“Why?”
Instead of answering she lifts up, dislodging my fingers from between her legs, and slowly, carefully works herself onto my cock. I grip the base and lean back against the steps, watching as she takes me in, sexy and determined.
The smooth skin on her chest is flushed, her muscles are trembling, and when she’s fully seated she rests her knees on the stairs and exhales as though she’s just finished a workout.
“Why?” I repeat, brushing the edge of my thumb over her clit.
She shudders and struggles to keep her eyes open as she rises up, then slides back down, finding her comfort zone, finding her rhythm. For a minute I forget the question, the raw visual of Andi Walsh fucking me chasing all other coherent thoughts from my brain. She’s good at everything she puts her mind to, and in no time at all she’s got this down, riding me fast and hard and deep and slow and everything in between, figuring out what feels best for her and trying to kill me in the process.
I keep one hand between us to stroke her clit and use the other to squeeze her ass in an unsuccessful attempt to guide her movements.
Andrea Walsh is fucking me.
This is the best moment of my whole life.
“Kell,” she gasps.
“What?” I gasp back.
“I... She struggles to inhale. “I don’t have...” Another breath. “A journal...” Her eyes sink shut as she starts to come. “But if I did...” She shudders. “This would be page one.”
I didn’t really think Andi kept a journal of sex acts she wanted to try, but learning that she has a mental list and I’m on it is an enormous turn-on. I’ve acted out a lot of fantasies with a lot of people, but I don’t think I’ve ever been the star of any of theirs. Not the real me, anyway. Maybe the idea of me, the guy on the wall, the guy with the letter jacket and the reputation, but not this me.
The same tightness that always seems to show up when I’m with Andi returns, and this time it’s accompanied by an orgasm that I’m pretty sure knocks me unconscious for a few seconds. I feel it rocketing up and down my spine, my toes and my calves and my thighs. I’m vaguely aware of my hands gripping Andi’s hips too hard, holding her still while I come inside her.
When we’re both exhausted she slumps forward and I weakly slide my arms around her back, the only form of cuddling I’ve ever done. That we’ve ever done. Eventually the chill in the air cools the sweat on our bodies and Andi peels herself off and stands on shaky legs, collecting her things.
“Stay,” I say. I’m not under the impression she’s about to walk out the door naked, but just in case.
She glances at me, uncharacteristically shy. “Okay.”
She climbs up the stairs and I’m too drained to even watch her ass as she goes. I hear the bathroom door close and after a minute I gather up my clothes and make my way into my bedroom to tidy up.
By the time she comes out of the bathroom I’m in the kitchen with a frozen pizza in one hand and a box of mac and cheese in the other. “Hungry?”
She points to the pizza. “Starving.”
I stick it in the oven and set the timer for twenty minutes, then pour us both a glass of water. We take the drinks to the couch and sit side-by-side, staring at the dark television. We’ve done this a million times before too, but now everything feels different. Like there’s an unspoken understanding, like we’re official.
I reach down and take her hand, watching our fingers twine together.
I think about what Crosbie said, how Andi and I are not just friends anymore and it’s nobody’s business anyway.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks at me. “What?”
“Want to come to Crosbie’s magic show on December eleventh?”
She blinks. “I...What?”
“It’s at Beans again. The coffee shop in town?”
It takes her a second to answer. “I know it.”
“Do you want to come with me? As my date?”
She looks a little shell-shocked when she turns to face forward, staring at the blank screen. “Sure,” she says.
* * *
I spend the next day preparing for next Wednesday’s film class. I pick up the text and my laptop and start getting my thoughts in order.
What did you learn from any or all of these films?
I skim the list of titles, movies I never would have watched had Bertrand not marched me to class each day. 8 ½. Citizen Kane. Battleship Potemkin. Umberto D. Chinatown. Network. The Graduate.
If you’d asked me before this class, I’d have said the only good movies were new movies. Special effects and big scares and bigger laughs. Never in my life would I have chosen any of the ones we watched, totally failing to understand and appreciate that there’s a reason something endures.
Some of the movies were the first of their kind, some are simply the best. But in every instance they were true to themselves. They weren’t pandering to what was popular or people thought they were supposed to be, they were real. Original.
When I finally stop typing and squint at the monitor, I’m surprised to see just how much I’ve written. Normally an essay is a tedious thing for me, but this one feels right. I work on the outline for the rest of the day, committing it to memory as best I can since we’re not allowed to bring anything more than a pen into the class. But I don’t care. I’m ready. I’m not even annoyed when I step out the front door on Wednesday to find Bertrand on the sidewalk nursing a protein shake.
“Ready for this?” he asks as we start toward campus.
“Yep.”
He looks at me, surprised. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“Where’s your friend?”
“Probably in the auditorium.”
“You break up already?”
“No. Did you ask Ms. Shaw to the film festival?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“She said no, didn’t she?”
“She said yes, you ass.”
“Did you compliment the feather thing?”
“It’s called a fascinator. I learned about fascinators for fifteen minutes after I mentioned it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m not thanking you. And I officially declared your major.”
