by Dahlia Adler
My mom lightly whacks my wrist. “You don’t have patience.” She picks up the ladle again to lift more steaming churros out of the oil.
“Nope,” I sign back, then settle into one of the tall chairs across the counter from her. “Javi e-mailed me today. Did you know he’s in Australia?”
She nods, finishes spooning out the rest of the blobs, and turns off the flame. “He e-mailed me too. The cleaner version, I assume.”
I grin. “I cannot confirm or deny.”
“And now I have to worry about both my children, with you and Reagan and your college visits. How much are you leaving out about your trips?”
“I’m hurt that you think that.” I puff my lower lip out in a dramatic pout. “Anyway, maybe Reagan’s the one you should worry about. She’s the one who met a boy.”
“I thought you met a boy too.”
“Mark?” I wave my hand dismissively and then reach for a churro. One nice thing about signing—you can mostly talk with your mouth full. “He’s nice but he’s nobody. Reagan actually likes this boy.”
“Reagan?” Her eyebrows shoot up as she makes the name sign she assigned Reagan, the sign for “white” with the “R” handshape for her name—what Reagan laughingly calls her “white girl name” even though it’s for the streak in her hair and lacks the gesture that turns “white” into “Caucasian” in ASL. “I didn’t think she knew boys existed.”
“Me neither, but she was totally—” I don’t know how to sign “smitten,” so I fingerspell it instead. “Not that she’ll admit it. Then we left that morning without his phone number or e-mail address. I want to make sure she sees him again, but I don’t know how.”
I can see my mother’s brain working, and I eat another churro while I watch her process her thoughts. Then she grins. “This is like that famous riddle. A woman sees a man at her mother’s funeral and falls deeply in love at first sight, but when the funeral ends, he’s nowhere to be found. The next day, she kills her sister.”
I make a face at the bizarre and morbid non-sequitur. “That’s terrible.”
My mother rolls her eyes. “You’ve never heard this? Why does she kill her sister?”
“Because she’s a psycho?”
“Yes, and…”
“Seriously,” I sign. “No idea where you’re going with this. But if you’re planning to take out Tia Maria, I’m in.”
She huffs out a sigh. “She reasons that if he was at the funeral of one of her family members, he’ll show up at the funeral of another one. So she kills her sister so she can see the guy again.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you suggesting that I let Reagan kill me?”
She laughs, which is one of my favorite sounds in the world. It’s kind of goose-like, which isn’t her fault, of course; she’s never heard it. “No, my simple child. I’m suggesting you see if any other colleges nearby are hosting a prospective students’ weekend, which is the most obvious way you might bump into him again.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?” I demand, my hands flailing wildly. “You and your creepy metaphors.”
“It’s not a metaphor,” she signs back, but I’ve already moved past that point and am thinking about how obvious an answer that is. We hadn’t planned to go on another college visit for another couple of weeks, when Barnaby State College is having a special prospective-student weekend, but now that my mom’s planted her idea in my brain, I know I can’t wait that long to try to hook Reagan and Dave back up. Especially now that I know about the misery Fitz is still inflicting on her from thousands of miles away.
“You’re brilliant!” I wrap my arms around my mother in a massive hug and kiss her on the cheek with a loud smack. I disentangle myself long enough to sign, “I’m going to find another college to visit for next weekend. Thank you!” Then I give her another hug, grab another churro, and scamper upstairs to plan our next move.
CHAPTER SEVEN
REAGAN
“This doesn’t even make any sense.” I hand the Halsing College catalog back to Vic, using my other hand to muffle a yawn. It took me for-fucking-ever to finish writing my history paper after work yesterday, and having to work by flashlight—only after my parents were done using it, of course—did not help. “They have no Greek life, no fashion design program—”
“I don’t need those things,” she interrupts, which is obviously a lie. I saw her at the sorority house at Southeastern; it was as much fun as I’ve ever seen her have. And fashion design is her life. Even now, on a random Tuesday at school, she’s wearing an awesome outfit of her own design, a dress she’s patchworked out of random fabrics. “Besides, they’re having a prospective weekend, and look! There’s a hayride!”
