“How about sushi?” I try.
“Nah. I want something hot.”
“What about the Mexican place? They have spicy food.”
“I’m really in the mood for a burger.”
“We could go off campus.”
Andi stops and stares at me. “What are you doing?”
I try to look innocent. “What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you want to go to The Sling?”
“Um...” I study the skyline. “I just...” Andi and I may not be the best at vocalizing our feelings, but we don’t lie to each other, either, and since every bad thing I do has a tendency to come back and bite me in the ass, covering up my Sling horror story is bound to backfire in spectacular fashion.
“Just spit it out, Kellan.”
“Remember how I told you that last year I had to track down the girls I’d had sex with and tell them to get tested? Well, I didn’t exactly know everybody’s name and one of the girls worked at The Sling and when I spoke to her she realized I couldn’t remember her and she got pretty mad and threw pancakes at me.” I say the words as fast as I can, but Andi still manages to catch them.
Now she’s trying not to laugh.
“It’s not funny,” I snap. “It was very upsetting.”
“For who?”
“For...” I falter. Probably for both of us, but only one person ended up having to wash maple syrup out of their hair. “Anyway, that’s why.”
“If you’re trying to leave the past in the past, you might want to get over your fear of pancakes and step foot back inside that restaurant.”
“Who said I’m trying to leave the past in the past?”
“Kellan 2.0?”
“Oh. Right.”
“And maybe if your waitress hookup sees you acting like a mature, normal guy she’ll forget how much she hates you.”
When we reach The Sling ten minutes later, it’s clear that Savannah—Smells Like French Fries—not only remembers me, but still hates me. We follow the swish of her long dark braids to a corner table, and Andi raises a brow when Savannah fairly slams the menus on the table before stalking away.
“Thank you,” I call, maturely and normally.
“Don’t make it worse,” Andi whispers.
A few guys in Burnham jackets call out greetings from a nearby table and I wave back before sitting opposite Andi, ready to get back to the point of today’s encounter: the party.
“Fancy seeing you two here,” says a gratingly familiar voice.
“It’s worse,” I mumble, closing my eyes.
Marcela pulls up a seat, straddles it backwards, and smiles at us. “Did you two kiss and make up? Or not kiss and make up? What’s going on here, exactly?”
“We’re friends,” Andi answers, picking up her menu.
“Now you know so you can leave,” I say, ignoring the way the word “friend” stings. I mean, it’s a nice word. I’ve been friends with Andi my whole life. But recent events have taken things to a whole new level of complicated and “friend” just doesn’t seem to cut it. Especially not when I’m trying to determine the best way to ask her to be my date.
Marcela takes my menu. “Have you ordered yet?”
“You stalked us here,” I say, taking back the menu. “You know we haven’t.”
“I’m getting a cheeseburger and a vanilla milkshake,” Andi announces. “What are you having?”
“Does it matter?” I ask. “It’s going to be poisoned anyway.”
“In that case, you’d better order the onion rings,” Marcela says to Andi. “I don’t want his.”
Savannah drops by to take our orders with the bare minimum of civility, then stomps away dramatically.
“One of your sex friends?” Marcela guesses.
“I wouldn’t call her a friend, exactly. But speaking of friends...” I pull out my phone for an unconvincing segue way. “Do either of you know what ‘puntastic’ means? I got the Halloween Party invite and I have no idea what type of costume I’m supposed to wear.”
“It means your costume should be a pun,” Andi says. “Like, cereal killer, for example. Where you dress up like someone who kills boxes of cereal. Or pig in a blanket, where you’re dressed like a pig wrapped up in a blanket.”
“Or a social butterfly,” Marcela chimes in. “A butterfly covered in social media icons.”
“Oh,” I say, like I get it. “Cool.” To Andi I add, “Are you...”
“What’s Julian going as?” Marcela interrupts.
I freeze mid-sentence and look between my two lunch dates.
“I’m not sure,” Andi answers, leaning back as Savannah carefully places her milkshake on the table, then nearly douses me with my glass of water as she sets it down.
