“I made up that title on the spot.”
She sticks out her hand to shake. “No kidding. Thanks for coming in, Kellan. You’re facing some stiff competition, but you did a great job. I’ll see you at the banquet.”
Her manicured hand lingers in mine, and I grin at her inanely, relief making me limp and stupid. Eventually I get up, thank the director, and walk back out the way we’d come in.
The sky is already dark, a light drizzle falling. It hurts to run in these loafers, but Andi’s waiting at my place with dinner and I can’t wait to get back there. I can’t wait to tell her how fucking wonderful that was.
My hair is dripping when I step through the front door, cold droplets running down my forehead and off the tip of my nose. The house smells like warming pizza and I strip out of my wet shoes and coat and jog up the steps to find Andi dozing on the couch.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call, jolting her awake.
She sits up and rubs her hands over her face, then smiles as she sees my expression. “It went well?” she asks, pushing to her feet. “Wait—why’d I phrase that as a question? Of course it went well. You’re Kell—”
“I know who I am,” I say, pulling her in for a kiss.
“Ick,” she says, trying to pull away. “You’re so wet.”
“I’m not going to make the easy joke.”
“You’re just trying to think of one.”
“Am not.” I totally am. But I kiss her instead of arguing, a back-bending, tongue twisting kiss that makes her laugh even as she tries to kiss me back without falling down. We straighten and she plucks her now-damp T-shirt away from her stomach.
“Tell me about it,” she says.
“I forgot everything I was supposed to say,” I admit, loosening my tie. “I just stared at the camera like it was monster or something, but then I thought about everyone saying how I didn’t have to try, I’d just win for being myself, and I thought, that’s bullshit. I want to win for being awesome. And then I just...talked. I said everything I wanted to say—with my shirt on. They even applauded when it was over.”
Andi looks confused by the shirt comment, but says, “Wow. Applause?”
“I—Sorry. I mean, I don’t know who won. They were probably just being nice. I don’t want it to sound like I don’t think you did—”
“Kell.” She presses her fingers to my lips. “Stop. I know some people complain about you making everything look so easy, but I know you try. I’ve known you my whole life. Why do you think I work so hard?”
“Because you’re obsessive.”
“Because I always wanted to be better than you. Let them be intimidated. I’m going to be—”
“Inspired?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I was going to say motivated.”
I laugh and kiss her again. “Close enough.” I sniff. “When’s that pizza going to be ready? Massive success makes me hungry.”
“Twenty minutes. I just put it in.”
“Okay, cool. I’m going to take a shower.”
I start to leave, but she stops me. “Hang on,” she says. “Before you get clean...you should get a bit dirty. This humble new you is kind of appealing.”
“What? Really?”
She steps close and kisses me, her hands deftly undoing my pants and letting them pool around my feet. My boxers follow, then she’s wrapping those devious fingers around me, stroking hard and sure. She’s so fucking good at this. Why did it take me so long to understand?
“Sit down,” she murmurs, nudging me back until my knees bump the couch. I sit, parting my legs to make room for her between them. My pulse is racing, hoping this is what I think it is.
She holds my stare she kneels on the floor and slides her fingers over my calves, widening my stance. “I like the suit and tie,” she says, her mouth close enough I can feel the hot wash of her breath over my cock.
“I’ll wear them every day,” I force out.
She smiles. “Wear whatever you want. Wear nothing.”
I forget how to speak when she lowers her head and wraps those pouty lips around my cock, and coherent thought abandons me altogether when she starts to suck. All I know is that I don’t want this to end. And not just the blow job, though it’s amazing. This. Her. Us. I love it. I just have to tell her.
I close my eyes and slump against the cushions.
Later.
I’ll tell her later.
chapter seventeen
The evening of the Burnham Sports Banquet, Choo, Crosbie and I look on as Dane paces in front of my television, speaking into the end of a broomstick. It’s a blustery cold December night, the pitch black outside making the interior of my small apartment feel warm and cozy. Four empty beer bottles sit on the coffee table, interspersed by three sets of socked feet as we watch Dane’s performance.
