by Stacey Kade
But the familiar smell of fresh popcorn—hot, salty, and buttery—greets me as soon as I pull open the door, and my mouth waters, out of both habit and need. I should have eaten that sandwich Lexi brought me.
I hear voices, giggling and talking over one another, in the distance. The lounge, maybe?
Curiosity—and hunger—pulls me toward the source. The voices get louder as I edge closer, and I detect the sound of a familiar theme song: Gilmore Girls.
“No, I’m telling you it’s the same guy! The one from Supernatural.”
I peek around the corner and find the twins, Sadie, and a couple of girls I don’t know spread out on the couch and the floor with blankets, pillows, and snacks.
Instinctively I pull back. I don’t want them to see me. But I can’t quite make myself retreat, either.
Gilmore Girls is a good show. Not as good as Felicity, but nothing is.
The idea of going to my room makes me feel restless and vaguely claustrophobic. But that’s what I should do. Because they’ve probably heard the rumors already. I’ll feel awkward and stupid and friendless if I go in there.
And how is that different from how you’ll feel if you go back to our room? Lexi in my head asks.
Damn her.
All right. Fine. If I do this, at least Lexi—the figurative and literal versions—can’t accuse me of not trying again. There is nothing more me than binging on a show with bags of microwave popcorn. If there’s a place I might belong, it’s in this room.
And this is my lounge, my floor. I have the right to be here. It’s not like I’m begging them not to turn me away.
It only feels like it.
I tighten my sweaty grip on the handle of my shower bucket, dirty clothes stuffed on top, and start forward. Probably should have taken the extra minute to drop the bucket and clothes off in my room, but if I did that, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t come back.
The twins look up as I walk in. “Hey,” they say in unison, but only after giving each other a knowing look. It’s almost enough to drive me out.
But the other girls, the ones I don’t know, say hello.
“We’re watching Gilmore Girls,” one of them says with a friendly wave. She’s wearing a Packers jersey and sleep shorts. “You want to join us?”
“We’re taking a mental vacation for a few hours,” the other girl says, twisting her hair, all done in tiny intricate braids, into a knot on the top of her head. “No homework, no classes, no drama.” She wrinkles her nose.
“No, no more Jess!” Cara snatches the remote from Lara. “Dean only.”
Sadie silently offers up the bowl of popcorn to me.
And that’s it. My choice to stay or go.
Cautiously, I take the bowl and sit on the floor at the edge of the blanket, staying close to the door . . . just in case.
We watch three episodes, debating the merits of Rory’s various love interests, and I’m able to help by confirming that Dean on Gilmore Girls is Sam from Supernatural, and that his brother on Supernatural is named Dean. (To be honest, it is confusing.)
“See? Thank you,” Ina says, mock glaring at Lauren, the one who invited me to come in. Lauren and Ina are roommates, from Four North. “I told you.”
Lauren holds her hands up in surrender. “You win.” She stands. “Ladies, I’m afraid mental-vacation time is over for me. I have problem sets calling my name.”
“Boo,” Sadie says softly, surprising me.
“Then you talk Professor Dunlevy into accepting papers on the mother-daughter dynamic of Rory and Lorelai instead,” Lauren says, chucking a handful of popcorn at her.
Sadie ducks, then nods thoughtfully, as if seriously considering this idea. They must have class together.
Cara and Lara begin gathering up blankets, and Ina helps them. “Same time next week?” Ina asks. “I think I’m going to need it to survive accounting on Mondays without my brain exploding.”
Cara and Lara look at each other. “Sure.” Sadie bobs her head in agreement.
Then Ina glances at me. “You in too?”
I expect the twins to smirk and nudge each other, but they’re just looking at me, like everyone else, waiting for an answer.
“Um, yeah,” I manage eventually. “I can . . . I’ll bring the popcorn.”
“Sounds good,” Ina says.
And with that they finish gathering up their stuff and leave, still talking as they head toward their rooms.
