Followers

by Anna Davies

“Okay, then.” Dad fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his worn leather wallet. A gust of cold air made me shiver. I still hadn’t gotten used to the cold here, at least a full ten degrees lower than back home.

  Finally, he pulled out a check. Squinting, he propped it against the dashboard, writing his name in loopy black script and leaving the amount blank.

  “In case you need to —”

  “Buy some snacks!” Mom offered chirpily. “If Al is still at Deli-C, ask for the Marisa Melt. It’s delicious. They invented it for me.”

  Great. I didn’t have any friends and my mom had a sandwich named after her.

  “Use the cash I gave you earlier if you need to take a taxi or something,” my dad finished. “I’m serious. I know this is a safe school and I know I’m playing the overprotective dad here, but I don’t want you to make any dumb mistakes. Don’t go walking alone into town.”

  I folded the check and shoved it in my pocket.

  “I won’t.” As Dad hauled my heavy duffle out of the trunk, I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror. My hair, normally honey blonde, now lay dark and loose around my shoulders. I’d dyed it over break, hoping it would make me look more like Ophelia, but all it did was make me look exhausted

  Dad caught my eye. “I’m proud of you, Briana. You know that, right?”

  “I’m proud of you, too, honey. Of course I am,” Mom said, as though she were trying to convince herself. “I just want you to get the part you want.”

  “And have fun,” Dad said as he pulled me into a bear hug. Mom squeezed my shoulder as she slid back into the car.

  “She’ll have fun when she can really just relax. She’s still so self-conscious,” I heard Mom murmur as she slammed the door. I slung my bag over my shoulder, then fished my key card out of my pocket and waved it over the electronic lock pad. I didn’t look behind me as I headed inside the dorm.

  The walnut archways and banisters had clearly been polished, and vacuum tracks were evident on the green carpets. The pillows on the antique low-slung couches in the parlor had been plumped. The lobby looked — and sounded — like an exhibition at a museum. Normally, there was an undercurrent of pop music and cell-phone rings wafting through the walls, forming a teen-girl soundtrack. Today, everything was silent.

  I crossed my fingers, hoping that I was the first person back. After the car ride and long journey down Mom’s memory lane, I was looking forward to being by myself, pulling out my in-case-of-emergency bag of Hershey’s Kisses from my desk drawer and crawling under the covers to go over my monologue a few more times.

  Unfortunately, as soon as I turned the corner toward the junior corridor, I heard the sound of high-pitched laughter coming from my room. Great.

  I pushed the door open, knowing it wouldn’t be locked.

  “Hey,” I said tentatively, noting that while Willow was lounging solo on her bed, my bed had three occupants: Tristan Schuler was sitting on my pillow, while Chad Connor and Tad Richman were both slouched against the wall.

  “Yo.” A voice from the corner made me whirl around. Eric Riley, sitting cross-legged on the rug, smiled up at me. Heat rose to my cheeks. Eric was a senior, the star of every MacHale play, and the recipient of several statewide theater awards. He looked like a football player, wrote songs he played at the Upper Deck coffee shop in town on Friday nights, and had made me cry when he played John Proctor in last year’s production of The Crucible. Of course he was going to play Hamlet. I’d spent the entire break imagining performing across from him. So much so, in fact, that seeing him in person made me blush, as if he’d somehow be able to tell that I’d fallen asleep almost every night scripting imaginary conversations with him about life, Shakespeare, and the enigmatic fish tattoo on the base of his thumb. He was wearing shorts, which was slightly odd given the fact that it was twenty degrees, but what was most striking was that he was all by himself. Usually, he was joined at the hip with Skye Henderson, a sophomore theater star and the other half of Riled Up, which was what Eric called his folk-rock act.

  “Hey,” Chad and Tad said in the same breath, not bothering to look up from the iPad balanced on the bed between them.

  “Hey … guys.” I could never tell Chad and Tad apart. The first time I’d met them I’d assumed they were twins. They had similar broad shoulders, floppy Irish setter–colored hair that fell perfectly over one eye, dimples in their strong chins, and an expansive bow tie collection that they drew from when they performed with the MacHale a capella group.

