Amends: A Love Story

by E. J. Swenson

  "She's insane," says Teo. "I met her, too, remember? She wanted the names of all the girls Laird had hooked up with." He turns to me and smirks. "You're lucky I told her that you spend every night locked in your room, beating off and dreaming of her crazy ass."

  Hoover grins. "I'd do that crazy ass in a heartbeat."

  "But what about afterwards?" asks Teo. "Do you really want to deal with all the tears and endless talking?" The Psycho theme plays again, punctuating Teo's point.

  Now it's Hoover's turn to laugh. "I'm a fat guy with an average-looking face. I come from a long line of dentists. Girls don't get obsessed with me after one random fuck."

  Caspar smiles, but his voice is slightly bitter. "Yes, we pity poor, rich Laird and poor, gorgeous Teo, who have to fight off so much unwanted female attention. Now, can we please get the back to Hell week? If Nazis are out, then what can we do?"

  I turn the sound off my phone before Ember can text again. That Psycho-themed text alert had seemed so clever and funny at three a.m., but it just makes me look like an asshole. I'm going to get rid of it before it gets me into any more trouble.

  /////////////////////////

  I love my room at the frat house. It's a small, dark space on the top floor. I can look out the window and see the whole campus. I have a surprisingly comfortable full bed with an antique headboard and an ancient desk covered in a hundred years of graffiti. Of course, I'm not entirely stuck in the past. My nineteenth-century desk supports a fully loaded MacBook Pro. I've also mounted speakers and a flat-panel monitor on my wall for movies and mindless browsing.

  Right now, I'm on the MacBook, paging through Town Square, the Adams version of Facebook. It's a collection of searchable profile pages, message boards, and class schedules, accessible only by Adams students. I pull up Amity's profile. Her photo is a toned down version of her Kat Club persona. Her face is a pale oval in a sea of dark curls. Wary, kohl-rimmed eyes look out from the screen.

  I scan her class schedule and see lots of hard science and premed classes. The only concession to the humanities is Abnormal Psychology. I make a mental note to sign up for that class. I could sit next to her and start an easy, lighthearted conversation. Maybe ask for her notes. Everything will seem normal and natural.

  I switch the display from the computer to the monitor, so Amity looks down on me like a benevolent angel. Amity, I want to tell her, your life is about to change.

  "Who's that? I'd stay away from her if I were you."

  I almost fall out of my chair when I hear Teo's voice. The frat has an open door policy—brothers drop in on each other without knocking—but I've never gotten used to it. I see him staring at Amity with critical eyes.

  "Why do you say that?" I ask, genuinely curious.

  "She looks spooky. Haunted. Maybe a little too complicated. You have enough trouble with your psycho ex."

  My phone is still blinking, reminding me that Ember's messages are still waiting for me. I nod in agreement. "Don't worry about me, bro. That girl on the monitor is just a friend."

  Teo's eyebrows rise and fall. "Whatever you say, man. Whatever you say."

  /////////////////////////

  "Hey Teo! Get me a beer."

  Teo looks at me skeptically. "Don't you have football practice tomorrow? If you show up hung over, the coach will rat us out to the dean."

  I shake my emphatically. "Not until next week, man. Anyway, it's my birthday. I'm officially twenty-one years old."

  "Then party on, birthday bro." Teo brings me a cold pint of lager in a chilled glass emblazoned with the Kappa Alpha Delta insignia. Anyone who isn't a brother gets lukewarm Meister Brew.

  Hoover stands in the center of a group of freshman girls holding colored plastic cups. Fresh meat we call them, although brothers can be blackballed for hooking up with one if she's under eighteen. Hoover's face is red, and his arm is wound tightly around a tall blonde with thin lips and a beaky nose. I'm a little worried about him.

  As president, I'm responsible for enforcing the charter rules. He's my buddy, and I'd hate to have to boot him over a drunken grope fest with a freshman a few days shy of her eighteenth birthday. My mind flashes briefly to Ember and my dad, but I try to focus on the issue at hand.

  "Hey, Hoover!" I call, approaching his group.

