by Dahlia Adler
Adult. Is that a thing I’m supposed to feel? Because I so totally don’t. But I’m gonna have to start if I wanna be a college girl, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of on this planet—other than my friendship with Vic—it’s that I do. So I shrug as if the idea of her being an adult doesn’t freak the shit out of me and say, “Sure, I guess. So am I supposed to call you Tori here? Are we taking it for a practice run?”
“What better time?” She stops looking around and I know she’s found herself something tall, dark, and handsome. She smooths down the tiers of her pink miniskirt, presses her lips together, and rubs the little stripe of a scar on her forehead for luck—Vic’s prep-for-battle stance.
Suddenly, I cannot wait for class.
VICTORIA
It takes me thirty seconds to fall in love with college.
Sure, maybe I don’t love it for the same reasons as Reagan—I’m not quite as psyched about the “classes” part of college, and I don’t get a thrill out of musty old buildings like she does—but all the same, I know that the Victoria Reyes and Reagan Forrester College Tour Bonanza is the most brilliant idea I have ever had. What better way to spend time with my BFF and escape Charytan to see the real world at the same time? Great parties, hot guys, and no classes are just huge bonuses.
Well, there’s class for Reagan, I guess. Having fun isn’t exactly at the top of her priority list. Obviously there are things I want to learn too—I am excited to finally take fashion classes from someone other than my abuela—but right now, all I can think about is how much bigger this world is than the one I’ve been in for the last two years.
It feels like I finally have the space to breathe.
“Ooh, I think that’s the library!” Reagan gushes, pointing out a brick building that looks just like all the other brick buildings. “And there’s a map next to it.” She grabs my arm and pulls me in that direction. “Let’s see if we can find the social sciences building where the class is later.”
“You wild thing,” I tease, but I let her drag me along, since I fully plan to do some dragging of my own when the parties start up later that night. Sometimes getting Reagan to have any fun is like trying to teach a dog how to read. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a total nerd?”
“You. Every single day.” But despite my teasing, the excitement brightening up her pale cheeks doesn’t lessen one bit. Despite being super tiny, not even five feet, Rae can be the most determined force in the universe when she wants to be.
It’s a big part of the reason I want to visit schools together. I might be excited about college, but unlike Reagan, I’m not completely fearless at the idea of going. Also unlike Reagan, I actually like my parents; the thought of leaving them, especially with Javi in Fiji, hurts more than I want to think about. It’s not like I can just call up my mom to talk whenever I feel like it; making sure we catch each other when we can both video-chat is worlds away from being able to tell her every detail of my life the way I do now. What’s it gonna be like when I can’t talk to her fifty times a day?
You don’t need to chat with your mommy fifty times a day, I remind myself as I watch Reagan eagerly devour the map with her huge brown eyes shining so brightly, she looks like a cartoon character. You’re almost a hot, sophisticated college woman. No hot, sophisticated college woman needs to talk to her mom every day. Of course, even as I lecture myself, I find myself pulling out my phone to send my mother a text. Just to tell her we made it safely.
My phone beeps a minute later with her reply text. Glad you survived Reagan’s music choices ;)
Just barely!! Might have to accidentally delete a few things before the ride home…
Reagan’s amused voice breaks in. “You’re totally texting with your mom, aren’t you?”
I blush and tuck my phone back into my bag. “Of course not.”
“I don’t know why you bother trying to hide it.” Reagan switches to signing. “You know I love your mom.”
It’s true, she does, and the feeling is mutual for obvious reasons—as soon as Reagan found out that my mom’s deaf, she immediately started to teach herself ASL. She’s still rusty, but that first time she surprised both me and Mom by expertly signing “Nice to meet you,” I knew without a doubt she was going to be the best friend I ever had. Even if she thinks sororities are “stupid, sexist, probably racist, and definitely pointless.” Direct quote.
Two guys jog by just then, one in a plain blue T-shirt and the other with no shirt at all, and I swear they both check me out as they pass. “Rae!” I whisper fiercely. “Did you see those guys? They were so freaking hot.”