  “So, you’re a castaway with us? Welcome! Love the hair!” Tristan jumped up from the bed and embraced me in a tight hug. I stiffened. Tristan was editor in chief of the MacHale Crier and the heir to the Animal Instincts line of frozen soy nuggets. He was involved in student government, the alumni board, and the MacHale Arts Appreciation Club. He and Willow had a love-hate relationship with each other, and Willow usually declared him bourgeois, which was the biggest insult she’d use on anyone. Clearly, though, something had changed between them. I cautiously hugged him back.

  “Welcome back,” Willow drawled, as though I’d just returned from French class, not two weeks of winter break. Willow was never surprised by anything, and never felt she had to explain anything — like why MacHale’s hottest guys were lounging around our bedroom. I sometimes would come back to the room and find all the furniture rearranged because she felt it was better for the room’s energy flow. Other times, I’d find her typing a paper wearing only a bra and underwear because she felt clothes were too constricting when writing about art. And, of course, I’d come home more than a few times to find a nearly naked guy sitting at her desk while she stood in front of a canvas, squinting and wondering aloud whether his ab muscles were too defined in her rendition.

  I felt like I’d crashed a party.

  “Is it cool if I stay?” I found myself asking as I shrugged off my duffle.

  Willow laughed easily. “It’s your room. Of course.”

  “Right. Sorry.” I looked around for a place to sit. The middle of the floor was covered in stray papers, sketches, and a large bowl of popcorn. The only place available was next to Eric. Where was Skye? And then I felt a sudden, unexpected thrill of excitement. If she wasn’t here, then …

  “Eric looks lonely. You should sit next to him,” Tristan said, as if he’d read my mind. “How’s the single life going, man?”

  My ears pricked up at the word single. Eric shifted uncomfortably.

  “It’s good. Skye and I are still friends, I guess. We’re just taking a break.”

  “Have you ever heard of a break actually working?” Tristan used his fingers to make exaggerated air quotes around the word break. “Don’t insult my intelligence. You and Skye are donzo. What do you think? Will you comfort our tragic hero?” Tristan swiveled toward me.

  I blushed, unsure of what to say. Tristan spoke like a smart and funny Twitter feed, as though every single thought he had was distilled and delivered in 140 characters of snark.

  “Don’t scare my roommate away. Tristan’s just being an idiot. Sit wherever you want,” Willow said, coming to my rescue.

  I shot her a grateful glance as I picked my way toward Eric. Just as I settled onto the floor, twisting my left knee under my right thigh to make sure my legs didn’t accidentally brush Eric’s, my phone buzzed.

  I pulled it from my back pocket. My knee slammed against Eric’s. I jerked back, as though I were hit with an electric shock.

  Tristan Schuler

  The real #machaledrama? Realizing I stole @alleyesonbree’s bed. #sorrynotsorry

  I looked up at him as a devilish grin formed on his face. I hadn’t even realized he followed my Twitter. I’d started it back in the fall, mostly to make it sound like I was having a far better time at MacHale than I actually was. It had never occurred to me that actual MacHale students read it.

  My phone buzzed again.

  Tristan Schuler

  Somehow I think @alleyesonbree is OK with the seating arrangement.
;)

  “No!” I protested out loud, aware I was blushing. Tristan shrugged.

  “What’s going on?” Eric tried to glance over my shoulder, but I twisted away, then began to type, my fingers flying over the keys as though they were possessed.

  Briana Beland @alleyesonbree

  First night back and Tristan is already starting trouble. #dramadramadrama

  I felt a surge of adrenaline as I pressed TWEET. Instantly, Tristan’s phone chirped. I’d never had any of Willow’s friends — or frenemies, for that matter — single me out before. I wasn’t sure if it was because it was break, because they felt bad about taking over the room, or because there just weren’t any other options, but I didn’t want to ask questions.

  “What are you doing to this poor girl? She’s getting all hot and bothered.” Eric tried to grab my phone as blood surged to my cheeks. I knew I was bright red and felt sweat prickling the back of my neck. My brain felt sticky, moving from one thought to another half a second too slow. Tweeting with Tristan had been easy. But talking in front of everyone seemed almost impossible.

