by Stacey Kade
Lexi leans over to look at my stitches, which resemble a tangle of necklaces in a jewelry box—the strands twisted up and impossible to separate. “Is it supposed to look like that?”
“I . . . have no idea,” I admit.
She snickers.
“Shut up.” I elbow her arm. “Like yours is so much better!”
“It’s not a giant knot,” she says, holding her knitting up.
“I don’t think it’s supposed to have that many gaps,” I say.
“It’s a scarf,” she insists. “Maybe it keeps you so warm, you need ventilation . . . holes.”
“Ventilation holes?” For some reason, this cracks me up, and then I’m laughing until tears leak out of the side of my eyes. It’s nice to be crying out of happiness for a change.
Lexi shakes her head at me, but she’s smiling. “You’re ridiculous, Caroline.”
She’s probably right about that. But for the first time, I don’t mind it—I’m having too much fun.
Chapter Seventeen
I pull the yellow flyer from the back pocket of my jeans to look at it one more time, even though I know I’m in the right place. The Chargers Room at the union. From the outside, it’s another nondescript meeting room in the basement of the union, one of at least a dozen reserved for groups and committees.
But I hear people inside, talking.
This is a gathering for the Film Board. The first official activity that has appealed to me—the real me—since my arrival on campus.
But right now I’m almost as scared as I was that first night with Tory at Phi Beta Theta. My heart pounds like I’m running for my life.
The chance to have a say, though, in what movies are shown on campus, and helping people discover awesome new/old shows? It might as well have said CAROLINE SANDS, THIS IS FOR YOU across the top of the flyer.
And I guess, maybe, that’s why I’m nervous. Because if Film Board doesn’t work out, then the chances of finding a place on campus where I fit in are fairly slim. Yarn Club—which is what I’ve started calling Knittin’ 4 Kittens, much to Lexi’s annoyance—was fun, and I’ll keep going to support her and the kittens, but it’s not really my thing. Lexi’s right: My knitting is mostly knots, and not the good kind.
I fold up the Film Board flyer again and jam it into my pocket.
Okay, so I’ll just go in. And if it’s awful, I don’t have to come back. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be the only person checking it out.
That sounds good. But as soon as I walk through the door, heads turn in my direction. Six people are gathered as a group around one of the ubiquitous-on-campus gray plastic tables, three on each side. None of them look like new students, with the slightly uncomfortable and/or panicked expression that I imagine is on my face currently. A pizza box sits in the middle, alongside a paper bag of bread sticks, both of which are filling the room with powerful wafts of garlic, even with their respective containers unopened. The white board on the opposite wall is wiped clean except for the words “Why me?” written in a blue-inked and beautiful cursive.
Yeah. Yeah, I’m feeling that right now.
This many eyes on me at once is almost enough to make me back out and leave. Especially when one set of those eyes—a whole face, actually—belongs to someone familiar. It takes me a moment to place him. Dark, floppy hair, glasses, Phi Beta Theta letters on his shirt.
Oh no.
Del.
He’s the one I met the night I played beer pong with Liam, the night it all went wrong.
Liam mentioned he might rush the PBTs, and I’m sure people saw us kissing that night, so I can’t imagine that the brothers, including Del, haven’t heard something about what happened between us.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I’m frozen in the doorway, like a horribly awkward statue.
It’s probably only a few seconds, but it feels like years. Then Del smiles and waves. “Hey! Caroline, right? I’m Del.”
I nod. “I remember.”
“Haven’t seen you around much lately. You’re here for Film Board?” he asks, and then, without waiting for an answer, he gets up and drags a yellow swivel chair from the corner to the end of the table. “Come on in; have a seat. We haven’t even started yet.” He turns the chair to face me.
I examine his expression; he doesn’t seem to be mocking me.
The studious-looking girl on the other side of the table waves me in. “I’m Lissa. This is my committee.”