“As sociology or something you made up?”
“Sociology. Who knows where you’ll go with it, but if these past months have shown me anything, it’s that you’re not terrible when you commit yourself to an idea.”
“Obviously.”
He rolls his eyes. “Good luck today.”
“Good luck to you on Friday.”
“I don’t need luck.”
I enter the auditorium, passing through a check point where they scan us for electronic devices. I surrender my phone and get a pick-up card for later, distracted by the fact that I can’t see Andi in our usual spot. I find her on the opposite side of the stairs and stop next to her seat. “Hey.”
She looks up from where she’s been twiddling her pen. “Hey.”
“What are you doing over here?” The last time she chose to sit somewhere else was because I’d fucked up again. I haven’t seen her since our reunion on the stairs, so I’m praying I haven’t managed to somehow fuck up in absentia.
“Concentrating.”
“Why don’t you sit where we usually sit?”
“Because I can’t concentrate with you next to me.”
“Because I’m so dreamy?”
“Because you mumble while you’re thinking.”
“I do not.”
“And you drool,” says a dread-inducing voice from over my shoulder.
I no longer lurch in surprise. I have come to expect Marcela’s sneak attacks. “What are you doing here, Marcela?”
“It’s an in-class essay. I have to be here.”
“You barely showed up for the classes.”
She gives me a broad wink. “I have an excellent tutor.”
I mock gag at the thought of Nate “tutoring” some
body. “Stop being disgusting.”
Ms. Shaw clears her throat and taps the microphone. I wish Andi good luck, ignore Marcela, and take my seat on the other side of the stairs.
We listen to the standard lecture about cheating and its very severe consequences, then Ms. Shaw posts the question on the screen at the front, sets the timer, and tells us to start writing.
When I apply myself, I do well enough in my classes. I figured I’d do well with this one, but not only do I do well, I do great. I can’t remember the last time I wrote this much, and I write until my hand hurts and my wrist aches, but I don’t stop until I have the essay I rehearsed. I’m vaguely aware of a couple of students handing in their pages and passing me on their way up the stairs, but it’s only when I turn in my paper and start to leave that I realize the auditorium is almost as full as it was when I started. I check my watch: still fifty minutes to go.
Andi looks up when I pass, the question clear on her face: Are you okay? I give her a covert thumbs up then collect my phone and leave the room. I’ve taken two steps outside when the texts start rolling in: Choo, Dane, Crosbie, and half a dozen others talking about the upcoming auditions for She Shoots, She Scores. They sent out another email with more instructions for the audition process, and now it’s all anyone can talk about.
I message the guys to tell them I’m finished with the class and they write back immediately to say they’re having lunch at The Sling. They invite me to join them and I invite them to get their burgers to go—there’s no way I’m setting foot inside that place. They don’t ask why; they know me well enough. Half an hour, three burgers, and one chicken wrap later, we’re polishing off lunch in one of the campus food courts and analyzing the audition instructions. Be yourself, but be awesome. Talk sports—but not too much. Be charming, but not more so than Ivanka. Have a gimmick—but don’t be gimmicky. Y’know. Easy.
And yet somehow, these guys already know exactly what they’re going to say. Crosbie’s planning a one-minute monologue where he rants about any given sports topic while lifting weights—he plans to call the segment Weight For It. Dane, who pitches, wants to do a bit he calls Pitch Face, where they capture stills of pitchers’ faces mid-pitch and make fun of them. Choo wants to do a piece called Light It Up that features spectacular moments in sports that got the audience on their feet. Naturally, it involves holding a tiki torch.
“What about you?” Crosbie asks, eating his last four fries in one bite. “Got any ideas?”
“Not yet,” I hedge, unwilling to admit I haven’t even thought about it. “I’m considering a few things.”
“Shirts Off with Kellan McVey,” Dane intones. “A feature where Kellan McVey talks about things—doesn’t matter what—with his shirt off.”
The guys laugh.
“Very funny,” I say. “I can talk about stuff.”
“Stuff with Kellan McVey,” Choo says in his best announcer voice. “A show about stuff hosted by a guy with dimples and no shirt!”
“I can also wear shirts.”
“Shirts with Kellan McVey,” Crosbie says, speaking into his water bottle like it’s a microphone. “The lowest rated program on television. Take off your shirt!”
I toss a crumpled up napkin at him. “You’re all assholes.”
“You know we’re teasing,” Dane says. “If you show up for that audition, we’re all second place losers.”
“That’s not true,” I say, ignoring the nagging feeling that Andi had said very much the same thing.
“We’ll need you to wear multiple shirts.”
“That’s not going to hide the dimples.”
“And a plastic bag over your head.”
“Andi’s auditioning, right?” Crosbie asks. “I heard she got a spot.”
“Ah, yeah. I think she’s doing something about runners up. People and teams who came in second. It’s about losers but it’s meant to be inspiring.”
They all look perplexed.
“Hey, Kellan,” a couple of girls call as they pass by.