I stand in the now-empty lounge, staring after them. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the kind of social success I pictured when I first got here, but it was something, and far more comfortable than anything else I’ve tried.
And I survived it. Actually, aside from that one awkward moment with the twins at the beginning, it was . . . almost normal.
Huh.
Maybe going to classes tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad. If I decided to try.
Chapter Sixteen
What a freak.”
About halfway through Professor Wheeler’s lecture on the two-party system, the whispered words drift down from the row behind and above me, followed by a fit of high-pitched giggles.
I stiffen, humiliation setting my skin aflame. I have to fight the impulse to turn around. They’re not talking about me. They can’t be.
I held my breath during my first class, but nothing happened. Other than a few people staring at me, but that might have been my imagination.
I started to think Lexi was right and I was blowing this way out of proportion. Then came political science, my biggest lecture, full of my fellow freshmen.
“No, I’m telling you, Liam said she followed him here, like a complete psycho. Because of some old show.”
Oh God. Definitely me.
My shoulders begin to ache from holding myself still. I’m not going to react. I can’t. But coming to class was a mistake. I should never have let my minor success last night in the lounge guide any decision on venturing out onto campus.
And to make things worse, I’m trapped. To leave the auditorium, I’d have to descend ten rows and cross the main floor to the exit or climb five rows to the door on the second level. Either way, the girl who is talking shit about me would notice.
I keep scribbling in my notebook, pretending to take notes, but I turn my head slightly to the left, using the corner of my eye to look behind me. I catch a flash of long red hair.
Liam’s pretty teammate. The one he was hugging. Are they . . . together now?
I face front again, and a tear rolls off my chin, landing with a splat on my notebook.
So fucking stupid, Caroline.
“Are you okay?” my seat neighbor—Darlene Samuels—whispers.
I wipe my cheek, disguising the motion by pretending to have an itch, and nod. This is so much worse than I even imagined. What am I doing here?
“And then she, like, chased him down in front of everyone, demanding to know why he hadn’t texted her,” the redhead continues. “I saw it happen. I was right there. I mean, oh my God. Shoot me if I’m ever that pathetic.”
It dawns on me belatedly that this monologue is loud enough that I’m supposed to hear it and react. This is not a random gossip session. She wants to see me bolt from the room.
It’s a very Stella move. A very high school move.
For some reason, that pisses me off. This is college. Or it’s supposed to be. Yeah, I messed up, but I can’t be the only one.
Please don’t let me be the only one.
Either way, I refuse to let this bitch win. She’s not going to drive me out of class and then get the chance to go around campus gloating about it.
Lexi would probably have the guts to turn around and glare at her or even tell her to shut up. But if I tried that, my expression would give away my true emotions. So instead I plant my feet on the floor and force myself to keep my eyes on Professor Wheeler. Staying—tense, sweating, and miserable—is my rebellion.
The pseudo whispering continues through the rest of class, but less and l
ess frequently once I don’t react.
Still, the urge to flee as soon as Professor Wheeler dismisses us is nearly impossible to resist. But I make myself stand there, packing and repacking my backpack until students for the next class filter in. I tell myself I’m making a point, and I am. But it’s also because I don’t want to give that girl a chance to ambush me in the hall outside.
I won’t be able to hold it together if she says that stuff to my face. The thought of Liam laughing at me with her makes the hole in my heart ache until it feels like it’s going to turn me inside out.
Eventually, though, the professor for the next lecture arrives and starts making class-beginning noises. I have to leave.
With a firm grip on my backpack straps, I take the steps down to the main floor and then out into the hall, muscles aching with tension and bracing myself for that shout. “Hey, aren’t you the girl who . . .”
But it doesn’t come.
I lunge for the doors to the outside and then bolt for Brekken. People run on campus all the time, though it’s usually to class, not away from it. But this time I don’t care.
I arrive at Brekken, out of breath and sweating. I climb the stairs, enter our room, drop my backpack on the floor, and crawl into bed. That’s it. I tried. I’m done.