“Thank you,” I call.
Andi sips her milkshake. “He’s talking about coordinating outfits, like deviled eggs or something. I think he wants me to be the egg.”
I try to sip the not-spilled portion of my water. “You’re going with Crick?” I manage.
The table jolts, and I don’t know if it’s my twist of surprise or someone trying to kick me and missing.
“Yeah,” Marcela says. “Obviously. What should you and I go as?”
My standard response to Marcela’s self-invitations has always been a firm no, but the news that Andi already has a date—and that date is Julian Crick—has sent today’s already tentative plan into a tailspin. I didn’t have a date in previous years because there was no one I wanted to go with—or go home with. But this year is different. And this girl is taken.
“We’ll think of something,” I say.
Both Marcela and Andi look gratifyingly stunned by my non-rejection.
Unsurprisingly, Marcela is first to speak. “Awesome! I’ll text you some ideas.”
“Awesome,” I echo. “Can’t wait.”
Savannah returns with our food, a burger each for me and Andi, a plate of onion rings for Marcela.
“Enjoy,” she says in a tone that clearly means “Choke to death.”
I wince and peel back the buns, then the bacon, then the beef, but I don’t see any dead mice or ghost peppers hidden inside.
“Many poisons are tasteless and odorless,” Andi says helpfully.
I give her a dark look as Marcela snickers. “Thank you.”
She smirks and holds my stare. “That’s what friends are for.”
chapter twelve
“If you keep eating it, you’re not going to have anything left for your costume.”
“I don’t see why we have to waste chocolate when we really just need the packaging,” Nora grumbles.
Choo and I continue playing our video game as Crosbie and Nora bicker at the dining table. They’re putting the finishing touches on their costumes, which involves gluing a number of miniature candy bar wrappers—and a few actual bars—to sweatshirts and baseball caps. My costume, a nightstand with a hole cut out for my head and typical nightstand accents glued to the top, waits nearby. Choo’s costume—an airplane neck pillow he painted to resemble a magnet and to which he sewed a bunch of stuffed baby chicks—sits beside him on the couch. Dane got roped into helping set up for the party, so he’s not here.
“How do I look?”
I pause the game to check out Marcela when she emerges from the bathroom. She’s wearing her high school cheerleading uniform, which consists of a short white top, pink skirt and matching knee socks. She has two pom-poms clutched in her hand and has added glittering letters to her chest that read “GOOOO CEILING!”
“I don’t get it,” Choo says, frowning. “Goo ceiling?”
“Gooooo ceiling!” Marcela cheers, waving the pom-poms and kicking up her leg. “Get it? I’m a ceiling fan.”
Choo tries to look amused but winds up looking constipated instead. “Right,” he says. “Very clever.”
“You glued some chicks to a magnet,” she points out. “Don’t judge.”
Choo clutches the magnet defensively. “You know, for someo
ne who’s been badgering me to be my plus one to the Sports Banquet, you’re not very nice.”
“That’s why no one likes her,” I say, secretly relieved that she’s set her sights on someone else for an invite to the next major event.
“Ha ha,” Marcela says, uncaring. “How do I look?”
“Super hot, darling.”
“Right answer, loverboy.”
“Okay,” Crosbie calls. “Everybody ready? Let’s head out before Kellan and Marcela’s very electric chemistry makes us all sick.” A giant paper cut-out of Eminem is stapled to the front of his sweatshirt and he’s dotted all over with candy bar wrappers. Baggy jeans and a backward baseball cap round out the look. Nora’s dressed nearly identically, except her shirt features a picture of Missy Elliot.
“Work it,” Choo calls, pulling on his chick magnet and standing.
I shut off the game and Crosbie and Choo lift the nightstand so I can duck under and squeeze inside. It’s topped with a small tablecloth, a framed picture of a sailboat, a coffee cup and a toy phone.
“Candy rappers, check,” Nora says, pointing between herself and Crosbie. “Chick magnet, check. Ceiling fan, check. One night stand, check. Let’s go.”
