“Are you done for the day?” I ask, remembering she said something about violin lab during her free period.
“Yup. I should go over to the music room and practice, but there’s no one checking us in, so it doesn’t matter when I go.”
She walks over to my bed — the one I sleep in — and sits down. “I’ve been thinking.” Sentences that start like this are never good. Usually the girl follows it with, ‘I really like you and I wondered if you like me.’ And they tend to end with, ‘You’re a jerk.’
“We need to rectify this favorite ice cream situation. Immediately.”
So not what I was expecting. “What?”
“Orange sherbet is not an ice cream. You need a real favorite flavor.” She jumps up and motions for me to follow her. “C’mon. Up. We have work to do.”
The alarm clock’s blue numbers catch my attention. It’s only 2:40. “How’d Brady sneak you in?”
She grins. “He didn’t. He told your RA we had a delivery for you and showed him the TV. Tim didn’t question it.”
“Tim?”
“Your RA.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s nice. A little stupid. Didn’t make me sign in or anything.”
Her stomach growls, loudly. She pushes her hand against it and blushes.
“Are you hungry? I have a few apples and some crackers.”
“Well, well, well. Aren’t you a gourmet?” She helps herself to handful of saltines I offer. Ellie nibbles the corners of each square first and then eats around the edges until she gets to the middle and pops the whole thing in her mouth.
I find it absolutely fascinating.
“Ready?” she asks after finishing her third cracker.
I have no idea what Ellie has planned, but if it involves spending more time with her, I’m willing to risk another infraction.
She takes my hand and leads me down the hallway, stage whispering, “Shhh, don’t let anyone see me.”
I trail along, a giant smile on my face, feeling fearless.
When we reach the top of the stairs, she performs a ballerina-like spin.
“Coming?” She tilts her head toward the steps before skipping down them. “I’m starving. Your little crackers just didn’t do it for me.”
If we get caught, she’ll spend a few Saturdays doing manual labor, but me — I’m facing a full year of detention. But right now, it doesn’t matter.
The efficiency kitchen, where the kids without mini-fridges keep their food, is to the left of the stairs. Ellie bee-lines for it and throws open the freezer. Sure enough, there are a few single servings of ice cream littering the frozen wasteland.
“Ew. These are not real ice cream.” She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Not acceptable at all. I wouldn’t wish this on my mortal enemy.”
The little cup of rock hard ice cream hits me square in the chest, and I yelp in surprise. “What the hell?”
Ellie holds up her hands in surprise. “Oh shit. I’m sorry. I thought you’d catch it.” She flashes her wicked smile at me. “You are the catcher on the baseball team, after all.”
My heart leaps over this simple comment. She knows I play ball. Ellie has either asked about me or has watched me.
She bends down and picks the cup off the floor. “I don’t think we’re going to do much better than this.”
“We could go into town,” I offer, eager to keep the game going.
Ellie leans against the avocado green fridge. “We wouldn’t be back in time for dinner, and if I’m not at dinner, Sarah and Libby will call the National Guard.” She laughs, a deep throaty sound that wraps around me, finds the cracks in my façade, and pushes its way into my heart. “They’re already convinced you’re going to try to turn me into to some crazed sex-fiend.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I say, before realizing it.
She gives me an exasperated look. “Fletch, Fletch, Fletch. What am I going to do with you?”
That, Ellie Jacobs, is a very good question.
14
It’s the best time of year on campus: Indian Summer.
The Fog retreats for a few hours every day, temperatures top seventy, and girls — normally bundled in fleece and scarves — shed their protective outerwear, giving the poor skin-starved men of Harker a glimpse of the promised land.
Sun warms my head as I trek across The Beach. Already, a few girls sunbathe in shorts and t-shirts. A few more daring types, like Paige, lounge in bikini tops.
This is why it’s called The Beach.
Paige lies on a blue blanket, head turned to the side, with her eyes closed. Damn, her body’s tight. But she’s so tiny that if she didn’t have the fake boobs, she could easily pass for a twelve-year-old. Not that I like Paige or kids, I’m not a pervert, it’s just that she’s little.
