The Fifteenth Minute

by Sarina Bowen

  And then I have a really ugly thought. Lianne has no idea she’s been hanging out with a guy who’s been accused of hurting a woman. If the next magazine bothers to get the real story on me, that would be an ugly little photo caption. The thought makes me feel suddenly sick to my stomach. If it got out, Lianne would be right there in the middle of my scandal. I’d be dragging her down into the muck with me.

  Defeated by this idea, I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in my pillow.

  When my email dings a moment later, I open up the app, expecting to see my father’s name. He’s not a screamer—never has been. Who ever heard of a hot-headed forensic accountant?

  But the new email isn’t from my dad. It’s from the grad student who runs my French history seminar on Thursday nights. I wouldn’t bother to open it right now, except that something in the subject line catches my eye. So I click.

  Dear students,

  Due to the renovation of Cruxley Hall, our weekly meeting place has been reassigned. Please find me tomorrow at our usual time in the Trindle House seminar room, which is located off the dining hall. Enter the Trindle House courtyard at the College Street gate and take the first entryway on the left. Text me if you can’t get in the gate, and someone will come out to fetch you.

  Until tomorrow,

  Davis

  I reread it three times, hoping it doesn’t say what I think it says. But it does.

  For anyone else at Harkness, this room reassignment is just a tiny adjustment in their daily routine. For me? A huge problem. Attending the weekly seminar is twenty percent of my French history grade. And now that hour-long session has been relocated to a residential house, where I’m not permitted to go. Even worse it’s Trindle, which is my house. And my accuser’s.

  That’s it. My limit is hit. That’s all the bullshit I can take in one day.

  My temper flares so hot and bright that before I know what I’m doing, I’ve yanked the calculus textbook off my bed and hurled it across the all-too-narrow expanse of my room, where it smacks the doorframe with a thunderous crash, and then drops loudly to the floor.

  And what’s worse? This display of toddlerhood hasn’t even made me feel better. Getting off the bed, I kick the book out of my way and head for the kitchen. I’m neither hungry or thirsty, but I just can’t sit in that little cell any longer.

  In the living room, my brother looks up from the video game he’s playing with Orsen. It’s like he fucking lives here. “Hey, Deej,” he says. “Want to play a round of RealStix?”

  No, actually. I’d rather beat you with the controller. “Why the fuck did you show that picture to Dad?” I demand. “Like he’s not already on my case? You had to make my pile of bullshit deeper?”

  He pauses the game, setting the controller aside, and Orsen doesn’t say a word. “I didn’t show him. I told him about it, though. Look—maybe that wasn’t too smart of me. But I thought it was a moment of levity, you know?”

  “I don’t have those,” I say through gritted teeth. Leo wouldn’t understand, anyway. His greatest challenges are which video game to play before practice, and what’s on the menu in the dining hall.

  Leo cringes. “Dude, I’m sorry.”

  “He’s so pissed. He hung up on me.”

  “Dad?” His voice is incredulous. “You sure?”

  “Am I sure?” Yeah, I want to punch Leo. A nice uppercut to his smug jaw, maybe. “Like I don’t know when someone hangs up on me? I think Dad is worried I’ll sully the family name. That maybe your NHL recruiters will run away.” It’s more truth-telling than I’d planned on. But Dad’s concern eats at me sometimes. He’s always cared a lot about how things look.

  “What?” Leo frowns up at me. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Except I don’t think it is. “Really? You want to tell me you never had that thought?”

  Now my brother looks guilty. “I have a lot of stupid thoughts, Deej. I mean—I worry I’m going to lose the game if I put my right skate on before my left one.”

  “Oh, the horror,” I scoff. Then I stomp back into my room. Fucking Leo. His team might get another shot at the Frozen Four in ten weeks. After that he’s going to graduate and move up to an NHL farm team, probably.

  I’ll be looking forward to a summer job at the seafood place again. And maybe staying there for the rest of my life.