“Our committee,” the guy next to her mutters, brushing off the front of his crisp and spotless button-down shirt. His dark curls are cropped close to his head, the notebook in front of him is open to a blank page, and his pen is precisely parallel. Everything about him screams sharp angles and straight lines.
Lissa rolls her eyes. “This is Martin. He’s cochair and our official pain in the ass.”
“I thought that was Brett’s job,” the girl with the thin silver ring in her eyebrow says with a snicker, from the other side of Del.
“Hey!” The blond guy drumming his hands impatiently against the table stops. “I just asked if we could eat first, that’s all.”
So. I am the only new person.
But I can’t leave now, and it’s getting weird standing here, so I dart forward and take refuge in the chair Del has provided, turning toward the table.
“And you know Maisy and John,” Del says, gesturing to the pierced-eyebrow girl and the guy rocking back on the legs of his chair. Maisy waves and John shoots a two-finger salute with a sly grin that makes me immediately uncomfortable.
No, I don’t. But they do look familiar; I’m not sure from where.
“Right. Okay, I call this meeting to order,” Lissa says.
“Are we seriously going to be this formal?” Brett asks with a longing look at the pizza box.
“It’s not that formal,” Martin says. “She’s not even following Robert’s Rules of Order, and—”
“Guys, can we not have a repeat of last year?” Del asks, pushing his hair off his forehead. “Especially in front of the new people.” He jerks his head toward me.
And once again, all eyes are on me. I try to smile, but it feels more like a grimace. Thanks, Del.
“Let’s get through the fall semester and then we can eat, okay?” Lissa pulls her laptop closer to her, while Brett moans.
After about twenty minutes, I can see why Brett was concerned. Martin keeps arguing with everyone else, and we’re not even past Halloween on the calendar.
“You can’t just play Rocky Horror Picture Show every weekend in October,” Martin says.
“Actually,” Lissa says, scanning her laptop screen. “I have a note from physical plant asking us not to show Rocky Horror at all because of the mess it causes. There was toast and rice everywhere last year.”
Wait. What? Toast and rice are not usual movie snacks as far as I know.
Del sees my confusion. “You haven’t been before?”
“Virgin!” John says.
“Oh. Well, no . . . I mean . . . I don’t know what that has . . . I . . . ,” I stammer the words tripping over my teeth and tongue.
“It’s part of the movie,” Del says, shooting John an irritated look. “That’s what they call anyone who is new to the audience-participation part. You throw props, shout lines back at the movie.”
“ ‘Castles don’t have phones, asshole,’ ” Lissa offers.
“Okay,” I say slowly.
Del laughs and bumps my arm with his. “It’s fun, I promise. We’ll show you what to do.” He smiles at me, and I reflexively smile back. The idea of being included in their circle makes me feel for the first time like I might belong here. The real me, I mean.
“Again, assuming that we get permission,” Martin reminds us.
Brett lays his head down on his arms. “But it’s a classic,” he whispers.
Is he always like this, or is it the low blood sugar making him so dramatic?
“What if we offer to clean up?” Maisy ask
s. “I bet I can get some of the drama majors to help out. They love the audience-participation part.”
“We could post a sign-up sheet on the community board online,” Del says. “If we don’t get enough volunteers for cleanup, we won’t do it. That should be enough of a threat.”
“Okay, but that’s still only one weekend in October, and I’m not running slasher movies again,” Martin said, clicking his pen on and off. “They’re ridiculous, and last year we had that idiot running around on campus afterward in a hockey mask, scaring everyone.”
“Martin’s right,” Lissa says grudgingly. “We had the city police and campus police involved because of the 911 calls. Better not to risk it.”
“I’m so hungry,” Brett moans.
That gives me an idea. “What about zombies?” I say before my fear can get the better of me.
Martin’s mouth pinches in annoyance. “What, like Zombieland? World War Z? So overplayed.”
I try not to feel the sting of his dismissal. “No,” I say. “More . . . more like a retrospective. You could pair movies based on similarities or differences.”