I fight the urge to startle her — I think she’s sleeping — and glance up at my balcony.
Sure enough, Brady’s out there reading a graphic novel with a bag of popcorn next to him.
“Oh hey, man,” he calls down as if him being in my room is totally normal. Ever since moving his TV over here, he seems to think he has part ownership of my room. He tosses a handful of popcorn at me, but it just flutters to the ground, directly under him.
“Brady, be quiet. Some of us are trying to enjoy the sun.” Ah, so Paige isn’t sleeping after all.
“Hey, Paige. You done for the day?”
She rolls over and adjusts the tiny triangles that barely cover her nipples. I’m pretty sure her bikini is in violation of Harker’s modesty code that vaguely dictates all students must dress in a way that is both modest and respectable during non-class hours.
“I asked my teacher if I could sketch an outdoor still life today instead of drawing more fruit. So, technically, I’m in class, and I’m working terribly hard on my subject which, I think, is this blade of grass.” She presses a brown piece of straw-like grass between her fingers.
“Excellent. Let me know how that goes,” I say, walking away.
“By the way, Fletcher, you’re lacking in points this year. You haven’t reported anything since Tabs.”
I give a small groan. Points. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been busy.”
“Obviously not, or you’d have more points.”
I playfully flip her off as I jog away. When I get to my room, Brady’s standing by my desk, but his afternoon partner-in-crime, Ellie, is missing.
“Don’t you have class?” I ask. What I want to say is, “Where’s Ellie?” but he may take it the wrong way.
“Going now.” He dusts the popcorn crumbs off his sweater, and they fall to the floor. “Why do they make us wear these in this heat? It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”
There’s no way he’s going to make it to class on time. He has less than two minutes to run across The Beach, down the upper campus stairs, and to his class.
“Oh, yeah. Your mom called,” Brady says as he slowly gathers up his stuff.
It takes a minute for that to compute. First, the fact my mom called — normally we email — and second, “What the hell were you doing answering my cell?”
Brady shrugs. “It rang, so I answered it. She wants you to call her. Said it was about your birthday.” He dumps the empty popcorn bag in the garbage. “Maybe they’re taking you to Meh-he-co or something? Dude, if you go during break, take me. Please. I’ll beg if I have to.”
He demonstrates his begging, falling to his knees in front of me.
“You look like you want to blow me.”
“I would if you took me to Mexico with you,” he jokes.
“Whore.”
I pick the phone up from my desk and hit the call back button. When I saw Dad last week, he told me to call her, and I forgot. Apparently, my birthday is a big deal to her if she’s resorted to leaving messages with my pseudo-roommate.
The phone rings once, twice, and she answers on three.
“Hi, honey,” Mom says in her perky voice.
Brady’s still on his knees, hands cla
sped together, like he’s praying.
“Fletch?” Mom says.
“Hey. Brady said you called.”
“I did.” She pauses. “How’s school? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
I grimace at her attempt for small talk. “It’s fine. Everything is good. Classes are okay.”
She waits a beat and then says, “Dad said you got in a fight. Something about standing up for Calista?”
My stomach jumps to my throat. He told her? Of course he did. Because Calista is like family. “Uh, yeah. But it’s taken care of. I have detention every Saturday morning for the rest of my life.”
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. But I’m sure Cali appreciated it.”
Yeah. I’m sure she does.
Something clanks in the background — probably her wine glass striking the granite countertop. “Now about your birthday, do you have any plans?”
“No.”
“Well, Daddy and I thought maybe you’d like to have some of your friends over to the Napa house. We’d have the staff get it ready, and you and your friends could go for the weekend.”
“I have detention on Saturdays, remember?”
She gives a dismissive tsk, like it’s all a joke. “I’m sure Daddy can get you one weekend off, Fletcher. He’s very persuasive, you know.”