“No, I did not see those guys, Tori,” she says dryly, glancing at her watch. “We only have one afternoon to actually go to classes and stuff. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”
“Positive. Anyway, your class isn’t for a while. Should we go check into our motel or just leave our bags in the car and give ourselves a self-guided tour?”
“I think it’s probably too early to check in, but I’m all for a tour. What did you want to see?”
Now it’s my turn to grab her hand and yank her away. “Greek Row, of course!” I reply cheerfully, dragging her along as quickly as my fantastic studded cowboy boots can carry me.
My feet are aching and my caffeine buzz is wearing off, but after half an hour of getting lost, I couldn’t be happier to have arrived at our destination. “Do you see how gorgeous that house is?” I stab a glittery purple fingernail in the direction of a huge, stunning sorority house the color of snow with regal pillars to match. I’ve never been to Washington D.C., but it’s pretty much exactly how I imagine the White House to look in person.
“It is beautiful,” Rae agrees, and I pretend not to hear just how hard it is for her to say it, like I’d just told her we’ll need to use her beloved copy of Harry Potter for firewood. “But Vi—Tori—are you seriously sure you want to join a sorority? They’re so…”
“Yes,” I say firmly before she can fill in her own blank. “And you should at least think about joining with me. We’d have such a cute room in a gorgeous house, and they totally help you network and stuff so you can get a job after graduation.”
“I can’t even think about the ‘after graduation’ part yet,” admits Rae as she pulls her white-streaked blond curls into a bun on top of her head. “I’m dying to leave Charytan and all, but…baby steps. Let’s get into college before we talk about leaving it, shall we?”
It’s so rare to hear Rae acknowledge even the tiniest hint of nervousness about all this that I can’t help but smile and give in. “Deal.”
We continue to walk around for a while, looking at the awesome houses while I size up the inhabitants of Greek Row to get an idea of how our maybe-future-classmates are dressing. I’m glad to see that I fit in perfectly with my miniskirt and cute sweater, though it doesn’t seem like anyone else has studded her own boots or embroidered a funky sequined bow on to said sweater. I make a mental note to look into the Greek-letter pendants I see a few girls wearing and take on a couple of extra babysitting jobs so I can buy the super cute boots that seem to be the sorority girl footwear of choice.
And then I see it. It’s massive but not scary, a beautiful tan stucco trimmed in dark, chocolate brown, standing atop a lawn that’s impossibly, perfectly green. It has a huge wraparound porch on which a bunch of girls are sitting around, talking and laughing, reading magazines while they polish their nails. Everything about it screams “We have more fun on an average Friday than you do at your best parties!” and I’m dying to race up the flagstone path and join them.
I must be staring way too obviously because suddenly a friendly, high-pitched voice chirps from behind me, “Hey, are you a freshman?”
I turn to face a tall blonde who’s even paler than Reagan, with perfectly curled hair and one of those Greek-letter pendants hanging around her neck. She looks so perfect, the epitome of college-girl sophistication, I wish I could take a picture of her for Javi; my brothe
r would flip. “High school senior,” I admit, standing up just a little taller. “Just checking out the campus, trying to figure out where to go next year.”
“Thinking about pledging a sorority?”
“Definitely!” I force myself to ignore the sound of Rae laughing into her hand at my enthusiasm. “Is this your house?”
“Lambda through and through,” says the blonde, which I guess is a yes, although the letters posted over the entrance of the house don’t match the ones on her necklace. “You wanna come see the house?”
Um, yes?! my mind screams, but for once, my mouth plays it cooler. “Sure,” I say with a shrug, “that’d be great.” I shoot Reagan a pleading look behind blondie’s back, but she stabs a finger at her watch and I realize it’s almost time for her class.
The sorority girl doesn’t even seem to notice Rae, who gives me a little wave, mouths “have fun,” and dashes off to find the building. Without Reagan by my side, I’m getting a little anxious. I’m about to tell Lambda that I actually have to go with my friend when she cheerfully says, “Awesome, let’s go! I’m Sasha, by the way.”
