“So, what’s going on? Fighting. Missing detention. That doesn’t sound like you.” He leans in closer to me and wrinkles his nose. “God, you smell awful. Like you spent the night in a bar smoking pot. Lucky Tolst can’t smell anything anymore. When I was here, he could sniff out smokers from across campus. I got my fair share of detentions because of it.”
My dad snorts appreciatively, like he admires the fact I’m rebelling. I think, in the normal world, most kids would panic if their parents suspected them of drinking and smoking pot. But for us — my friends and me — these aren’t rebellions. It’s a right of passage. Our parents want us to do these things.
It makes us normal.
Sure, they say they don’t, but really, when it comes right down to it, they do. Because through us, they re-live their own past glories. Through us, they’re young again, and life’s possibilities spread out before them.
Except, everything’s been planned out for us.
We live in this tunnel we entered at birth and are shoved through until death. My path is easy: do what’s expected. Get good grades, dabble in drugs, sleep with too many girls, graduate, go to college, do more of the same, take a job from a friend of my parents. Get a house and wife and kids.
Just like they did. Like they do.
It’s expected.
It’s easy.
Dad and I reach the Quad. A few kids stand around talking, but I don’t know any of them. On the weekends, most of us hang out on upper campus at The Beach, only coming down here during mealtimes. Dad motions to a bench, and I sit down. He, of course, stands. It’s this alpha male thing of his, I think. I’ve watched him at work, during meetings. He paces around the room, firing questions at his employees who line the boardroom table. It’s intimidating, I guess.
Mom told me it’s why he’s successful. She conveniently leaves out the part where Grandfather gave Dad all the seed money for his company and stocked the board of directors with seasoned businessmen. Without them, I doubt Dad’s business would have made it.
Whatever. In the official version of the story, Dad created a multi-billion company from nothing out of his dorm room at Princeton.
No one expects me to do the same. All I have to do is show up and not make an ass of myself. Simply move through the motions and someday, it’s all mine.
“Alex called Calista a whore. That’s what happened.”
The corners of Dad’s lips pull up in amusement. “So you punched him?”
“More or less.”
“You look like shit. Seems he got a few good hits on you.”
“Yeah.” I hang my head, hiding my face behind my ‘blond mop’ as Dad calls my hair.
He pops his foot up on the bench, his gray Converse near my leg. Dad’s not forty yet. A fact he clings to. We dress alike. Or, more correctly, he dresses like me when I’m not in uniform – jeans, Converse, t-shirts, hoodies. The only time he dresses up, like in a suit, is when he and Mom have to go to a benefit or something. Even then, he still wears Converse and it drives Mom crazy.
“I won’t lie, I’m proud of you, but we can’t have you expelled over a girl – not even Cal.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, a habit we share. “If you’re going to get into Princeton, you need a spotless record. I can only grease so many palms.”
Princeton. Dad’s other alma mater. His dream school for me.
He flips his wrist over and checks his oversized Panerai watch. “Look, I’ve gotta get back to the Old Man’s office. Try to stay out of trouble.” He messes up my hair. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you for sticking up for Cal. You’re a good friend to her.”
If he only knew.
As he starts to walk away, I say, “Dad, do you come up here a lot?”
“Once a month or so. Why?”
“Why don’t you ever come see me?”
“What kid wants their dad hanging around?” He starts walking again.
I want to shout, ‘I do,’ but I say, “Yeah, you’re right.”
He stops near the steps and turns back toward me. “Oh, hey. Give Mom a call. She wants to talk to you about your birthday.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Dad takes the stairs two at a time, in a hurry to get back to his life. Away from me.
13
Another Monday. Brady waits for me outside Lit class. “Please tell me you did the questions. Please.”
“You didn’t do them?” I ask incredulously. “How did you not do them?”
He flips his hands over and rolls his eyes. “Let’s see, Saturday I was taking care of your drunk ass—”
“Not all day,” I interrupt.
“And Sunday, I had business of the nautical variety.”
I kick at the wall. “Saylor?”
“Yup. I have the panties to prove it. I get at least twenty points for this one.”
Before he can launch into more detail, I dig around the inside of my backpack, take out my notebook and open it. “Here.”
He doesn’t know how lucky he is. Normally, I would have gone out looking for something to do Saturday night, but after my run-in with Dad, I wasn’t in the mood. I went back to my room, finished my chapter questions and wrote a few for chapter two.
“Thanks.”
I walk into the class and there, near the window, is Ellie Jacobs. Much to my disappointment, her shirt is buttoned up and her tie perfectly straight. No chance of catching a peek of her awesome tits today.
“Hey,” I say, walking toward her. “Are you in the wrong room?”
She smiles, and it’s like happiness radiates from her. I’ve never met anyone so…I don’t know, content? “I had to rearrange a few things on my schedule and ended up in this section.” Brady stumbles up behind me. “Hey, Brady,” she says.
He’s trying to write while walking and gives her a little wave without taking his eyes off the notebook.