  My calculus book is still on the floor, so I bend down to retrieve it. A pair of high-tops appears in my line of vision. When I stand up, I find they belong to Orsen. “Hey, Deej?”

  “Yeah,” I grunt, expecting him to ask, what’s your fucking problem?

  “I need an extra hour of practice. Grab your bag, man. Come take some shots at me.”

  “Can’t,” I say automatically. Though I haven’t worn a pair of skates in a long time—too long. There’s probably nothing I’d enjoy more than spending the next hour firing pucks at Orsen.

  “Need the help, man,” he says, tapping the old molding. He frowns at me, his big face stern underneath three days of scruff. “Let’s go. Meet me in the car in five.” He walks away.

  “Hey!” I call after him, still feeling belligerent. “I didn’t say I’d go!”

  The only response is the back door opening and closing again. What the hell? Just because he’s rented me this room, now I’m his slave?

  After another moment standing there seething, I realize there’s no way I can do more school work right now. The walls of my little room are practically closing in on me. Once again I’m feeling my Napoleon complex. Not because I’m short—because I’m exiled.

  I get my hockey gear out from under my bed and I follow him out to the car.

  15

  Crazy in Love

  Lianne

  All I want to do is see DJ. Or text him. Or call him. My mind has become a continuous loop of craving, punctuated by blushing and the occasional giggle. I sound like Janice from Friends. At least I don’t have that eighties hairdo.

  The good news is that my photographer has fled Connecticut. I hacked into his website to find a bunch of photos he’d taken at his sister’s wedding in New London on Sunday, an event that explained his showing up in this part of the state. Even better—the next set of pictures, taken yesterday, were of Justin Bieber arriving at LAX.

  Good riddance, Buzz.

  In the minus column, twentieth-century theater class continues to be a grind, though I manage to arrive to the next class early to snag a good seat. I’m so early, in fact, that the only people in the room are the skinny professor and Hosanna, the redhead who’d said she wanted to read Neil Simon. She’s standing with the professor, and they’re looking over the syllabus together. But the conversation is not going well.

  “I don’t understand why you took this class if you can’t do all the reading,” he says in a grumpy voice.

  “We, um…” She glances in my direction, as if wishing she did not have an audience. “It’s just these two plays. You can assign me something else instead.”

  “Hosanna, when I assign Harvey Fierstein to my students, it’s not a political act. It’s not a moral decision. We read about Arnold’s homosexuality not to push an agenda but to understand where American theater was in the nineteen-eighties.”

  “I know that, sir,” she says in a voice so low that I almost cannot hear her. “But I follow my church’s rules to keep peace with my father. It’s a compromise I make so that I can stay at this school.”

  Fascinated, I am hanging on their every word, staring down at my phone in my hand, though the screen is dark.

  “It’s not a compromise at all when you let someone else tell you what you can read,” he presses. “The point of a liberal arts education is to learn to think for yourself. And to do that, you have to read things that expand your experience.”

  Neither the professor nor Hosanna says anything for a moment, and I have no idea who will cave in.

  “I won’t be reading those two plays,” she says finally. “If it won’t work to assign me something else,
I’ll lose points on my grade instead. That’s my only choice.”

  She takes a step backward, as if finishing the conversation. But he holds up a hand. “I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t have to read those two plays, but I don’t want you skipping the discussions. You don’t have to contribute, but you should listen.”

  “Okay,” she agrees quietly.

  After that weird little drama, the class itself is as dull as usual. In fact, nothing else holds my attention at all. Not my school work. Not DragonFire. Not even the Scottish play. I’ve basically stumbled through the last forty-eight hours, looking for DJ whenever I’m walking around campus. And lord help me if I actually find him. I’m a little afraid of my own reaction. Hopefully I’ll be able to keep cool enough to avoid blurting out, “Forget Shakespeare, let’s rehearse a sex scene!”

