to it. He laughs and circles, one hand hovering near her waist as he looms over her. Andi feints to the left then darts right, tossing the ball into the net again. Crick snags it, dribbling around the court before charging the basket, flying through the air like a gazelle and dunking with both hands. The cheap metal rings against the backboard and spectators applaud. I do not.

  “First to five,” he tells Andi, tossing her the ball. He slings his jacket to the ground and as he does so, she scores a point. Then she takes off her hoodie to reveal the plain white tank top underneath. This is Andi’s standard outfit; I’ve seen it a million times. I’ve seen the careless hair and the sports bra and all the normal pieces of her, I’ve just never seen them through the lens of a guy who wants her. I’m talking about Crick, of course. The way he pauses, just for a second, taking in her bare arms, her flat stomach, the long line of her back. Then he steals the ball again and dunks.

  She smiles and they fight for the ball. He dribbles it between his legs, fakes left and left again, then tosses the ball in a high arc toward the net. It bounces off the backboard. Andi jumps and catches it on the rebound, using both hands to make her shot before she’s even touched ground again.

  The crowd goes wild.

  Crick grins at her.

  I grit my teeth.

  “What are you doing?” Crosbie asks, elbowing me in the ribs.

  I jerk out of my trance. “What? Nothing. Just...watching.”

  “Why do you look murderous?”

  “I do not look murderous.” It takes everything I’ve got to keep my eyes on Crosbie and not glare murderously at Crick.

  “I thought you said she was your friend.”

  “Yeah, she is. That’s all. Sort of. I mean, she’s sort of my friend, not that’s sort of all there is. That’s definitely all there is.”

  Crosbie looks at me strangely. “Okay, pal.”

  After I returned from the bake sale last week, I’d given him the brief rundown on my history with Andi, minus the sex and not speaking for two years. I should have been relieved when he didn’t appear remotely suspicious or even interested in our involvement, but instead I felt oddly offended. It wasn’t that he assumed I couldn’t be attracted to Andi; he figured she would never be attracted to me. It took everything I had to stifle the petty urge to tell him that everyone in Avilla knows she’s always had a crush on me; it takes even more to pretend I’m totally fine with the fact that she’s clearly gotten over it.

  He nods toward the front of the building. “Nora and Marcela are here.”

  I look around for an excuse to escape, spotting one in the form of a perfectly perky cheerleader who notices me at the same moment.

  “There’s Jackie,” I say far too eagerly.

  “Who?”

  “A...friend,” I hedge, using Lin’s term. “I’m going to say hi. Bye.”

  I hustle over to Jackie, who leaves her cluster of friends to meet me. In jeans and a T-shirt and puffy jacket, she looks cute and safe, a much better option than anyone else.

  She smiles
up at me. “Hey, Kellan! Did you hear about the fire?”

  Well...obviously. “Ah, yes. I hope you’re not on that floor.”

  “I am.” She shudders. “It’s so dramatic. All that smoke. What are you doing here?”

  “Crosbie lives upstairs. We’re preparing for Open Mic Night.”

  Behind me there’s another round of applause for the basketball stars, but I force myself to focus on Jackie and try to think of something flirtatious to say. It shouldn’t be hard; it’s not like I don’t have tons of practice. But all I can hear is that stupid clapping and it’s taking everything I have not to turn around.

  “Guess who,” a voice whispers in my ear as chilly fingers cover my eyes.

  I should have turned around. At least then I could have gotten a head start.

  Jackie giggles and I groan.

  “Hi, Marcela.”

  “Hello, lover.” She drops her voice an octave and I glare at her over my shoulder, wincing at the neon yellow of her skin-tight velour jumpsuit.

  “I told you I’m not doing that again.” I look at Jackie. “Nothing’s happening here. We’re not lovers.”

  Marcela gives Jackie an exaggerated wink. “We’re not, but don’t tell. I need to make somebody jealous.”

  “Ooh, who?”

  “Nobody,” I interject. “Because if he was worth it, he would have made his move already.”

  “He’s not worth it,” Marcela counters. “But he needs to know I would have been worth it, if he weren’t such a judgmental coward.”

  Jackie’s frowning. “What?”

  “You missed the show,” Crosbie says, interrupting the conversation, Nora at his side.

  “Did I?” I ask, eyeballing Marcela. “Because I feel like I didn’t.”

  She pouts. “Just play along, Kellan. You were all for it last year when it served your purpose.”

  “It served both our purposes. Now it doesn’t.”

  “What do you care if someone thinks you have a girlfriend?” She nods at Jackie. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t.”

  “Fire’s out,” a deep voice announces, and I know before I look that it’s Crick. We turn to see him and Andi approaching and I wished I’d stayed in the burning building.

  I look at McKinley and see the firefighters retreating, one of two trucks already pulling away from the curb. There’s no more smoke coming from the second floor, and someone in the crowd is shouting that it’s okay to go inside, but stay out of the common room and don’t put metal in the microwave, for fuck’s sake.

  “This is Cri—ah, Julian,” Crosbie says, introducing him to the group.

  “I know,” Jackie says. “We cheer for the basketball team. Hey.”

  “Hey,” he says.

  “I know too,” Marcela adds. “Decaf latte, skim milk, and a cranberry orange muffin.”

  Crick looks both embarrassed and flattered.

  “You’re creepy,” I mutter out the corner of my mouth.

  “It’s called customer service,” she whispers back. “Lover.”

  “Stop that.”

  “This is Andi,” Crick says, putting a hand on her shoulder. I watch the way his tan fingers contrast with her paler skin and the white of her tank top. Again I get that weird feeling in my chest.

  “I know,” Marcela says again. “We have a class together.”