But when Lexi bangs in that evening, she tosses a handful of brightly colored flyers at me. “Come on,” she says. “We’re going to be late.”
I shove the flyers off me and burrow deeper under my covers. “I’m not going anywhere. I went to class today. That was more than enough.”
“Not according to you.”
It takes me a second to track back to our conversation yesterday, when I accused her of not trying.
I groan and pull a pillow over my head. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want. Try, don’t try. I’m done. Today was awful.” I tell her about the girl in my political science class.
“The first day is always the worst,” Lexi says, her voice sounding muffled. “But this will be different.”
“How?” I ask, through the pillow.
“I guarantee that bitch and her friends will not be at this event.” She sounds so pleased with herself, so confident.
I sit up, letting the pillow fall aside, intrigued in spite of myself. “Where did you get these anyway?” I ask, reaching for the flyers.
“Our mailbox.” She’s stuffing her books back onto the shelf and reloading her backpack with materials for her night class.
I pick up the flyer closest to me. “You want to eat pizza with Young Republicans?” I ask.
“What? No.” She puts her backpack down and stalks over to my bed, scooping up the flyers, sorting through them and tossing aside the ones she doesn’t want. A bright yellow one drifts down to land in my lap:
Are you a marathoner . . . of movies?
Are you addicted to binge . . . watching?
Join the Film Board, Wednesdays at 7 in the Chargers Room in the Union. We set the schedule for the movies and TV events on campus. Want a Star Wars finals week? How about Theme Thursdays? (Last year’s Parks and Rec showing was a huge hit!)
Plus, your roommate will be happy you left the room for once. And we promise, no spoilers of any kind.
“Here. This one.” Lexi thrusts a pale pink flyer at me, with a sketch of a cat curled up on a rug.
“Knittin’ Kittens?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
“No,” Lexi says impatiently. “Knittin’ for Kittens? See?” She points at the number between the words.
Knittin’ 4 Kittens. Oh.
“It’s a fundraising group for the Angels of Ashmore, the no-kill shelter in town. It’s where we got our cat, President Fillmore.”
“You have a cat named President Fillmore,” I say in disbelief.
“It’s a long story,” she says.
“Lexi, do you even know how to knit?” I ask. “I don’t.”
“Do you think the cats are going to care if you knit instead of purl or whatever?” she asks. “We’re making blankets for homeless animals. Plus, it’s sponsored by the Gammas.”
“Who?” I ask warily.
“A sorority. They’re a little intense sometimes, but they’re nice.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Trust me, Caroline,” she says. Then she adds, “Every year they get a group together to help my dad and his guys rake the leaves, all right? I know them. Some of them, anyway. They’re okay.” She sounds grumpy about this fact.
“This is a bad idea,” I say.
“Okay, Caroline. Let the poor kittens shiver in the cold, after being dumped in a box outside.”
I glare at her. “It’s like seventy degrees.” I had no idea she could be this manipulative.
“Sure. Today.” She sweeps her hair up into a sloppy bun and ties it off.
“Why do you even care?” I ask.
Lexi drops her hands to her sides, rolling her eyes at me. “I don’t know. Because maybe it occurred to me that you might be right.”
“Don’t go overboard now,” I mutter.
“And if I’m miserable for the next four years while I’m here, then that’s the same as letting them win.”
“Who?”
“The people who make me feel like I shouldn’t be here because I didn’t pay for it. The people who think I’m not Ashmore material.” She affects a snobbish voice. “So I’m going. Fuck them.” She hoists her backpack over her shoulder, then grabs her keys and phone off her desk.
She starts for the door. “Are you coming?” she asks, over her shoulder. Her voice is softer than normal. And it occurs to me that she might be nervous, though that’s hard for me to imagine. Lexi doesn’t seem like she’s ever been nervous about anything. Angry, yes. A lot. Always.