“And of course I want to thank my parents,” he’s saying, “for raising me to give great monologues. I want to thank God, for making me so handsome, and I want to thank all the ladies in the room, for appreciating my Pitch Face.” He freezes in an exaggerated pitching stance, his lips pursed together like he’s posing for a drunk selfie.
“Boo!” Crosbie calls through his cupped hands. “Sit down! You suck!”
“You’re not very handsome!” Choo cries.
Dane points at him with the broom. “Too far.”
We crack up as he starts a new speech, this one about being thankful for his powerful throwing arm, but equally thankful for his other arm, too, so he’s balanced.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious about tonight, and not just because there’s an awesome job on the line. People have seen me and Andi around campus and generally know we’re dating, but going to the banquet together sends a message. We’re together. Kellan 1.0 is gone, Kellan 2.0 is here to stay. It’s nerve-racking, but it’s time.
It’s about thirty minutes before we’re due to leave, and the guys got ready at my place while the girls met up at Nora and Marcela’s apartment to get dressed. We’re all wearing our tuxes, jackets off and bowties loose. I’m not the only one who’s anxious; despite his bravado, Dane’s been covertly rubbing his damp palms on his dress pants for the past half hour.
“Relax,” I tell him. “We all know your date’s not real. When you’re seated beside an empty chair, we’ll pretend not to notice.”
“Ha ha,” Dane says. “I don’t know why you’re mocking me when Choo’s going with Marcela.”
“We don’t mock him because he’s already suffering,” I explain. “I’m not going to add to his pain. I’m a good friend.”
“You went from perfectly average to horrible,” Choo says, “when you didn’t intervene when she invited herself. That’s what a good friend would have done.”
“I’m not putting myself in her line of fire. She saw an opportunity for free food and she took it.”
“She saw an opportunity to see your face up close when you lose tonight,” Dane corrects, “and she took that. And two cameras.”
I concede the point. “True.”
“Speaking of dates,” Choo says. “Let’s talk about Andi.”
“What about her?”
“Is she your girlfriend now? That’s the rumor.”
“There’s no need for rumors. She’s a girl and she’s my friend.” I haven’t actually asked her to be my girlfriend, but I think she knows. “I like her,” I add. Then for good measure and good karma I also add, “I really like her.”
Their eyebrows fly up as though I’ve just confessed to killing her. “Ooh!” Dane exclaims, clapping his hands together. “Go on.”
“That’s it,” I say. I point at Choo. “She’s not crazy.” I point at Dane. “She’s not imaginary.” I point at Crosbie. “And she’s not...Crosbie.”
“It’s not fair to expect her to be perfect,” he says reasonably.
“We’re here, bitches!”
We all jolt as the front door bangs open and Marcela’s voice whips in alongside a gust of frosty air.
High-heeled footsteps stomp up the stairs and we watch as the girls come into view, Marcela in the lead in a skin-tight gold dress that makes her look like she’s been sculpted by very gifted hands. Nora’s behind her in a lacy black sheath, her attention focused on Crosbie, who’s equally focused on her. I’d cringe at their smitten-ness, but then Andi enters and I forget I’m disgusted. She’s wearing a strapless blue dress that reaches the floor, showing off her toned shoulders and arms. She left her hair down, curled slightly at the ends, and she looks phenomenal.
“Wow,” I exclaim, springing to my feet. “Andi...wow. You’re... I don’t know what to say.”
“What’s new?” she asks.
“You’re beautiful.” I brush a kiss over her cheek. “And your hair... I’m kind of obsessed. I never get to see it down.”
“I know. That’s why...” She trails off.
“For me?”
“Just for tonight. It’ll probably get caught in a door and ripped out.”
“I’ll hold all the doors for you.”
She smiles. “A perfect gentlemen.”
I lean in so my lips touch her ear. “Then later I’ll hold it in my fists while I fuck you from behind.”
She shivers when she laughs. “Even more perfect.”