  “Uh,” I started, feeling like my brain and mouth weren’t connected.

  “We’re having a Twitter war. Bree started it.” Tristan smiled at me.

  “I knew she was trouble as soon as she sat down next to me. Don’t worry, I’ll keep her in line,” Eric said.

  “Ew. I hate Twitter.” Willow flopped from her stomach to her back, letting her head fall over the side of the bed so she was staring at us like an upside-down bat. “It’s bourgeois. It’s like, who wants to hear you brag about what you ate for lunch?”

  “If it’s the Marisa Melt at Deli-C, then my mom cares a lot.” I heard the words come out of my mouth without fully realizing I’d said them.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything about your Twitter feed. I’m sure it’s cool!” Willow said encouragingly.

  “No … it’s just … I mean …” I trailed off. I wanted to explain to her that I wasn’t talking about myself, I was talking about my weird mom. But then I’d have to explain her MacHale obsession, her pushiness, the fact that she thought Willow and I were best friends when we were really acquaintances with similar sleep schedules. “My mom has a sandwich named after her at Deli-C and loves talking about it,” I said finally. “She was babbling about it on the car ride up.”

  “Are you kidding?” Chad — or Tad — asked, actually looking at me for the first time. “That’s so cool! I want a sandwich to be named after me. What’s her secret?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. I guess just be memorable? Be friendly to the deli guys? Have weird taste?”

  “I bet you can do better than that. I bet you could get a wrap named after you,” joked Tristan.

  “All right!” The guy closest to me whooped. So that must be Chad. Chad, I realized, was the one with almost brown hair and bushy eyebrows inching toward unibrow status.

  “Wraps are for wimps. I want a panini named after me,” Tad said.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Tristan said. “I’m talking about All Eyes on Bree.”

  Instantly, everyone’s heads swiveled toward me.

  “It’s my Twitter handle,” I said quickly. It was embarrassing to hear it spoken out loud. I’d liked the way it looked on screen, but when I heard it, it made me sound self-absorbed and spotlight-crazy.

  “Follow her,” Tristan said knowingly. “It’s where you can also find fun facts like Briana’s recent adventures into the dark side of hair color. I love the chocolate. I think you were right not to go red.” Tristan grabbed a section of my hair and let it fall over my shoulder. “Sometimes, basic turns out to be the more adventurous option.”

  “You’re the one who’s adventurous,” I said, taking note of the peacock-blue streak in his jet-black hair.

  But Tristan wasn’t listening. He was scrolling through his feed instead. “Oh yeah, you had that awesome one about how freshmen with care packages are worse than kindergarteners at show-and-tell.”

  “Right. Because they’re, like, waving around the boxers their moms sent them as if it’s this flag of independence. They’re so clueless it’s cute.” I was glad someone else appreciated the weirdness that surrounded us on an almost daily basis at MacHale.

  “Wait, what’s your handle again?” Chad asked, furrowing his eyebrows — or, I guess, eyebrow — as he whipped out his phone.

  “Um … All Eyes on Bree.”

  “Wait. So you’re Bree and not Briana? Why didn’t you tell me that?” Willow asked.

  “You didn’t know your roommate’s name?” Tristan asked in mock incredulity.

  Because I didn’t know I’d always wanted to be the type of person who had a nickname, but so far, no one had seemed to care enough about me to come up with one. But who said I couldn’t come up with one myself?

  I smiled. “You didn’t ask. But yeah, you guys can call me Bree if you want.”

  Call me anything, just don’t call me late for dinner! One of my dad’s stupid jokes floated through my head. Hopefully the cooler, shorter name would come with a brain that was less of a social liability.

  “Bree. Got it.”

  I nodded, silently agreeing with Willow. Briana was hesitant, questioning, afraid to correct people when they dragged out the middle a. No one could question Bree.

  Willow nodded. “Like the cheese. I dig it.”

  “Like the cheese,” Eric repeated. I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me. A silence hung in the air, and I wondered if that was my cue to leave. I pushed myself to my feet.