  The girls around him titter and whisper to each other. It's annoying, but I'm used to it. Everyone here knows I'm Josiah Conroy's son, and a lot of girls want to get with me, just so they can have a story to tell their friends. The beak-nosed girl detaches herself from Hoover with the alacrity of a lamprey that's found tastier prey.

  "Excuse me," she coos, using her yellow beer cup as a geisha would use her fan. "Are you Laird Conroy? My dad works with your dad."

  I want to snap that my dad is the last thing I want to talk about right now. Instead, I nod politely and say, "I'm going to borrow Hoover for a second."

  I take his arm in a firm grip, and he follows me like an obedient, somewhat intoxicated ox. I drag him to the bar area and pour myself a fresh drink. "You know what I'm going to say, man," I say. "Check her ID. Check her real ID. If she doesn't have it on her, you've got to bail. Do you understand?"

  His head bobs and weaves in a poorly executed nod. "I understand," he says. I hope he does.

  As I step away from the drinks table, my phone vibrates. I know it's Ember, and I feel a familiar rush of worry and excitement. I decide it's time for me to scroll through her texts.

  You got me all hot and bothered, and then you left. You owe me. Fucker.

  No surprise there. She's still mad that I left her alone and naked in her back yard. I guess I can't really blame her.

  All I want is for you to finish what you started. No history lessons or drama class. Just sexy, mindless fun with someone safe and familiar.

  My stomach does a slow roll. She's familiar, but there's no way she's safe.

  Taking a shower. Putting on perfume. Leaving the panties at home. Flower loves the breeze.

  Flower is Ember's pet name for her girl parts. I cringe, even as the blood rushes to my dick.

  Getting in my car. Driving south. Thinking of you.

  Traffic on the bridge. Touching myself. Thinking of you.

  Now I'm hard and thoroughly disgusted with myself. I think of Ember and my father and the accident. I feel sick to my stomach, and yet I still want her.

  Parking now. Gonna give you a birthday present you'll never forget.

  Oh shit. She's coming here.

  There are so many freshmen girls at this party. Ugh. You look great, though, birthday boy.

  Scratch that. She's here now. Where the fuck is she?

  Waiting in your room. Your friend Hoover is a doll.

  Damn, damn, damn. It's like every horror movie ever written. She's texting from inside the house. I rush up the stairs to my room.

  /////////////////////////

  The next morning, she's gone. I'd like to think it didn't happen, but the long blonde hairs and faint floral scent on my pillow say otherwise. I am such an idiot. This is the last time, I tell myself, I swear.

  Chapter 15: Amity

  My roommate—her name is Darcy Monahan—hasn't arrived yet. She posted a status update that she and her parents are going to spend an extra couple of days with her grandparents in upstate New York. She has bushy red hair, freckles, and an open, friendly face. I'm irrationally terrified that she's going to hate me.

  When I arrived yesterday afternoon, I took the bed with the most graffiti on the frame, the desk in the poorly lit corner, and the smaller closet. She won't be able to say I came early and swiped the best of everything.

  I check the time on my phone. I've got twenty minutes to get to the Adams Apple, the university-sponsored student café where I've been assigned for my work-study job. The pay is just over minimum wage, and I think wistfully about the tips I received as a stripper. I pinch the back of my hand and give myself a good scold. You are a college student, not a stripper.

  I'm supp
osed to meet Kendall Grimes, the café manager, and sign up for at least five shifts. Since most of my classes are in the morning, I'm planning to load up on afternoon and evening shifts. It's not like I'm expecting to have much of a social life with all the chem and bio I'm taking this semester.

  I know it's not a job interview, but I'm still nervous. I'm wearing a knee-length khaki skirt with a white button-down shirt and basic leather sandals. My hair is piled into a demure bun that should go great with a hairnet. The clothes are a mix of vintage and BigMart, but the

  styles are plain enough that they don't announce their humble origins. The shoes are Prada, a shameful one-time splurge from when I'd first started stripping.