We linger for another ten minutes before putting on our coats and driving to the banquet hall in separate cars. The hall is in the middle of campus, near the administration buildings and a small set of staff residences. Like the rest of the structures, they’re made of old brick and covered in twining ivy, frost-covered leaves glimmering in the light. The trees out front are draped with white fairy lights that wink as we hurry toward heavy wooden doors engraved with the school’s insignia.
The foyer is crowded with people waiting for the coat check, the tiny space too hot in contrast to the icy air outside. The dress code for the banquet is formal and everyone looks like they’re here to either host the show or receive an award. There’s a photographer snapping pictures and two starch-collared servers flank the entrance to the hall with trays of sparkling cider. Faint classical music wafts through the doors along with the din of hushed voices and clinking glassware.
“Wow,” Andi murmurs when we get our coats checked and make our way inside. “This is amazing.”
I don’t disagree. The enormous hall is lined with four of the longest tables I’ve ever seen, each covered in a white tablecloth and so many glasses and pieces of cutlery I worry I won’t remember how to eat. The building itself is more than a hundred years old and still boasts gilt-framed paintings of its founders, heavy metal wall sconces, and chandeliers with flickering candles instead of bulbs.
At odds with the old-fashioned ambiance is the large screen at the back of the stage, prepared to broadcast backstage winner interviews live after each award presentation.
The various sports teams are seated together, with me and Crosbie at the table on the far right, the baseball team beside us at table two, and the basketball team on the opposite side of the room.
“This is where we part ways,” Choo says, pointing to the left. “I’ll mention you in my acceptance speech.”
“Losers don’t make speeches,” Dane informs him.
“Forget them,” Marcela says. “Mention me.”
“You get what you deserve,” I tell him when he looks at me for help.
“Who got what?” a deep voice asks.
We turn to see Crick approaching. He wears a white tux and looks like a huge douche, but that’s not the surprising part. The shocker is his pint-sized and very familiar date.
“Jack—Jazzy,” I say, trying not to look stunned. “Hi.”
She sniffs. “Hey.”
“Oh right,” Crick says dryly. “You two know each other.”
“Not really,” Jazzy says.
“Not at all,” I add.
He nods at Andi. “Hey. You look nice.”
“Thanks, you too.”
That’s enough of that. “We should take our seats,” I say, steering her away. “Enjoy the show.”
“You know,” Andi whispers as we hustle off, “it’s possible to be civil to people you used to date.”
“I can be civil,” I reply. “You should be scornful. Mock him. Hate him!”
“All right,” she says drolly. “Next time.”
I pull out her chair, then push it in as she sits. Crosbie and Nora do the same on the opposite side, and servers immediately swoop in to offer us our choice of beverage.
The centerpieces are bare branches in glass vases, the wood spray painted silver and off-set with red berries and tiny pinecones. Each name card has a tiny picture of an athlete stamped at the top.
“Are any members of the volleyball team here?”
“A couple of the fourth-years, that’s it. I’m not sure where they’re sitting.” She drums her unpainted fingernails on the table, making the water in her glass tremble.
I cover her hand with mine. “Nervous?”
She glances around. “I feel like a fraud. This dress. These painted branches. You. What am I doing here?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look around, Kellan. Everyone’s watching us. Watching you.”
I got used to the attention pretty quickly in my first year. At first I coveted it, then I reveled in it, then I forgot about it. Now a covert glimpse tells me that Andi’s not mistaken. Lots of people are watching us, taking note. Wondering if she’s just my date or something more.
And that’s when I know it’s time to stop postponing the inevitable. It’s entirely possible that everyone else in this room knows I love Andi, but not the woman herself. Because I’ve never mustered up the nerve to admit it to myself, and certainly not to her.
“Hey,” I say, leaning in. “After the show—”
“Hair pulling,” she replies. “I know. Can’t wait.”
“No. Well, yeah, but that’s not—”
“Mr. McVey?”