  The only task I can focus on is the one DJ gave me. I’ve compiled an excellent playlist for the women’s hockey game on Saturday. All that’s left is practicing with the rink’s soundboard.

  The rink schedule shows a gap from three to four o’clock, between the women’s team practice and the men’s. I needed a few minutes alone with the sound system so if there is anything confusing, I can ask DJ before Saturday.

  I don’t want to ask, though. I just want to impress him with my competence. People don’t expect me to be competent. They think that because I’ve done a lot of smiling into the camera, that’s all I can manage.

  DJ’s different. He listens when I talk. And he gave me this little DJ gig without a moment’s hesitation. So I’m going to do the best damn job that’s ever been done at a women’s game.

  My playlist? It’s epic. I have all the music figured out. But I have to make sure I know how the soundboard works, or nobody will hear it.

  The main doors to the rink are open, so getting into the building is no problem. The last hurdle is getting into the press box. But I’ve found that if you walk around like you belong somewhere—with your shoulders thrown back and your chin held high—people rarely stop you.

  So I “screw my courage to the sticking place,” as Lady M says, and I march around the mezzanine level toward the press box.

  But, damn it, the ice isn’t empty like I thought it would be. There are two guys down there practicing. Are they going to be pissed if I test the sound system?

  Pausing in the student section, I try to figure out who they are. Since they’re suited up from head to toe in hockey gear, it’s not easy to guess. But I decide the goalie is Orsen, since he’s the only goalie I know. The other guy? It’s hard to say. He’s wearing a plain red jersey, which tells me nothing. His skating is so fast and fluid it looks like flying. He skates backward in a perfect arc, dribbling a puck with his stick, then reverses direction, crossing the ice in front of the goal.

  He shoots so suddenly that I almost miss it. Before I register what’s happening, his arm sweeps forward and the puck is airborne. Orsen reacts at superhuman speed and snatches the puck out of the air. Then he chuckles.

  I don’t hear the other guy’s response, because he’s skating backward again, facing away from me. He picks up another puck from the blue line. But then a third player sweeps onto the ice and challenges him for it. So red jersey changes tack, stickhandling the puck away from the new guy, zipping incredibly fast across the gleaming surface. His pursuer can’t quite catch him.

  Watching hockey is like watching a high-speed car chase, and I’m loving it.

  Red jersey evades his challenger, changes direction, then snaps the puck at Orsen. The goalie dives, but he’s too late. The puck whistles into the corner of the net.

  “Fuck,” Orsen complains as red jersey hoots in victory. “Yeah, yeah.” The goalie chuckles.

  The new guy punches red jersey in the arm, then points up into the stands at me.

  Whoops. I’m busted for ogling hockey players.

  But then it gets worse. When red jersey lifts off his helmet, I realize that I’m really busted. Because it’s DJ staring up at me.

  My face is beginning to turn the same color as his jersey as I give the three of them a stiff wave and then stumble along toward the press box.

  Luckily, the door opens for me, and I duck inside and close it behind me. I never expected to see DJ here. He’s going to think I’m a crazy stalker lady.

  I get right down to business, hooking up my laptop to the soundboard. The connections work exactly the way I’d expect. Yet when I start up a playlist, no sound booms from the rink’s speaker system.

  It’s probably just a software problem, and those are my specialty. I let the playlist run, and I begin checking my computer’s output settings. When that doesn’t work, I take a closer look at the soundboard, fiddling with the levers.

  Finally, I hear music. Unfortunately, the song suddenly blasting through the speakers is Beyoncé’s Crazy in Love. Whoa. Paging Dr. Freud. I scramble to change it to something. Anything. I double click on Chelsea Dagger and slump into the chair in relief. That’s when the door flies open and DJ walks in, his hair wet from the shower.

  “Nice Beyoncé tune,” he says with a smirk.

  Damn. “I prepped an all-female playlist for the women’s game,” I say quickly.