I sit down next to Ellie. “Brady and I are supposed to lead the discussion on chapters one through three today, but he didn’t finish his part.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
Silence. Ellie fidgets with her copy of The Awakening, and I pretend to be busy reading.
“So,” Ellie says, tapping my desk with her pen. “I know it’s none of my business, but Calista didn’t look happy the other day. Are you sure there’s nothing going on between the two of you? Not that I’m interested in you or anything,” she adds hastily.
Am I sure? No. Not even close. I say, “She wanted to make sure I was okay. You know, after the fight with Alex.”
“Oh.”
More silence. Mrs. Campos strolls to the front of the class. Her hair’s pulled back super tight giving her a skeletal appearance. “Good morning, class.”
We say in unison, “Good morning, Mrs. Campos.”
“Brady, Fletch. Are the two of you ready?”
Brady scribbles frantically.
I try to buy him time. “I am. I did the questions for the first chapter.”
Brady gives me a thumbs up and keeps writing.
Mrs. Campos shakes her head. “I would like to know Brady’s thoughts on chapter one.” His head snaps to attention and panic covers his face. “Brady, can you come to the front?”
As he walks past me, I realize he’s clutching my notebook in his hand. My notes. Shit. I don’t have my notes.
He sits on Mrs. Campos’s desk. She doesn’t reprimand him, which means either she’s totally blind, or she, too, is under the Brady Spell.
“My first question is about the nature of the relationship between Edna Pontellier and Robert, and why Mr. Pontellier seemed okay letting his wife run around with a younger guy all day long.” He stops and chuckles. “Dude, she was a cougar!”
The entire class breaks into laughter. Mrs. Campos rings her bell. “Brady, that is inappropriate. One more comment like that, and I’ll have to issue you a demerit.” She waves a pad of bright pink slips at him.
“Sorry, Mrs. Campos,” he says with false sinc
erity.
She nods and stares blankly out at the class. “Anyone?”
Ellie raises her hand, but Mrs. Campos calls on someone else. Ellie slumps back in her chair. “That was a softball question. I would have been done for the day.”
“They’re all softball questions. I wrote them, remember?”
She wiggles her eyebrows at me, and I find myself grinning in return.
It takes the entire period to get through my set of questions. Brady reads off each one, then adds a bit of his own commentary – which makes me think he may have actually read it – and the class debates and discusses. At the dismissal bell, he walks past me and drops my notebook on my desk.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Are you going to give me your notes?”
He holds up his paper. It’s covered in an indecipherable scrawl. “If you can read it.”
We gather our things, and with Ellie, walk out to the Quad. It’s a little weird having her with us. Brady and I keep staring at each other over her head, like we don’t know what to do with her. She’s just tagging along. Not that I mind or anything.
At the entrance to the dining hall, where our mailboxes are, Brady says, “Do you have a free period or class, Ellie?”
“I have next period and the one after it off.”
“Wait. You have two free periods in addition to lunch?” I ask.
Her eyes grow wide and she nods her head slowly.
That’s weird. Every senior has six classes and two free periods — one all at the same time for lunch and one random one. In theory, we’re supposed to use our free periods for homework or college applications, but mostly, we use it to hang out. But Ellie’s saying she has three free periods. I’ve never heard of someone having back-to-back free periods. Or three of them.
“How’d you manage that?” Brady asks.
She shrugs, “It’s my new schedule. I had to work in beginning violin, which meant dropping dramatic arts. Somehow I ended up with only five classes, but I’m supposed to use the extra time for violin lab work.”
“Huh.” Brady scrunches up his forehead. “Maybe I should sign up for beginning violin. Do you think they’d let me drop Lit?”
I roll my eyes. “No. And you’re welcome — again — for saving your ass today.”
I stick my hand into my mailbox and pull out a pink slip.
“What’s that?” Brady asks.
I unfold it and read. “I have to go see Ms. Flemming during my free period to discuss college.”
“That sucks.”
The ten-minute bell rings. “I have to go to Calc. Brady?”
He smiles widely. “Free period.” He looks at Ellie. “Feel like hanging out?”
My heart thumps, and I rub my clammy palms on my pants. Not that I care. Ellie and I are friends. Or trying to be, at least.
She glances at me, then at Brady, like she’s debating.
Brady says, “Oh c’mon. I don’t bite. Besides, if you survived being alone with Fletch, you’ll be fine with me.”
She giggles nervously. “Sure. Why not?”
Brady holds the door open for her and bows. “After you.”
The two of them walk off, the space between them growing smaller with each step.
***
After Calc, I head over to the Administration building and find my counselor’s office. I rap twice on the heavy wooden door.
“Come in, Fletch,” Ms. Flemming calls from inside.
Unlike Mr. Tolst’s office, Ms. Flemming’s is spare and sterile. And even smaller, if that’s possible.
“Have a seat.” She points to the straight back chair across from her. I have no doubt someone selected this chair for the sole purpose of pushing stressed students closer to freak out mode.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I did.” The keys of her keyboard clack in a steady rhythm. “Let’s talk college.”
This is the part where I’m expected to perk up and act enthusiastic, but I can’t.