I do a double-take at the sound of my last name and twist in my seat to see one of the servers hovering, an older, skinny guy that will probably be Crick in twenty years.
“Yes?”
“Coach Lungull would like to see you.”
“Er...” I look around warily. “Where?”
“Back stage.”
“Guess we know who won,” someone says.
I try to ignore the stares and whispers as I follow the server down the narrow walkway between the table and the wall, but I’m fully aware of the weight of the room’s attention. Now that I’m feeling it, it seems impossible that I ever could have forgotten. Though instead of making me want to take off my shirt and preen, it feels stifling and controlling. Like having the attention was a job in and of itself, a responsibility. Like my name was a definition and not an identity.
We pass the front of the stage just as the spotlight brightens and Dean Ripley approaches the microphone, his bearded face, straining pot belly, and custom Versace suit making him look like a very wealthy Santa Claus.
“Good evening,” he says. The room returns the greeting and the rest of his speech is cut off as the heavy metal stage door closes behind us and blocks out all sound. There’s a short, brightly lit hallway that connects to the side stage door, and in front of that is a little alcove with a green screen, two stools arranged in front of it, and those daunting cameras. Ivanka Ling is perched on a seat, eyes closed as a makeup artist brushes powder on her face.
“Stay here,” the server instructs me. “I’ll find your coach.”
Ivanka opens her eyes and spots me, smiling slowly. “Hi, Kellan.”
“Hi, Ivanka. You look nice.” She does. She looks gorgeous, in fact. Like a perfectly polished mannequin, her expression gives away nothing about tonight’s winner.
She gestures to her red lace dress. “This old thing? It seemed like the right outfit for a dingy hallway chat with the athletes after they’ve won. Kind of a nice segue way to the announcement, don’t you think?”
I’m sa
ved from responding when Coach approaches from the far end of the hall, the harried-looking server hustling past. “McVey,” he rasps hoarsely.
“Hi,” I say. “You sound...different.”
“I’m sick,” he says bluntly. “And we’ve got the team MVP award later and I need you to present it.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.” He gestures vaguely toward Ivanka. “I mean, you auditioned for this thing right? You like talking, people seem to listen to you, and you’re on the team. I’d ask Crosbie but he’d probably do some trick to make the plaque disappear.”
“They’re illusions.”
“What?” He coughs into a tissue. “Doesn’t matter. We’re the last award of the evening. Someone will come get you when it’s time.”
“What do I say?”
“You say yes, obviously.”
“No, I mean, when I’m presenting.”
“There’s a cue card. It’s basic stuff. You just read.”
“Okay, but—”
“Good. Go enjoy your dinner.”
Everyone’s watching when I return to the banquet hall, looking for some sign that I’ve just been secretly told I’ve won.
“Coach is sick,” I announce when I retake my seat. “He asked me to present the team award later.”
Appetizers were delivered while I was gone, tiny mushroom tarts topped with micro greens. Everyone’s plate is empty but mine, and I pick up my fork self-consciously, aware of the heavy pause as they wait for the punch line. And I got the job!
“That’s it,” I say. “I don’t know anything else.”
“Congrats,” Andi says. “It’s a nice compliment that he picked you.”
Maybe last year—or even last month—being asked would have meant something to me. But right now it just feels like another interruption, something to distract me from the things that really matter.
“You should do an illusion,” Crosbie suggests, reaching over to steal a mushroom. “I know this one where it looks like you break the—”
“Don’t do that,” Nora interrupts. “Just hand out the award.” To Crosbie she adds, “This is probably why Coach didn’t ask you.”
The next two hours pass slowly. They pause the awards for each new course of food and play clips of Ivanka interviewing the winners backstage. It’s equal parts funny and awkward, and if they intended it to be a constant reminder of the job that’s at stake, it works. Dozens of people in the room probably auditioned, and tension ratchets up as the night wears on. The food is great and the wine is free, but I can barely consume either. No one can. We’re all waiting for the same thing, and it’s not the chocolate cake.
Undeclared (Burnham College #2) Page 25