  “And we met,” Crosbie says. “At Kellan’s place.”

  Several eyebrows shoot up in surprise, Crick’s among them. “You two know each other?”

  “Oh. Ah...” Andi stammers.

  “We grew up together,” I offer. “Next door neighbors.”

  Marcela looks delighted at this bit of intel. “Childhood friends, reunited. How...sweet.”

  I glower at her. I know this will not be the last I hear of it.

  Nora frowns. “I thought you still had the no-girls-allowed policy at the apartment.”

  “I do,” I say, without thinking. “She doesn’t—”

  “Count,” Andi finishes flatly, cheeks turning pink.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Everyone’s going back in,” Jackie announces. “I’m going to check on my stuff. Are we still on for Saturday?”

  “Yeah,” I say absently, watching Andi pull on her hoodie. She knocks her hair loose and it tumbles around her shoulders, briefly softening the severity of her angry expression. Softening everything, really, if Crick’s approving stare is any indication.

  “We’ll train first thing tomorrow,” Crosbie tells me, backing toward the residence with Nora and Marcela. “Then we’ll come back here to practice for the show.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Stay away from carbs,” he calls, patting his stomach. “You know they make you swell up.”

  I flip him off and he laughs before disappearing into the crowd.

  “I guess I’ll get going,” Crick says, passing the basketball awkwardly from hand to hand. “We’re still on for Saturday too?”

  Andi doesn’t miss the way he watches me, like he’s questioning our relationship.

  “Of course,” she says, flashing him her fake smile. To anyone who doesn’t know her, it’ll look genuine enough, but if you can’t see the chipped tooth, it’s not real. Crick buys it.

  “Cool,” he says. “I’ll call you.” He turns and blends into the dissipating throng, as much as a seven-foot giant can blend into anything other than a forest.

  Andi reaches up to fix her hair and I catch a whiff of shampoo. I don’t know why the hell I’m noticing these things. It’s Andi. I’ve noticed them all before. Nothing is different.

  I turn away and clear my throat. “You should leave your hair down.”

  “What?”

  “You wanted my advice on how to get Crick to like you, right? Leave your hair down and the hoodies at home.”

  “I hate wearing my hair down and I love this hoodie.”

  I know both of those things, but I shrug. “Your call.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  For a second we just stare at each other. “And you should work on your left hand lay-up.”

  She bristles. “There’s nothing wrong with my lay-up.”

  “It’s weak. Weaker than your shots from the foul line.”

  “My foul shots are not weak, and what would you know? You weren’t even watching.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I saw—” She cuts off, but not before saying enough to let me know she was watching me too. That we were both trying not to watch each other. She scowls and hoists her bag up on her shoulder. “My lay-up is fine. My foul shots are fine. My hair is fine. Everything is fine.”

  “You know, the more you say it, the more convincing it is.”

  She scowls and stomps away.

  * * *

  Unsurprisingly, Bertrand waits outside my apartment on Wednesday morning, wearing a black T-shirt and shorts despite the drizzly weather. His hair is slicked back in a stubby ponytail and he pulls on a pair of gloves as he paces on the sidewalk.

  “What are you doing here?” I pull up the hood of my jacket as I lock the front door. “I’m going to class.”

  “My route took me this way,” he replies unconvincingly. “I thought we could walk back together. My office is near the Klein Building.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “What would you know? You never come to our meetings.”

  “I don’t need our meetings.”

  “No? Have you declared a major?”

  “You know, a lot of people graduate with a general arts degree. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “It’s a waste of time and money,” Bertrand says. “And I know your tuition is covered as long as you’re on the cross country team, but if you haven’t decided what you want—what you might want—by now, maybe you’re doing something wrong.”

  Rain drips down from the trees, thudding onto my hood as though punctuating Bertran
d’s statement. “I don’t want to have this conversation,” I say. “I don’t want your advice. I don’t want to be Crosbie’s assistant at the Open Mic show on Saturday. I don’t want to pretend I’m dating Marcela. I don’t want to watch another boring movie. How’s that?”

  “The complete opposite of what I asked you,” he says cheerfully. “It’s easy to say what you don’t want. Why don’t you tell me what you do want?”

  “I’m young. I don’t have to know what I want.”

  “No?” he asks, cocking his head thoughtfully.

  I stride into the building, shaking rain off my coat and feeling my sneakers slip on the tile floors. I buy a green juice at a kiosk and arrive at the auditorium with five minutes to spare. The room is half-full and I spot Andi in the same seat as last time, the familiar mass of her hair, the neck of her yellow sweater bunched up beneath it. I start to walk down, telling myself to sit in any row but hers, but of course I don’t. “Hey,” I say, tossing my bag into one seat and taking the one beside her.

  She raises a brow. “Hey.” She sniffs and frowns at my cup. “What’s in that thing? Parsley?”

  “Among other non-delicious things. Want to try?”

  “No.”

  “Good call.”

  “Did you submit your application?”

  It takes me a second to figure out she’s talking about the She Shoots, She Scores job. In a pique of petty rage I’d filled in the online form and hit send less than an hour after returning home from the bake sale. And an hour after that I’d gotten a personal email from Ivanka Ling thanking me for my submission and promising to give it a very close look.

  “Kellan?”

  “Ah... Yeah,” I say. I feel guilty, though I’ve only done what thousands of other students have done. “Did you?”

  “Yes. I hope I hear back.”

  I look at her from the corner of my eye. “What photo did you use?” The application required a photo, so I’d hunted around on Facebook until I found one in which I was both fully clothed and not holding an alcoholic beverage.

  “One of the girls on my floor took it,” Andi answers. “It was okay, I guess.”