Marcela pulls on a jacket over her skimpy outfit and sticks her feet into a pair of furry boots, then helps me squeeze out the front door.
“She still won’t tell you her costume?” she asks as we trudge down the frost-covered sidewalk. The night is dark and crisp, the stars out in full force. It’s two days before actual Halloween and just a few brave souls have dared to put jack-o-lanterns on their doorsteps. With no trick-or-treaters, the street is quiet except for our puntastic crew.
“Nope.” Andi’s being annoyingly secretive about her costume for this thing and even declined my generous offer to get ready at my place. The only nice thing she did was assure me that she wasn’t getting ready at Crick’s place, either.
“How about Nate?” I ask. “Any clue?”
“None. The last time he had a girlfriend she was in the shop all the time, but I’ve never seen his mysterious ‘date.’ I asked him today if he was still coming and he said he was. That’s as much as I’ve gotten out of him. I don’t even know why he’s coming; frat parties aren’t exactly his scene.”
“It’s probably because you told him you’d be wearing your high school cheer outfit,” Nora says dryly.
“I can’t help it if he has a thing for cheerleaders.”
“You totally could.”
“He also has a thing for puns,” she adds. “I’m not sure which he likes more.”
Two blocks away from the Frat Farm we can feel the thudding bass of the music, and I see Crosbie reach down to take Nora’s hand. I didn’t know it at the time, but Halloween is when they first hooked up last year so this is kind of their anniversary. Paired with the candy covered sweatshirts, the visual is sweet and weird at the same time.
“I’m so excited,” Marcela says, jogging in a tiny circle, her sparkly pom-poms rustling. “I haven’t been to an awesome party in forever.”
“That’s because you’ve been banned from most of them,” Crosbie calls over his shoulder.
She tips her head in acknowledgment.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask her. “Did you prepare a special cheer for Nate? Give me a coffee! Give me a tea! Give me a kiss you fucking idiot and get this charade over with!”
She gives me a dark look. “Like you and Andi are any better.”
“You know what’s going to happen?” Choo says. “Nate and Andi are going to meet and fall in love, and you two losers will be sitting by yourself at the wedding, wishing you’d made better choices.”
“Dude!” I exclaim. “Your date said maybe she’d come to this party. If we’re at this horrible wedding, you’ll be right there with us, flying solo.”
“She’s coming,” Choo says, adjusting his magnet. “She’s just playing hard to get.”
“Or maybe she’s too polite to say no to your face,” Marcela suggests.
“Go cheer for a wall,” he retorts.
“Boys and girls,” Crosbie interrupts as we approach the house. “No fighting on our anniversary.”
“This is our special night.” Nora manages to keep a straight face as shrieks of cackling witches and tortured souls spill out of the fraternity. As usual the front walkway is lined with flaming torches, the yard transformed into a garish cemetery with disturbed plots and crumbling tombstones.
Marcela rolls her eyes. “It’s such a beautiful moment.”
“I love you,” Crosbie tells Nora.
“I love you too.” She stands on her tiptoes to kiss him as a cereal killer races by, chasing two girls dressed as bottles of spice.
We shuffle into the house, my unwieldy costume helping clear a path in the throbbing mass of bodies. Most of the interior bulbs have been swapped for either red or black lights, and the music and sound effects are so loud it’s impossible to hear myself think. Someone presses a drink into my hand and I toss it back, swallowing what feels like an eyeball in the process.
Choo’s looking for his date, Marcela’s looking for Nate, and I’m looking for Andi. We’re all just using each other to not look alone.
“There she is,” Marcela says. She tries to elbow me but hits the frame of the nightstand instead and curses, rubbing her arm. She nods toward a group standing near the entrance to the kitchen, Crick towering above the crowd. At his shoulder I can see Andi’s uncharacteristically tidy bun, but I can’t make out her costume because of the sea of bodies between us. I begin to edge my way closer, greeting friends and pretending to understand their costumes, my neck and shoulders really regretting my choice of attire.
Dane spots me and waves me over. He’s dressed as a homemade superhero, with a red cape and a gold mask, the letters EGO printed across his chest. “What are you?” I shout when I squish into the circle and almost knock him over.