“All right, all right.” I shove back my covers. “Will they have kittens there?” Because I think I could make that work. If I have a pile of purring kittens in my lap, I won’t care if people are staring at me. I was never allowed to have a pet. No space or time for it when we lived in New York, and my mom was too stressed once we moved.
“Uh. Sure, Caroline,” Lexi says.
I can’t see her face, but I think she’s rolling her eyes at me again.
Whatever. For even the possibility of kittens, I’m in.
• • •
There are no kittens immediately visible when we walk into the designated classroom on the lower level of Gellerson Hall. But there is a lot of knitting. A few small groups of people—mostly girls, but a couple of guys, too—are gathered at a mismatched collection of tables spread throughout the room, with brightly colored skeins of yarn in front of them. The soft clacking of needles punctuates the quiet sounds of conversation.
I don’t recognize a single person in here. But Lexi is right: I have a hard time seeing any of them caring about me and Liam or rumors about why I came to Ashmore.
“Welcome!” A girl hustles up to us as soon as we cross the threshold. “I’m Dena! How are you?”
Lexi shifts uneasily. “Great. We’re great,” she says with a grim smile.
“Great!” Dena beams at us. “Well, come on in. We have several stations set up with patterns and materials. Afghans, if you’re super ambitious, but we also have washcloths, cup cozies, and scarves—”
“Wait,” I say. “You’re making scarves? For . . . cats?”
Dena stares at me blankly for a minute, then laughs. “Oh, no,” she says. “We’re not making things for the animals. We knit the scarves and washcloths and stuff to sell on campus to raise money for the shelter.”
I elbow Lexi hard in the ribs, and she emits a small grunt in response.
“Oh, that’s too funny!” Dena says. “You thought we were knitting for . . . oh, no.” She smiles at us expectantly, waiting for us to join in.
And I wait for Lexi to explain, but she doesn’t say anything. Her neck has flushed red, though.
“Uh, see, the thing is,” I say, scrambling to find the words. “We don’t know how to knit. Either of us. And w
e thought if it was for the animals, they wouldn’t care if it was . . . you know, janky.”
Dena is watching me as though I’m spouting complicated calculations that she’s being forced to solve and then translate into English. And now others in the nearest group are putting down their knitting to listen in.
God, this is humiliating. And why isn’t Lexi jumping in to help me? This was her idea!
“But if you’re selling them . . . ,” I continue, doggedly.
“We should go,” Lexi says, turning abruptly.
“Wait, wait.” Dena grabs hold of her arm. “We welcome everyone. Including beginners.” Then she cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowing in recognition. “Wait. You’re Mr. Chandler’s daughter, right?” she asks Lexi.
Lexi stiffens visibly. “Yes.”
Dena squeals and then loops her arm through Lexi’s, drawing her deeper into the room, and I follow. “Oh, he’s so wonderful! Do you know he helped us find a space for our geraniums?” Dena asks. “It’s our sorority flower, but we’re not supposed to plant anything ‘without official university permission.’ ” Dena makes a exasperated noise. “As if the Deltas asked anyone before they put in their hideous plants.”
Lexi shoots a look at me over her shoulder, something between amusement and desperation.
“So, uh, where do we start?” I ask loudly, to redirect. For once I get to be the conversational rescuer instead of the perpetual rescuee.
Dena sets us up at the scarf table, supposedly because “it’s so easy, even for beginners!”
A TA named Matt, who is cute in a tall, skinny, Michael Cera kind of way, gets both of us started with something called “casting on.”
“My mom owns the yarn shop here in town,” he says, blushing. He can’t quite meet Lexi’s eyes. “Stitch and Bitch. But with an asterisk where the i should go,” he says. “So she doesn’t get fined by city council, I guess . . .” His voice trails off. Then he clears his throat. “Let me know if you have any trouble.”
“I didn’t know,” Lexi mutters as soon as he walks away. “We can go. This is dumb.”
“It’s okay. We’re here.” I scowl at the needles Matt gave me and the pale blue yarn trailing off them. “I don’t think I have enough hands to do this right.”