I’m pretty sure my best friend has been taken over by aliens. “A hayride, which I would think would be your worst nightmare. That’s your big sell on this tiny, random college that’s in the middle of basically nowhere?”
“This is Kansas. Everywhere is the middle of basically nowhere, with the exceptions of KU and K-State, both of which you refuse to consider.”
My stomach tightens at the mention of the two Kansas schools big enough to be their own cities. I haven’t been able to explain to her why those are non-options much better than I’ve been able to explain it to myself, but Vic being wonderful Vic, she hasn’t pressed. “Cheap shot.”
“And speaking of cheap…” She flips to the back of the catalog to point out the tuition. Sweet Jesus. With my savings and a minimum-wage paying job, even I can afford that with minimal loans.
“Fine,” I grumble in concession. “Twenty-four hours. I have the four-to-close shift at Joe’s this Saturday.” Plus, cheap tuition or not, I’m not dying to spend too much time at a college whose motto is, “If at first you don’t succeed.”
She smiles broadly, and it’s so glaringly obvious that something is up, but I have no idea what. “It’s only an hour away, so we don’t even have to skip any school. The perfect plan!”
I calculate in my head. If we leave at three thirty, we should be there by five, with traffic. That should give us plenty of time to drop our stuff off at our hosts before the prospective students’ dinner. According to Vic, the college will put us up as long as we register, which—surprise!—she’s already done for us. After dinner is the hayride, which actually does sound sort of fun, especially when I take into account how much I know Vic will hate it. Between getting an unanticipated break from Charytan and hopefully getting to use a decent shower, it actually doesn’t sound all that bad.
Still, I suspect something’s up, and I’m not getting excited about this trip until I fish out what it is. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“What do you still want to know?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes the way she always does when she’s purposely misunderstanding a question.
Fine, if that’s how she wants to play it. “Gas for this unbudgeted-for road trip?”
“On me, of course.”
This mystery is going to kill me, but if I know Vic, she won’t be able to keep it a secret all that long. “I choose the music the entire way there.”
“Deal.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re making it impossible for me to say no. You realize that.”
“You already said yes,” she points out with a gleeful smile, tugging my white curl. “You’re easier than you think. Whoops! Gotta go to Spanish. Hasta la vista, darling!”
She twirls on her jewel-studded cowboy boots and disappears down the hall with a flutter wave, leaving me wondering what in the hell I just agreed to.
Of course, the time I’ve spent contemplating what I’m being set up for has made me slip into English at the very last second, and Mr. Phelan’s not a big fan of lateness. I’m pretty sure I’ve made it in under the bell, but I get a “Miss Forrester, please see me after class,” as soon as I slide into my seat anyway.
Paying attention after that is a struggle, especially since I’m still fighting to stay awake on three hours of sleep, and the k
nowledge that I have an eight-hour shift at Joe’s after school today isn’t helping. I make it as far as three reasons I have to force myself to stay awake and then I drift off, which I know only because I’m awoken by an especially sharp “Miss Forrester?”
Shit. My eyes quickly dart around, looking for some guidance. I sit next to Phil Yardley, who basically idolized Fitz when he was a basketball star and therefore despises me, so I know he’ll be no help. On my other side is Jessica Bartel, who tried and failed to get with Fitz pretty much the entire second year we were together, so, yeah, not much hope there. Ginnie Tucker sits in front of me and isn’t entirely a bitch, but certainly isn’t the type to risk pissing Mr. Phelan off by being obvious with her guidance of a wayward student.
Which basically means I’m screwed.
“I’m sorry, I was so focused on the use of a spectrum of criminals and the variety in their upbringings in Great Expectations that I completely missed your question.” I say a silent thanks to Vic for that move—pick the one thing you know about a book and use it. “Would you mind repeating it?”
His jaw tightens. “That was the question, Miss Forrester.”