Sasha. I have never, ever in my life met anyone named Sasha. Except for, like, Reagan, I feel like everyone I know is “Mary” or “Annie” or “Katie.” How could I not follow a Sasha?
“I’m Tori,” I reply, and as I do, I can already feel everything start to change.
CHAPTER THREE
REAGAN
I sit in the back of the class and do not get called on once, which is simultaneously a relief and hugely disappointing. As I file out among the Southeastern students, I check my phone, which I’d silenced for the class, but there are no messages from Vic. Guess she and Lambda are still bonding over the fine arts of eyebrow waxing and lip gloss selection. I send her a text to let her know that I’m done and then head out of the building and back toward the large column on the edge of the quad bearing the map I’d seen earlier that morning. Might as well take advantage of Vic’s being occupied to check out the library, since she’d made it clear she was about as interested in seeing it as she was in studying nuclear physics.
When I get to the map, I see that someone’s already standing there studying it, and I wonder if I should wait my turn or just squeeze in. He mumbles something aloud as I’m still trying to decide, although I can’t see his face and I don’t know if he’s trying to talk to me or just muttering to himself.
I don’t want to be rude in case it’s the former, so I just say, “Sorry?”
He jumps about a foot in the air; guess he wasn’t talking to me after all. “Jesus,” he mutters, and he whirls around to face me, then looks startled when he doesn’t see anyone. It takes him a second to look down. I’m at least a foot shorter than he is, maybe more. He’s holding a hand to his chest, like I freaked him out by interrupting his concentration. Or maybe it’s my white streak—it tends to have that effect on people. “I didn’t realize anyone else was out here.”
“Class just ended,” I explain. I think he might be blushing, but with his skin tone—a deeper, toastier shade of brown than Vic’s—it’s hard to tell. “There will be a lot of people around now, probably.”
“Good,” he grumbles. “Maybe one of them can tell me how to find the stupid library.”
“I was just coming to the map to look for the library myself.” I’m annoyed to hear the words come out of my mouth sounding as if I think it’s the world’s most brilliant coincidence, like I’ve just uncovered that we both hail from the same tiny Martian colony. “Are you a prospective too?”
“Yup.” He furrows the thick black eyebrows that arch just slightly over his dark eyes. “I thought you just came from a class.”
“I went to check out Intro to Sociology.”
“You can do that?”
“Sure, I just walked right in with my visitor’s pass.”
“Dammit! I wish I’d thought of that.”
I smile sympathetically, or at least I hope it’s sympathetically. Not that I’m worried about how some boy feels. But I still like that he wishes he’d been able to go to a class. “Well, at least you got some time to check out the campus, which is more than I’ve done. All I’ve gotten to see so far is Greek Row.”
One of those eyebrows rises ever so slightly. “You’re planning to rush a sorority?”
The sheer image of me in a sorority is so absurd, it nearly cracks me up. “God no. I was just going with a friend.” Then I realize I might be offending him. “Are you planning to rush a fraternity?”
“God no.” He echoes my horrified tone. “I’m not exactly the ‘frat bro’ type.”
“Well, in my mind, ‘frat bros’ don’t make it to class, so maybe you’re more the type than you think,” I tease. His laugh is a great sound and when it stops I immediately want to hear it again. “So, any luck tracking down the library?”
“No, I suck at maps. Maybe I can catch Intro to Geography later this afternoon.” He sweeps a hand toward the directory. “Have at it. If you can point me in the right direction, my firstborn child is yours.” I must have a funny look on my face because he immediately says, “I feel the need to state here that I do not actually have any children.”
“Phew!” I say, and we both smile again, even though whether or not he has kids is of no consequence to me, this stranger whose name I don’t even know. Right?
Right.
Looking at the map, it takes me all of five seconds to find the library. “Got it.” I wipe my forehead as if I’ve just run a marathon. “Man, you’re right. That was a serious mental workout.”