“Super ego!”
“Like an egomaniac?”
He stares at me for a second. “Sure! Yeah!”
I turn to greet everybody else. Crick wears antlers and a sweatshirt with OH written on the chest; next to him is a girl dressed as a cow with a halo made of silver pipe cleaners; and between us stands Andi in a little black dress with a bunch of words scrawled on it in white ink. The largest letters are written across her chest, the fabric for which dips into a deep, lace-lined V, exposing her clavicle. Nice breast dress, it reads. I frown at her, but she just drinks whatever concoction someone passed her and avoids my stare.
“Anyway,” Crick announces loudly. “As I was saying, that’s where McVey got the blow job at the May Madness party.” He points past us to the sitting room. “If you don’t believe me, there were like, twenty witnesses—just ask them.”
It feels like someone punched me in the stomach. I look at Andi but she’s looking miserably into her drink while Holy Cow giggles into hers.
“Come on, man,” Dane tries. “We don’t—”
“You hooked up with Dane’s sister, right?” Crick continues. “Was that on the back porch? Or wait—was it his cousin on the back porch and his sister in the bathroom?”
Dane already knows about the hookups, but having them thrown in his face isn’t helping matters.
“I’m sorry,” I say under my breath. “I—”
“Anyway,” Crick continues. “Back to the tour. If you look at the far corner of the living room, there’s normally a ficus plant over there. Well, at last year’s Welcome Party, McVey met this grad student...”
I back away from the group, feeling sick. I want to hit him, tackle him, tear him to pieces for doing this, but I can’t lift my arms that high with this fucking table. Besides, it’s not like what he’s saying isn’t true. I fucked Biology Grad Student behind the ficus, then again in front of the ficus. At least there was no one in the room at the time.
The bottom of the staircase that leads to the bedrooms is cordoned off with more crime scene tape, but I push my way
through and climb up as quickly as I can while shouldering a nightstand.
Dane and Choo have rooms at the end of the hall and I bump against the walls as I stumble that way, trying first Dane’s door, which is locked, then Choo’s, which is open. Maybe he was hoping his date would find her way in.
“Kellan.”
I ignore my name and hustle into the room, whacking the corner of the table so hard against the door frame that I almost fall right back out. I steady myself then slam the door shut behind me, focused on nothing but getting this stupid nightstand off.
“Kellan.” The door bangs open and hits me in the ass, pitching me forward. Only Andi snagging the back of the table stops me from face planting on the floor, my arms flapping uselessly at my hips like a penguin.
“Fuck, Andi!” I holler, whirling around as best I can. “What are you even fucking—I can’t—I’m not—Just get this thing off me.”
“Okay.” Her voice is very calm as she closes the door then steps in to grip the sides of the table. Together we ease it over my head and onto the floor, then I turn around to open the window and stay facing it, letting the cold night air wash over me.
“Just go,” I say, when she doesn’t do anything else.
“I’m sorry,” she says instead. “I joined the conversation about thirty seconds before you did. I didn’t realize what he was doing.”
I try to sound nonchalant, but fall far short. “It’s true.” I rub my hands over my face, then the back of my neck. My skin is prickling all over, hot and cold and numb at the same time. “It’s all true.”
“I know, Kellan.”
There’s no judgment in her tone, nothing smug or condescending or even sympathetic. She just knows. I glance over my shoulder and see that she’s perched on the edge of the nightstand, tugging on the hem of her little black dress.
“What are you?” I ask.
Her eyes flicker up to mine. “What?”
“Your...costume. That dress.” Nice breast dress.
“It’s a Freudian slip,” she says.
“I don’t get it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I exhale and look around the room. It’s surprisingly tidy, for a fraternity, and for Choo, who’s known for sometimes wearing other people’s shoes when he can’t find his own. The bed is made, the desk neatly organized, the wardrobe doors closed and bare of decoration. The only artwork is a poster of LeBron James mid-dunk.
Undeclared (Burnham College #2) Page 17