  His eyes open a little wider. “Hey, that’s a great idea. They’re going to love it.”

  The praise makes me feel all squishy inside. Or maybe it’s just the sound of his smoky voice. Either way, I’m humming inside and out. “They might not even notice.”

  “They will.” DJ crosses to the desk that runs the length of the press box and parks his hip against it. “How are things with you?”

  “With me?” I think about you night and day. “Fine. I just wanted to look over the system again before the game.”

  “Graham can help you if you run into any snags,” he says, folding his gorgeous arms across his chest. “I made sure he was planning to be in here on Saturday.”

  See? Even DJ has a plan for my incompetence. “But Graham has a job to do. I’ll get it right without his help.”

  “I have no doubt.” The words are soft, and I like the sound of them. But I don’t like that he’s way over there, practically in the next zip code.

  “I’ve been studying,” I add. “For Saturday.”

  “Yeah? Working on your playlist?”

  “Well, of course. But I don’t think you understand what I’m like when I get my hooks into a project. I’ve been studying the game, because the music between plays depends on what’s happening down on the ice.”

  DJ’s lips twitch. “That’s true, my little apprentice.”

  “What did I say about the short jokes?” But it’s a false complaint. He can call me whatever he wants as long as I get more kisses. “Go on, then. Quiz me on the hand signals.”

  Smiling now, DJ hops off the desk. “Okay. What does this mean?” He lifts one bent arm and touches his elbow.

  “Easy one. That’s the penalty call for elbowing.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Look at you! Okay. What’s this?” He makes the washout sign, both palms facing the ice, arms spread wide.

  “No goal!”

  DJ nods appreciatively. “You aren’t easy to stump. One more.” He makes the letter C with one hand then lifts it toward his face.

  “Um…” God, I don’t know that one. “Contact to the head?” I guess.

  “Nope.” He grins. “It means I really need a drink.”

  I tear a page from my notebook, wad it up and throw it at him. He ducks just in time for the ball to fly over his head.

  We’re both smiling at each other now, but he’s still several feet further away than I want him. “You want to get some coffee?” I blurt out. “I’m done here.”

  His face falls, and my heart bobbles. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Too busy today?” There’s something in his expression which tells me I don’t really want to hear the answer.

  DJ pulls out one of the desk chairs and sits on it. “Can we talk for a minute?”

&nb
sp; I shrug, feeling more miserable by the second. I thought we had something good. And now I’m about to get the brush off.

  “It’s sort of about that picture, but sort of not.”

  “I’m sorry about the picture,” I say quickly. “The guy left town, too. I’m pretty sure.”

  “The thing is, my father ripped me a new one for that picture.” DJ pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m in some trouble with the college. And my father is working really hard to get me out of it. When I said it wasn’t a good time for me to be with anybody, I really wasn’t kidding.”

  My temper spikes. “I see. I’m the trashy friend you have to scrape off your shoe until your reputation recovers.” It comes out sounding even bitchier than I’d intended.

  I expect DJ to get angry with this characterization, but that’s not what happens. He only looks defeated. With an elbow on the desk, he props his face in one hand. “You’re the classiest person I know, smalls. There is nobody in this whole fucking town I’d rather spend my time with than you. But I can’t. It isn’t fair. But there’s no such thing as fair, anyway.”

  My eyes feel hot. The only guy I’ve wanted in a long time is basically breaking up with me. And why does he have to be so freaking nice while he does it? “Will you at least tell me why?”

  His face is a stone. “I never wanted to have that conversation, because I care what you think of me. I mean…” He rubs the back of his neck and stares at the floor. “I did something a little stupid, and kind of insensitive. And now I’m in a lot of trouble for something that I didn’t do at all.”

  He doesn’t want me to press him on it. I can feel his reluctance from across the room. “Please tell me what’s the matter,” I whisper anyway. Because I’m stubborn. And I’m afraid that if I don’t get answers now, there won’t be another chance.