“Slow zombies versus fast,” Del says after a moment.
“Right,” I say, relieved that someone understands.
“And classic zombies, like Night of the Living Dead,” Martin adds, looking thoughtful.
“With Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,” Maisy says. “Another form of ‘classic.’ ”
“We could even show the Walking Dead pilot,” Del says. “They have a black-and-white version. Assuming we can get the rights. Run it with Twenty-Eight Days Later, maybe.”
“I like it,” Lissa says, typing on her laptop. “Familiar but different. We’ll have to see what we can afford.”
It’s a small thing, but the feeling of having contributed creates a warm feeling in my chest.
“Speaking of TV shows, we should talk Marathon Mondays,” Lissa says. “We need to kick that off next week or the week after.”
Brett groans.
“Oh, here, for God’s sake.” Maisy flips open the pizza box and shoves it in his direction. “We’re never going to get anything done unless we feed him,” she says to Lissa.
The second Brett has pizza in his hand, he perks up.
Del hands out paper towels to everyone, while Maisy distributes cans of soda and bottles of water.
“Okay,” Lissa says. “But let’s keep talking or we’re going to be here all night.”
As the pizza box and bread sticks make their way around the table, Del leans over and explains. “For Marathon Mondays, we pick a couple of shows per semester. It’s more of an informal thing. We show two or three episodes in a row—”
“Which is why comedies are better,” Martin interjects. “Shorter episodes and broader appeal.”
“—and we have food and discussion afterward,” Del says, ignoring him. “It’s like recreating the whole ‘water cooler’ effect. Making TV social again. Some people when they first get here tend to hole up in their rooms. I know I did.” Del shrugs, showing no sign of embarrassment. “It’s a way to make them comfortable and draw them out.”
Brett holds his hand up. “Better Off Ted,” he says through a mouthful of pizza.
“Parks and Rec was a workplace comedy,” Lissa says. “Not sure if we want to repeat ourselves.” But she writes it down.
Other options are tossed out, rapid-fire.
“Broad City.”
“Sex and the City.”
“Brooklyn Nine-Nine.”
“Friends.” Which is met with groaning from half the table.
“Fine.” Maisy glares at everyone. “Seinfeld, then. They’re classics.”
“They’re also expensive,” Lissa says. “Think older and cheaper. If we do it officially, the right way, we have to pay for the rights to—”
“Wait. I know.” John sets his chair on the floor with a sharp thump and waits for silence. “What about Felicity?” he asks, smirking right at me.
A chunk of pizza crust catches in my throat, and I can’t breathe.
The uncomfortable quiet that follows tells me that everyone knows exactly what John is referring to. Even if they didn’t know that I was the person at the center of that rumor, they do now.
Suddenly those feelings of belonging and contributing are washed away, and I feel horribly exposed, like in one of those dreams where you go to class naked and don’t realize it until you’re there, standing in front of everyone.
I try to swallow, but the pizza crust is firmly lodged. Coughing, I reach for my water bottle and knock it over instead, sending it rolling away.
Del catches it, twists off the cap, and hands it to me.
I take it and swallow half of it at once, trying to clear my throat. At least the choking provides an alternate excuse for the tears blurring my vision.
“Are you okay?” Del asks, his forehead furrowed with concern.
I nod, avoiding his gaze. I want to shrink to the point of invisibility, disappear into my chair.
“Asshole.” Maisy glares at John and throws a hunk of bread stick at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on the table.
He picks it up and pops it into his mouth with a smug smile.
“A disgusting asshole,” Maisy adds.
“What? Five-second rule,” John says, his mouth full.
Lissa clears her throat. “All right, let’s stay focused. I don’t think we—”
“Actually, I think it’s a good idea,” Del says suddenly.
Betrayal and hurt slice through me. It’s not like we’re friends, but he was being friendly, at least. I keep my gaze fixed on the table in front of me, tucking my shaking hands beneath my legs. I’m not going to run. I can’t. That will only give more life to the gossip.