  I look at my phone again. It's time to go. I leave my room, hurry down the hallway, and emerge into a postcard-perfect college scene. The buildings are old and modeled after England's Oxford. Well-worn cobblestone pathways connect them, forming a sort of maze. Each building has its own gorgeous lawn where students play Frisbee or just lounge on blankets. All the girls I pass are wearing comfy-looking jeans, delicate tops, and light pastel sweaters. They carry big, colorful bags. I feel drab by comparison, a wren among peacocks.

  I glance down at the map on my phone. I should be standing in front of the Adams Apple, but all I see is the Art History Complex. I tap on my phone and—damn it!—the network's down. I wave down a flock of pretty girls. They turn and look at me with what I hope are friendly eyes.

  "Sorry to bother you. I'm a little lost. C-c-can you tell me where the Adams Apple is?" I stammer so much that I'm no sure they understand anything I say.

  One of the girls, a blonde wearing a pink sorority tank top, nods with comprehension. She's short and doll-like with big brown eyes and a rosebud mouth. Her skin is so perfect she looks airbrushed. "Go back through the Arch of Tradition," she says, smiling brightly. "The Adams Apple will be on your right."

  I spit out a barely coherent thank you and walk as fast as I can towards the Arch. Trying to hurry always makes my limp worse, but I have to push the pace or I'll be late.

  Once I get through the Arch, I find myself behind the Adams Apple, staring at the service entrance. I wonder if the sorority girl somehow guessed I was on work study, or if I'm just being paranoid.

  /////////////////////////

  I limp slowly back to the dorm after spending an hour filling out tax forms and listening to Kendall—an Adams graduate who didn't make it through the last recession—recite an endless series of rules and warnings, which culminated in a threat against my hair.

  "Your hair is long, thick, and practically black," she said sternly. "People will freak out if it gets into their food. I'll let you try a hairnet, but if I get even one complaint, you're going to have to cut it." Yeah, right. There's no way I'm going to chop off my hair for this job. I'll make them reassign me, if it comes to that.

  As I walk past the lush, green lawns, I envy the clusters of students laughing in the gentle New England sun. I'm painfully conscious of being a junior-year transfer student who doesn't even have one friend on campus. I wonder if Adams is going to be high school all over again, except with snow and mounting debt. My mood is black when I open the door to my room and find my new roommate unpacking a giant purple suitcase.

  She turns to greet me, and the first thing I notice is that she's about my height and probably close to three hundred pounds. Now I know why all her photos on Facebook are head shots. I wonder if the Admissions Office put us together on purpose, because two outcasts like us—the gimp and the fatty—are bound to get along.

  The second thing I notice is Darcy's broad, welcoming smile, and I feel like a total asshole.

  "Oh, you must be Amity," she says in a sweet, high voice. "I'm Darcy. I'm a transfer, too. From Midwestern U. My parents have already left. They're driving back. It'll take them, like, twenty-seven hours to get home. It's so nice to meet you!"

  She extends her hand slowly. Her eyes are bright with hope and fear. I shake her hand with a firm grip. I can't manage a smile above a very low wattage, but it's a start.

  /////////////////////////

  Darcy is a computer science major, and she has a truly awesome flat-screen monitor. I'm glad I was able to help her mount it on our wall. All the Mr. Fixit chores I did for Gran over the past couple of years are finally paying off. She types something on her laptop, which she built herself from components she scavenged on eBay, and the monitor comes to life. The home screen for Town Square pops up.

  "I hear we have a semi-famous classmate," she says, giggling. "It's the only son of billionaire Josiah Conroy. Let's look him up."

  Ugh, I think, why bother? Josiah Conroy is a rich old man who owns everything from the production company funding Maggie's project to the Conroy Petrochemical Plant just outside Triple Marsh. I'm sure his son is a spoiled jerk. I'm much more worried about Registration Day.

  "I've got a better idea," I say. "Can you see when Registration Day is? According to the orientation guide, we have to get our class schedules signed by all our professors. And without a signed class schedule, we're not allowed to attend class."

  "That sounds like a big pain in the butt. I'll check it out, but first you have to look at my famous hottie." Darcy smiles brightly, and her enthusiasm is infectious.

  "Fine," I concede. "I bet you're the kind of girl who reads tabloids while you're waiting in line at the grocery store."