Brady paces in front of me, hands flailing. He’s focusing on my end of the conversation, trying to figure out what my mom’s offering me.
“That sounds great, Mom. Thanks.” I try to sound excited, and not disappointed. I thought maybe they wanted to do something special for me. Going to the Napa house is almost like they forgot about my birthday and scrambled to think of something.
“Perfect. Email a list of who you’re bringing, and I’ll contact the school about weekend passes.”
“Will do.”
“I love you, honey,” she says.
“Love you, too.”
I hit end and spin the phone around on my desk.
Brady stretches his bulky frame across my bed. From his pocket, he pulls a rubber ball and bounces it off the ceiling. Guess he’s not going to class after all.
“So? What are they doing for you? A new car? A trip? What?”
The ball hits the ceiling over and over again. On the annoying scale, it ranks up there with drippy faucets and the dead battery chirp of a smoke detector.
“They’re letting me take you guys to the Napa house for the weekend.”
Brady sits up, apparently forgetting about the ball he just threw. It lands on the bed next to him. “That’s sweet. Can I bring someone?”
“Yeah, sure. You can bring Saylor.”
“Naw.” He lumbers over to the closet and finds a half-eaten bag of pretzels. “Maybe Sarah.”
“Sarah Diaz? What happened to Saylor?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Even if she was as hot as, say, Sarah Diaz — which, for the record, she isn’t — I couldn’t get past her complete lack of a brain.”
“What?” That’s harsh, even for Brady.
He sits on the edge of my bed, balancing the pretzel bag on his knee. “Okay, so we’re in my room, you know, doing stuff.” I give a knowing nod. “And she picks up my physics book.”
“‘Is it hard?’ she asks me.”
Brady catches my eye, and a deep laugh tumbles out of me. “How did you keep a straight face?”
“It wasn’t easy.” He waits for me to recover. “Anyway, I say, ‘Not really. It’s just physics.’ And she says, ‘What are you learning about?’ And the whole time, I’m lying on my bed, thinking ‘Why the fuck are we talking about physics when we should be practicing biology?’”
We laugh again, his booming guffaw drowning my quieter chuckle. “What does that have to do with Saylor’s brain?”
Brady pops a pretzel in his mouth. “Well, I tell her ‘We’re studying the speed of light’ – which is total bullshit, but it sounded good, you know?”
He offers me the pretzel bag and I stick my hand inside, thinking I’ll have a snack, but there are only crumbs. “Thanks for eating all my pretzels.”
“No problem.” He grins. “Okay, so here’s when I knew I had to end things with her. She looks at me, and says in a completely serious voice, ‘Oh, do you guys figure out the speed of dark too?’ I mean, dude, how dumb do you have to be to seriously ask that?”
I drop the empty bag in the garbage and shake my head at him. “She’s only a freshman, Brady. Cut her some slack.”
He holds up his hands, “I can’t. I just can’t.” He jerks his head toward the balcony. “Want to join me for some sightseeing?”
I sling my headphones around my neck. “In a minute, I have to email my mom the guest list.”
Brady holds up his fingers, “You, me, Reid, Paige, Sarah … what about Calista, Alex and Ellie? It doesn’t seem right for the birthday boy to not have anyone.”
Even though I don’t want to, if I don’t invite Calista, my mom and hers will be all over me. Alex, well, if we’re going to co-exist, it would be a good step. And Ellie, yeah. Out of all of them I want Ellie there.
“You’re hoping I get trashed and hook-up with Ellie,” I accuse.
“Something like that.” Brady leans over my chair, staring at the screen. “Wait. You’re inviting both Calista and Ellie? I meant you should choose one, not invite both. “
“I can’t not invite Cal, and I want Ellie there.”
“You have bigger balls than I thought.” He grabs at himself and laughs. “If a cat-fight breaks out, my money’s on Ellie. She’s tough.”