“Kind of like what Caroline was suggesting with the retrospective,” Del continues. “We could do a CW/WB pilot review. All the first episodes of their most famous series. Including Felicity.” His voice is calm, nonjudgmental, not even a hint of laughter.
Relief crashes over me.
“Dawson’s Creek,” Maisy says.
“Buffy,” Brett adds. “Supernatural.”
“Right, anything that’s streaming now that people might be familiar with,” Del says, shifting forward in his seat. “And then we could set it up like The Voice or whatever. Have people vote on which shows they want to continue with. It’ll draw out fans of all the shows if we make it a competition.”
“I like that,” Martin says. “We can use that idea for the posters. Vote for your favorites.”
“Because some people are really into their favorite shows,” John says, rocking back in his chair.
“Shut up, John.” Maisy kicks the legs of his chair, forcing him to lurch forward and grab for the table to keep from falling over.
He glares at her.
“Can we keep going, please, children?” Lissa asks.
And just like that, the conversation returns to the movie schedule.
I stay alert, waiting for John to open his mouth again. But the rest of the meeting passes without another reference to me or Felicity. It’s almost like it didn’t happen.
Except for the quiver of tension still running through me, the lingering damp stickiness of panic sweat on my skin, and the soreness in my throat from choking.
At the end, when everyone is standing and gathering up their stuff, John leaves first.
“See you back at the house,” he says to Del with a head bob.
Maisy rolls her eyes at John’s back. “Bye, John!” Then she looks at Del. “I have no idea what I saw in him.”
“John is . . . John. Unfortunately,” Del says, his mouth flattening into a thin line.
“Thank you,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “For saying something. It’s complicated, and I . . .”
“He likes to stir up trouble,” Del says, a faint hint of pink coloring his cheeks beneath the dark rims of his glasses. “Even when we were pledges together, he always made things w
orse.”
Maisy glances back and forth between us and then steps toward the door. “I’ll be right out here,” she says, seemingly to the room. But her smile is directed at us.
I don’t know what else to say to Del. “Well,” I say finally, “I just . . . appreciate it.”
He waves a hand dismissively, almost knocking over his empty water bottle on the table. “It’s not a big deal. Some people are dumb when it comes to rumors. I prefer to make up my own mind.”
Even though I know the rumors are, in fact, true in this case, I can’t bring myself to say that.
“So, we’re having a game night in my room tomorrow.” He pushes up his glasses, his gaze flitting around the room. “You should come over. We’re playing Last Night on Earth. It’s a board game. Zombies versus humans. I think you would . . . It’ll be fun.” The color in his cheeks grows deeper.
He’s nervous. He’s nervous talking to me, Caroline Sands. The thought almost makes me giddy. Del is cute. And very sweet. But . . .
He shoves his hair back with one hand. “You should join me on Team Zombie. I keep losing. Statistically, the odds should be on our side, but . . . humans with chain saws, what are you going to do?”
“It’s definitely a dilemma,” I agree.
“It’s super nerdy, but fun,” Maisy adds, sticking her head in the doorway, where she’s obviously been eavesdropping. “And crushing Del every single time we play makes it even better.”
“Thanks, Mais,” Del calls with a grimace.
Their exchange startles me into a laugh.
Del shoves his hands in his pockets. “So, what do you think?” He bites his lower lip, waiting for my answer, and it’s adorable.
But . . . he lives in the PBT house. Where, if John is any example, the brothers may have lots to say if I show up there. Liam may be there.
“I don’t know . . . ,” I hedge.
“Maisy is coming.”
“Opting out of the beer pong tournament. As if everyone hasn’t seen me naked already,” Maisy says with a wince, rolling her eyes.
This causes Lissa and Martin to look up from their quiet discussion on the other side of the room, but I barely notice as everything finally clicks for me: Maisy is one of the streakers from the party. That’s why she looks familiar. John, too. Ew.