  "Hell, no," she says, laughing. "I pay good money for tabloids. Someone's got to support the poor, struggling paparazzi."

  "Oh, alright, show me your hottie." I even smile a little as Darcy points and clicks her way through the Town Square and finds the profile search bar. But I'm not smiling, not even a little, when a full color photo of Laird Bolton Conroy appears onscreen.

  Oh my God, it's him.

  The name is right and so is the face. I've been hoping to see him again for almost three years, daydreaming almost every day of his kind face and strong, solid body. I can't believe my fantasy boyfriend was Laird fucking Conroy.

  Fortunately, Darcy doesn't notice the look of shock on my face. She's too busy narrating Laird's vital statistics.

  "See? I told you he's a hottie. With that hair and those cheekbones, he could be a model. And, of course, he's starting quarterback on the football team. He's also president of Kappa Alpha Delta, the only frat with its own house on campus. I think they're having a party tonight."

  Darcy is salivating like a fan girl, but he sounds like the epitome of a rich, entitled Jasper Heights asshole to me. I wonder if he's really the same guy I met in the cemetery. He profile picture is just an assemblage of pixels and white space. Maybe I'm just projecting.

  "Does it say anything about his mother?" I ask. "Is she dead?"

  "Let me see," says Darcy, typing furiously. "OK, here it is." She zooms into a section of the profile called Parents, etcetera. "Yes, his mom died of ovarian cancer. How did you know that?"

  "Oh, I must have read it somewhere. You know, at the grocery store."

  Darcy looks at me questioningly, but when I don't say anything else, she lets it go. I tell myself that's what I have to do, too. Let the past go, including Laird Conroy. With my work-study job and my class schedule, I don't have time for a stupid fantasy boyfriend from Jasper Heights.

  /////////////////////////

  "Here, Amity," says Darcy, handing me a beer in a bright red cup. "You need to loosen up."

  "I've tried loosening up. It never ends well," I mutter, taking the beer even though it reminds me of my father and his daily six pack after work.

  Against my better judgment, I'm at the Kappa Alpha Delta back-to-school bash. Darcy dragged me along with her and three other girls she looked up on Town Square. The only thing we have in common is that we're all junior-year transfers who don't know a soul. Still, it hasn't been a bad evening. In fact, it's been kind of fun exploring campus parties from within a small, protective group,

  Darcy adds, "There's also a dance floor upstairs. That's where t
he other girls went. I think I'm going to join them. Do you want to come?"

  It does sound like fun, and I know I'm a good dancer, but I wonder if I can dance without using any of my stripper moves. "Maybe later," I say. "I'm going to finish my drink and look around a little."

  Darcy takes a sip of her beer and leaves the half-full cup on a windowsill, alongside five others. "OK, girl," she trills. "Maybe I'll see you up there!"

  Once Darcy is gone, I meander through the party with my cup extended, as if I'm on my way to get a drink. For the most part, people leave me alone. As I wander from room to room, I'm left with the impression of extreme wealth. Everything is either very old or very new. Most of the girls—the ones who aren't obviously freshmen or strays, like my group—are pretty in an expensive, understated way. Once again, I feel out of place.

  I'm about to go upstairs and look for Darcy when a tall guy with a narrow face grabs my arm. He pulls me though a thick wooden door, and it closes behind us with a soft thud. I find myself in a dimly lit room full of young men—probably freshmen—stripped down to their boxer shorts and kneeling on a hardwood floor. I see that my scrawny abductor is wearing a T-shirt that reads PLEDGE MASTER in tall, block letters. He's grinning like a loon and breathing heavily; the effect is definitely creepy.

  "What do you want?" I ask, slowly backing towards the door.

  "Your help," he says, smacking his lips. "I want you, beautiful girl, to help me show these pledges just how lowly they are. I want you to spit on them."

  As if on cue, the pledges say in unison, "Please, mistress, we're too good for your blessed mouth juice."

  I look at their faces and see that they're already slick with saliva. Ew. I guess it's a harmless hazing ritual, but my gut still squirms. I swallow reflexively and take another step backwards.