Praise the freaking lord. It’s literally the only thing I’ve studied about the book I’ve read maybe two chapters of in between writing my subpar history paper and cleaning out the soda fountain at Joe’s. Mr. Phelan doesn’t seem entirely pleased that I actually have a response for him, but the words themselves seem to satisfy him enough, and he nods and then moves on to bugging Jessica instead.
For a minute I actually imagine I might be able to get out of this whole “See me” thing, but as soon as the bell rings, I get my third “Miss Forrester” of the day and I trudge over to his desk at the front of the room, knowing I’m going to end up in similar trouble next period when this little meeting inevitably makes me late to AP Chemistry.
“I’m sorry I was late…ish.” Mr. Phelan has always responded best to immediate apologies, in my experience, though I’ve never been one to apologize for something I didn’t actually do.
He smiles wryly and gestures for me to take a seat. This is a definite first, and it’s making me want to hurl all over his scruffy loafers. “It’s not strictly about the tardiness, Miss Forrester.” He opens his grading book and traces his index finger down the page. “Are you aware that you’re bordering a B+ average in my class?”
Shit. Shit shit shit. “Are you sure? I could swear I’ve gotten A’s on both quizzes you’ve given so far this year.”
“Yes, but your homework has been late—”
“Twice!” I cry, knowing it’s a mistake to interrupt him the second I do it but unable to stop myself. “Once because my mother accidentally threw it out!”
“And has arrived multiple times in unacceptable condition,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken.
“What does that even mean?”
“Assignments are expected to be typewritten, Miss Forrester. You know this.”
“I don’t have a personal computer, let alone a printer,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Right now, I don’t even have electricity. If the library was open later—”
“Excuses do not interest me. Getting your work done on time and in proper condition is what interests me. I know you are heavily reliant on academic scholarships to attend university, and I highly suggest you get your act together if you still hope to receive one.”
A million profanities are screaming inside my head but I force a jerky puppet nod and a thank-you for the warning and slip outside, allowing myself just one deep breath before I dash over to AP Chem, praying I’ll make it in time and avoid a similar lecture from Dr. Cole. I do, but it doesn’t matter. The panic has already set in deep in my gut. Without an academic scholarship, I am screwed, doomed to a life of waitressing at Joe’s while maybe, maybe squeezing in one class per semester at CCC, since first priority would be paying for a place of my own and getting the hell out of that trailer park.
Already, I can feel everything slipping away, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. Calm the fuck down, I order myself, counting to ten slowly in my head. This is an AP class. You ace enough of these exams, you have one less semester to pay for. Calm. The fuck. Down.
It doesn’t work, and then I’m inhaling in loud, horrible gulps while sweat streams down my forehead. I’m screaming at myself to stop but it does nothing other than reverberate in my own skull while my body shakes with the force of it.
“Reagan, are you all right?”
I can’t say anything in response. My throat has invisible hands wrapped around it, squeezing it…
“Becky, take Reagan to the nurse.”
“But—”
“Quickly, Becky!”
I’m powerless to stop Becky Holtzmann from pulling me by the arm and practically dragging me down the hall, and believe me, I would’ve done anything to stop her—as Sean Fitzpatrick’s girlfriend, she hates me about as much as anyone else in the school. She’s told me more than once that Ma Fitzpatrick doesn’t trust a single girl that goes near one of her boys, not since “Reagan Forrester done broke her boy’s heart and then he broke his ma’s.” Even now as she takes me to the nurse, it’s clear she hopes whatever’s afflicting me is fast-acting and terminal.
“There.” She practically shoves me at the door to the nurse’s office and leaves me, her long brown curls swinging behind her as she marches back down the hall to class.
Great! I’m all better now! I want to shout after her, but duh, can’t breathe, so instead I lurch toward the door, nearly knocking over Nurse Hocking in the process, and then promptly pass out.
“Reagan!”
My eyes fly open to see Vic standing over me. She must have rushed somehow, because there’s no way I was out more than a minute or two. Was I? I put my hands down at my sides and grip the frame of the cot. What the hell is wrong with me?