15
I’ve given up studying in my room. I can’t get anything done with Brady constantly throwing things at my ceiling or barging into my room unannounced. I need to focus. I have a stack of college applications, two essays, a physics lab to write up, and more discussion questions for The Awakening to get through before next Friday.
My weekends have taken on a sort of routine: wake up Saturday at seven — hopefully not hung over — eat breakfast, stumble over to my assigned detention project for the day, spend four hours doing mindless work, and finally, hang out with my friends the rest of the day.
Sundays are for homework, and today is Sunday.
I’d rather be sitting outside, enjoying the sun. Maybe seeing if we can get enough guys together for a game of soccer or something. But no. I’m going to lock myself away, in the massive Harker School Library.
I leave the sun behind me, and step into the cavernous main floor.
It’s quiet, just like a library should be.
A huge circular desk dominates the middle of the room. I stop and swipe my ID before walking through the sensors to the rest of the library. There aren’t any books on the first floor; just rows of computers, study carrels, and meeting rooms with floor-to-ceiling glass windows. These lovely fishbowls have no blinds, so don’t even try getting it on in there.
I pick a desk in the third row and sink into the hard wooden chair. From my backpack, I remove my pile of books, the folder with my college applications, and my laptop.
Most colleges accept electronic applications, but Harker encourages us to do the paper ones. They say it will make us stand out. Don’t know why, but whatever.
I pull the top application — Bowdoin — and start filling in the easy stuff, my name, birthdate, schools attended. I have ten of these to do, and I may die of boredom.
Hushed voices come from the next row over. I’m half-listening until Ellie says, “I’m going to finish up here. Go ahead and get started without me.”
Libby, I think, answers, “You sure?”
“Go,” Ellie says forcefully. “I work better alone, anyway.
Libby mutters something unintelligible.
“Okay. See you in a little bit.”
For some reason, my heart’s racing. Like seriously beating so hard, you’d think I just finished the hundred meters in record time. I rub my clammy hands on my jeans and slowly count to fifty. I don’t want to seem overeager.
Not that I am. It’s just that every time we hang out, Brady’s normally with us.
I should say ‘hi’ to her. But then what? Make small talk about the library? Ask about the weather?
On forty-six, I stand and walk to the end of my row. Ellie’s back is to me. Her hair is pulled off her neck in a messy knot thingy. Forty-eight. I inch closer to her. Forty-nine. Fifty.
“Ellie?” My toes curl in my shoes, and I tighten my grasp on my iPod. I try looking nonchalant. Like a friend.
When she doesn’t turn around, I lean against her carrel’s partition. My stomach brushes her arm, and she jumps.
“Fletch!” she says, fumbling with her earphones. “You scared me.”
I point at her earphones. “Sorry. I should have realized you couldn’t hear me.”
Ellie pushes her chair back and spins around to face me. Her head is waist level, which normally is a great place for a girl’s head to be, but this is Ellie, and I’m not supposed to think about her like that.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
Thinking pervy thoughts. I smirk. “Studying. Like you.”
“Smart ass.” She rolls her eyes. “ I come here every Sunday, and I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Brady’s taken over my room.” It’s a little weird looking down at her when her head is directly across from my crotch, so I say, “Do you want move to a meeting room with me? We could talk in there.”
“Sure.” She starts placing her things into her bag, and I head back to my desk. I don’t bother to put any of it away, just gather it up in my arms and walk toward the meeting rooms. They’re all empty, so I take the one nearest me and dump my stuff on the table.
Ellie’s right behind me, but she’s neater, stacking her things in organized piles.
“Are you always such a neat freak?” I joke.
“Yes. I even fold and organize my underwear by color,” she retorts.
The memory of glimpsing her panties on two different occasions fills my head with all kinds of inappropriate Ellie-thoughts. But I can’t help it. She did flash me after all and didn’t seem to mind, either. And damn if Ellie Jacobs isn’t hot.
Like me, she’s working on her college applications. My hand darts across the table and grabs one up. Ellie’s neat handwriting fills the tiny boxes.
Crushed Page 9