“Are you always this difficult?”
“My parents would tell you this isn’t even the tip of the iceberg.”
The corners of his lips slide upward, and it’s cute enough to remind me why I don’t flirt with guys anymore. “Ready?” I ask as brusquely as I can considering that even forcing my eyes back to the map isn’t making that smile disappear from my brain.
“You seriously found it?”
“I seriously did.” I adjust my oversized bag on my arm so the spiral-bound notebook inside will stop jabbing me in the ribs. “What kind of school do you go to that you can’t read a basic map? You know, so I can not send your firstborn there when you eventually hand it over.”
He smiles, a full one this time, and his teeth are almost blindingly white against his skin. “Chaplin Prep is excellent, thank you very much,” he informs me. “My firstborn would be lucky to go to my alma mater.”
“Your firstborn would be lucky to find his way out of the womb,” I retort as we start on our way to the library.
“So many preconceived notions and you’ve only just met me.” He shakes his head in disbelief, though the visible dimple in his cheek suggests he’s not all that disappointed.
“Actually, I haven’t,” I point out. “I don’t even know your name.”
“All part of my being an international man of mystery.”
I snort. Not the prettiest sound, but I can’t help it. “Oh, yes, I got that whole mysterious vibe immediately.”
“Ah, what can I do?” he beseeches the sky, which is gray with the suggestion of impending rain. “She sees right through me.” He slows his pace and turns to me. “Dave Shah, but if they ask, I revealed that information only under extreme duress.”
“Obviously. I’ll just stick with ‘Bond’ to be safe.”
He nods, a serious expression on his face, but his eyes are twinkling and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the tiniest bit cute.
“I feel you’re not taking me seriously,” he says.
“I also feel I’m not taking you seriously.”
“Fair enough. Does my revelation earn me a similar one, at least?”
I debate both holding out a little longer to prolong our conversation as well as whether or not I should pause and extend a hand. It’s too much thinking at once, and “Reagan Forrester” slips out of my lips, though my hands stay in the pockets of my navy-blue windbreaker.
“Pretty,” he says, and I can feel my cheeks heating up. “Your name, I mean. Not that you’re not,” he adds quickly, obviously flustered. Now he’s blushing too; this time, I’m sure I see it. “Jesus, I’m awkward.”
I can’t help grinning, which only makes things worse for him, so I decide to cut him a break. “Thanks,” I say. “My dad was pushing for DJ after some old TV show character, but my mom’s best friend told her it was ‘super fancy’ to give a kid your maiden name as a first name.”
My mom has a burning desire to be a “fancy person,” which is utterly ridiculous given our surroundings, but at least her whole delusion works in my favor. The only reason she doesn’t bully me into working full-time when I graduate in June is because to her, there’s nothing fancier than going to college, except maybe a bag by an Italian designer whose name she can’t pronounce.
“So this is me, being fancy.” I stop walking to gesture down at my frayed jeans and a worn “Muck Fizzou” shirt handed down by one of the older boys in the trailer park that’s so huge I’m basically swimming in it. “I know, I know. I’m intimidating.”
“Oh, no, this isn’t my ‘intimidated’ face. It’s my ‘envious’ face. To think I could’ve been Fancy Gujarati Shah. How intimidating would that be?”
“So intimidating that I’m wearing my envy face.” I make a serious expression with furrowed brows and pursed lips. “Don’t worry, I will reveal this secret only under extreme duress.”
He cracks up, and my expression gives way as I do the same. Like that, all awkwardness is gone, and we continue the rest of the way to the library, keeping an eye out for spies all the while.
It’s both nice and strange joking with Dave as we walk up the stone steps of the library. With the exception of Vic and maybe Freckles, I don’t think I’ve actually enjoyed a conversation with anyone since freshman year, before everything happened with Fitz. Once we show our passes and get into the actual building, however, I go completely mute. My mouth is too busy dropping open at the sight of what looks like millions of colorful spines, all waiting to be cracked open by yours truly.