“I’m not feeling so well,” I mumble, closing my eyes again. The light is too damn bright.
“What happened to you? I heard Becky Holtzmann saying you passed out.”
“Becky Holtzmann is a class-A bitch.”
There’s a loud coughing sound, and I realize Nurse Hocking is still in earshot. I squint and sit up slowly, accepting the cup of water Vic holds out to me. As I take a tentative sip, I’m not thinking at all about how Dave handed me a cup of water just a few days ago. Obviously.
“I don’t know.” I take another little sip and then hand the cup back to Vic so I can regain my balance on the cot. “My chest just got all tight and then my throat…I couldn’t breathe.”
“Rae! That sounds like a panic attack.”
“How do you know?”
She rolls her eyes. “Because I know.” She sits down next to me, her butt shoving me over a few inches. “Did something happen?”
I nibble on the inside of my lip while I replay the conversation with Mr. Phelan in my head. Finally, I tell her, “I might lose my chance at a scholarship.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“Phelan. Apparently my homework is inappropriate because I don’t own a fucking computer.” Another loud cough, and I lower my voice. “I’m screwed without a scholarship, Vic. I can’t take out massive loans; I’ll never be able to pay them off.”
I don’t even realize she’s taken my hands until she squeezes them so hard I think the bones might break.
“I promise you, we’re gonna fix this.” Her voice is fierce, and it doesn’t allow for a single shred of doubt—my very favorite Vic mode. “For one thing, you’re staying at my house tonight, and every night until you get your power back and you’re all caught up on everything.” She pauses, and I can tell she doesn’t want to say whatever she’s about to say next. “Do you want to cancel on the weekend?”
I shake my head defiantly. “I want to go. I need to get out of here again.” I need to be far, far away from the world of the Fitzpatricks and Becky Holtzmann and Mr. Phelan. “Seriously, this weekend can’t come soon enough.”
; “Wow.” She purses her glossy lips into a smug smile. “I think this might be the most determined I’ve seen you about anything in a while.”
“Just make sure the trip doesn’t suck, okay?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, please. It’s college, and it’s an hour away. What could possibly go wrong?”
VICTORIA
Here’s what could possibly go wrong. We could get a flat tire halfway there and be forced to pull over to the side of the highway. (Fortunately, Reagan is seriously awesome with a jack and whatever that other thingy is called, and she has us back on the road in ten minutes.) Then I could realize I’ve left my emergency credit card in the back pocket of the jeans currently on my floor, and am currently carrying exactly five dollars, forcing us to beg the guy at the gas station replacing the spare to accept the thirty dollars in Reagan’s wallet and bill me for the rest. Then we could get to Halsing and see that they’ve set us up in entirely different dorms, Reagan with a girl who opened the door in bunny pajamas and headgear despite it being seven thirty and me with a girl sporting enough black eyeliner and hair dye to suggest Satan is her stylist.
And best of all, Dave could not be there. Which I’m starting to suspect he isn’t.
“I can’t believe you want to go to the library,” Reagan teases me as I drag her in the direction of the brick building. “What kind of apocalypse occurred on the car ride over here?”
I stay silent, knowing there’s nothing I could come up with that would convince her. By the time we’d put our stuff down, showered, and gotten dressed, we’d missed the prospectives’ dinner. We got there just in time to see the other high school seniors spilling out of Halsing Hall, and not one of them was a tall, skinny Indian kid with slightly shaggy black hair and what even I can admit is a pretty killer smile.
If Reagan’s given Dave a second thought since the previous weekend, I haven’t heard about it, but I can’t give up. I’ve dragged our butts all the way to this ridiculously tiny campus that smells of manure and dry grass, and I’ll be damned if I’ve done it for nothing. Dave’s gotta be around here somewhere, and my first thought after he wasn’t outside the hall where dinner was held is that maybe he’s in the library, the same place he first bonded with Rae.