My eyes wander to her face, challenging her to draw the conversation out of me.
Not that I dislike Ms. Flemming. She’s all right. Young and female, which isn’t something you can say about most of the staff. I’d put her not much over thirty. And pretty. A lot of guys lust after her.
“Have you narrowed down your list?” she asks.
“Yeah. I received all the applications this summer.”
“Did you visit any schools?”
I’ve been visiting Princeton since I was a baby, but other than Stanford, haven’t stepped foot on any of the other campuses. I guess that counts. “Yeah.”
She reads her screen. “I see you’re interested in Princeton, along with a few others. Is that your top choice?”
I bob my head. “My dad went there.”
Ms. Flemming tilts her head and studies me for a moment. “I get the feeling it’s not where you really want to go.”
I frown. It isn’t that I don’t want to go to Princeton — because I do. I just want to go to Stanford more. At least I think I do.
“What do you like about Princeton?”
Its school colors are orange and black? The mascot is a tiger?
She takes advantage of my silence. “I see many students, just like you, every year. It’s okay to be confused, Fletch.”
“I’m not confused.” Not about college. I’m going. I’ll graduate and get on with life. There’s nothing confusing about that.
“Oh.” She folds her hands on the desk. “It’s alright to have your own dreams. Just because your father attended Princeton doesn’t mean you need to.”
Expectations. My dad has expectations.
Ms. Flemming babbles on. “College is the perfect time to branch out and discover who you really are. You can be your own person.”
That’s what Dad said about high school. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing now.
“Right.” I push the chair back and stand. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Fletch, I asked you here to make sure you were on track with applications. Let me know if you have any questions. I’m here to support you.”
“Okay. Thanks again.”
I can’t escape the claustrophobic office fast enough.
Life is crushing me.
My feet only carry me as far as the stairwell before refusing to continue on. I drop my bag on the ground and crouch down, doubling over and forcing all the cracks of my heart together.
Breathe.
Once the air rushes back into my lungs, I right myself and bolt from the building, until I reach Brady and Reid’s dorm. The RA sits at the desk in the entryway, reading a book and sipping coffee.
“Sign-in,” he says without lifting his eyes.
I hastily write my name in the ledger. As I’m doing it, I realize Brady must have snuck Ellie in. Visiting hours haven’t started yet. Which means he has to sneak her out. Probably through the window. Which means, I won’t catch them if I’m in the hallway.
I sprint back out the door — the RA doesn’t seem to notice — and around the side of the house. Giant redwoods dwarf the four dorms nestled beneath them. It takes me three tries before I remember to count six windows from the left. I creep up, like some pervert, and my stomach churns. I’m nervous about what I’ll see.
Which is totally ridiculous because … well, it just is.
I squint through the slightly open blinds. From the other side of the window comes what sounds like a bed squeaking. Rhythmically.
How could they? I mean, not that I’m trying to sleep with Ellie or anything, but Brady knows I’m trying to be friends with her. He knows. And now he’s in there fucking her? She’ll never want to come near me again.
Maybe I should have cited the Guy Code on her. Brady and I have no problem sharing most girls, but a few, like Calista or Paige, get Guy Coded. Basically, that girl’s off limits to all the other guys in our group. Forever.
Something Alex apparently forgot when he asked Cal out.
But it’s totally ridiculous for me to claim the Guy Code on Ellie. She’s hands off for me, not Brady.
I bang on the window. The squeaking stops and the blinds whip up. Reid’s skinny-ass body, wrapped in a blanket, stands before me.
“Jesus, Fletch,” he says through the window. “Are you a creeper now or what?”
“Where’s Brady?” I ask.
Paige leans over the edge of the bunk bed, her hair a knotted mess. “Obviously not here, you dick killer.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. Reid drops the blind and I walk away.
What’s wrong with me? Brady’s my best friend, and Ellie is just some girl. My friend. I grab a fistful of my floppy hair, knot my fingers in it, and pull.
With nowhere to go, I head back to my room. As I’m about to open the door to my room, the frantic rat-a-tat-tat of a video game greets me. Only thing is, I don’t have a TV or video games.
Ellie’s sprawled on her stomach, before a TV, with a controller in her hand.
“Where did that come from?”
She rolls over, so she’s laying flat on her back. Her skirt bunches up around her hips putting her yellow panties on full display.
What the hell?
“Hey.” She quickly brushes her hand over her skirt, and the panties disappear from sight. “Do you like it?”
She must be talking about the TV and not her panties. “Um. Yeah. Where’d it come from?”
She sits up. “Brady borrowed your car, and he and I brought it over here from his room. He said Reid’s always in there with Paige, and he wants to at least be able to play his games if he can’t sleep there.”
“He borrowed my car?”
Ellie nods. “Yeah, I hope that’s okay. He said he had joint ownership of it?”
I toss my bag on the floor, near my desk, and take up my post in the chair. “Not exactly.”
My eyes search the room for any other signs Brady has decided to move in with me. The hammock on the balcony catches my eye, but I don’t see anything else – no duffle bag or anything.
Crushed Page 8