  “Anyway, I’ve got to go work on my monologue,” I said.

  “But we were having a nice time!” Tristan protested. “Is this your polite way of saying you want us to leave your room?”

  “No, it’s fine, it’s just … auditions tomorrow. You know.”

  Chad and Tad nodded solemnly. Not like they had to worry. More girls than guys always auditioned, and Hamlet was full of guy parts. They’d be fine.

  “Why’d you have to bring that up? I was trying to forget about it, Bree,” Eric groaned.

  “Sorry!”

  “No, I needed someone to give me a reality check. I should really go rehearse.” Eric rose to his feet. It was weird to see him in my bedroom, the way he was standing next to my haphazard pile of shoes, how the photos I’d placed at eye level were at his chest. Larger than life. Or at least, larger than my life.

  “Do you want to do it together?” I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. “You don’t have to!” I added hastily.

  He nodded slowly. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  The way he said it made it sound like I was the one doing him a favor. I blushed.

  “Just don’t let him read the Juliet parts. He’ll want to. Trust me,” Chad joked, causing Tad to snort.

  “It’s Hamlet, idiot,” Eric said good-naturedly. “And I only play Juliet when I’m with you.”

  “Well, you guys should go now.” Tristan peered out the window. “Robinette’s office light is still on.”

  “All right. Let’s make our getaway.” Eric picked up his coat from the floor and pulled it over his shoulders.

  “We’re going outside?” I asked in surprise. I’d assumed we’d just head down to the parlor, the one spot in the dorms where co-ed fraternizing was allowed to occur.

  “Yeah. Let’s go to the theater. That’s where we’re going to audition, right? Might as well start at the scene of the crime.

  My stomach flipped. Sneaking out was no big deal. I knew Willow did it all the time. And while she never mentioned where she was going, she never tried to conceal what she was doing. But I’d never actually left the dorms without signing out, and I’d certainly never snuck out with a cute guy.

  “Bree?” Eric’s voice pulled me out of my reverie.

  “Sorry!” I chirped.

  “I thought I’d lost you there for a second. You ready?”

  “Yes.” I grabbed my jacket from where I’d shrugged it of
f on the floor and glanced down at my outfit. My shirt was wrinkled and my jeans still bore the remnants of two snack stops, but I didn’t have much of a choice. And besides, whereas Briana would spend hours obsessing over what to wear, Bree was effortlessly sexy. Or at least, as sexy as a girl could be with Oreo crumbs on her knees. But I couldn’t stop my heart from thumping as I slid into my coat. After spending so long imagining being alone with Eric, it was finally happening. No one else seemed aware of the momentous occasion, however. In the corner, Willow squinted into the mirror as she traced liner around her eyes. Chad leaned against the wall, his eyes fixated on a random spot across the room. Tad flipped through one of our magazines. Everything was the same as it had been an hour ago, when I’d first stepped inside.

  But I felt like my entire life had changed.

  Tristan turned toward us, a knowing smile on his face.

  “Break a leg, kids!” he said, as though he were a doofy dad telling us to have fun at our prom or something.

  “Let’s go.” My voice was less shaky as, together, the two of us walked out of the dorm room, through the exit, and into the crisp, clear night.

  Eric Riley

  Me and @alleyesonbree making Shakespeare history #worstlyricintheworld #auditions #rehearsing

  Do you really need to rehearse? You know you’re the only one Spidell wants for the part, right?” I asked as the two of us made our way around the pond and toward the theater. Eric had starred in all three of the one-acts we’d done over the fall. He’d played the lead in the fall drama and the spring musical last year. “You’re, like, the star of the department.” My teeth chattered and I wished I were wearing my puffy blue parka instead of my bomber jacket. A Tweet flew into my head.

  Fact: Acting cool deprives you of body heat.

  My lips twitched upward into a smile.

  “What’s so funny?” Eric asked.

  “Nothing, I’m just cold. Sorry.” I stamped my feet on the ground for emphasis.

  “Gotcha. I don’t get cold.” He gestured to his bare lags. “I have, like, insane body heat.”