“Hey.” I smile politely, but I don’t get that same rush of pride I used to get when strangers knew my name. When hot stranger girls knew my name. For so long all I wanted was to get out of Avilla and its stifling smallness, and for two years Burnham felt like the answer. Now I’m not so sure that’s true. The life I constructed at Burnham is not the life I want anymore.
“The list has to go,” I announce.
The guys stare at me. “What are we talking about?” Choo asks.
“In the Student Union building. My list. I need to paint over it.”
Dane looks confused. “This feels like it’s coming out of left field.”
Crosbie frowns. “Didn’t you try that and get arrested?”
“Technically I was escorted out and banned from ever returning. What’d you use last year when you painted your list?”
“We had some paint in the basement at the frat house.”
“Do you still have it?”
Dane looks very reluctant. “Yeah, but dude—you can’t go back to the Student Union Building. They know you.”
“No,” I say firmly. “They don’t. That’s the point. They think they know me, but they don’t.”
Choo looks perplexed. “The security guards?”
“The whole campus. They just see that sex list. The gonnorhea thing. The dimples. The no shirt thing—which, for the record, was just something I tried for one week and no one will let me forget.”
“It was the longest week ever.”
“Also, it was more like three weeks.”
“Anyway,” I interrupt. “I came to Burnham looking for a fresh start. And now I want another one. And that list is holding me back.”
The guys look extremely doubtful. “What’s motivating this?” Crosbie asks.
“Andi,” I answer before I know I’m going to. “She—I—”
“She told you to paint it?”
“No. She just... Being with her made me see that maybe I didn’t need a new life, I just needed to look at the life I had a little bit differently.”
“That’s actually kind of nice,” Choo says. “I thought for sure the reason would be stupid or shallow.”
I finish my drink. “Let’s just get this paint.”
“There’s no ‘us’ in this situation,” Dane says adamantly. “Your dad’s in California. My dad’s in Poly Sci building. He can still murder me.”
“The Poly Sci building is like three miles from here.”
He points over my shoulder. “It’s right there. You really don’t know anything.”
I stand and check covertly behind me. The Poly Sci building is thirty feet away. Well. Anyway. “We’re doing this. Let’s go.” And then, since it’s for her benefit, I text Andi and tell her to meet me at the bathrooms when she finishes her essay.
The guys complain the whole way to the Frat Farm, and even louder when we get locked in the basement and have to crawl out the window.
“It could be worse,” I say as I pull Choo through. “Nate could be here.”
“Who?”
I scoop up a can of paint from the cold grass and we trudge back around to the front of the house. Neither Dane nor Choo has a car, and Crosbie and I both walked, so we retrace our steps to the campus. Everyone has a paintbrush in their pocket except Dane, who insisted I carry his so he doesn’t get caught with it if we bump into his dad and he decides to search our pockets.
Early afternoon on a Wednesday means the Student Union Building is packed and we stand out no more than any other people aiming for the elevators. The tiny flaw in our plan presents itself when we reach the fourth floor and see actual students in the bathrooms.
“Right,” Crosbie says. “We came so late last year that they were empty.”
Dane claps his hands. “I guess we should just go!”
I ignore him. “Someone give me a piece of paper and a pen. Choo, go back down to the lobby and get one of those Wet Floor signs that are everywhere.”
We’re still waiting for Choo when two football players come out of the room.
“McVey,” they say in unison, nodding at me like we’re brothers in arms and brothers in bathroom sex lists.
“Hey,” I say, hopefully for the last time.
The elevator arrives and Choo steps out as they step in. I enter the bathroom to make sure it’s empty, then we prop the Wet Floor sign in front of the door and shuffle inside. Even though I was in here not too long ago with Jazzy, it’s still a little bit shocking to see the lists again, the walls of each stall filled with names and numbers, each meaning something different to everyone involved, directly or otherwise.
“Remind me why we’re doing this?” Dane mumbles, visibly stressed.
“So I can show Andi she’s different and that I care about her,” I reply.
“Why don’t you just tell her?”
“Because showing is better than telling.” I learned that in film class.
Choo’s frowning. “In my experience, you should do both. Tell her you like her. Tell her you love her, if that’s true.”
“You have, like, zero experience.”
“I do,” Crosbie says before Choo can retort. “And Choo’s right. Even though it may seem like it sometimes, women aren’t mind readers. If you like her, you have to tell her. If you want her to be your girlfriend, ask her. Did you invite her to the Sports Banquet?”
I’m halfway distracted by trying to lever the lid off the paint can. “No,” I grunt. With everything else that’s been going on, I’d totally forgotten about it. “But I did invite her to your magic show, so you’re welcome.”
The guys wince and I frown. “What?”
“The banquet’s in three weeks! Everyone has dates. Everyone knows what they’re wearing. Except you, apparently.”
“It’ll be fine,” I mutter. “You’ll see.”
I get the lid off the paint can, pull out the paintbrushes, then shove open the door to the third stall where my list resides. It’s there, just as I remember. But unlike the last time, there’s a new addition to the top of the list, and it’s the only entry in the entire stall that’s written in red.
Undeclared (Burnham College #2) Page 22
