by Lauren Kunze
Suddenly Vanessa waved. It was a tiny, weak wave, but it was still a wave and Callie felt her heart soaring just a little. As far as Callie could tell, Vanessa hadn’t told Lexi about the video. Right now she could really use a friend. Her best friend.
“Come on,” Mimi cried, tugging Callie’s hand. “Need foods.” She gestured toward a nearby table filled with what looked like boxes of donuts. “Forgotta eat this morning . . .”
Callie nodded and followed Mimi through the crowd. Suddenly she stopped walking. Clint was over by the Delphic’s trailer. He had definitely seen her, and he definitely still had zero interest in talking to her. She watched him shotgun a beer and “whoop”: drunker and rowdier than usual because—hopefully—he was upset about her. A girl walked up to him but he ignored her, high-fiving the guy who had just handed him another beer.
Better than I can say for myself, she thought. From across the way Mimi held open an empty pink box and mouthed: “No Donuts,” pouting with great exaggeration as she headed back toward Callie. “LET US TRY THE PUDDING TAILGATE!” she screamed.
“OKAY!” Callie screamed back. “BUT YOU DON’T HAVE TO YELL!” Arm-in-arm, they wove their way through the crowd. Unfortunately, instead of food, the Pudding’s folding table was lined with bottles and bottles of booze.
“Neos!” cried a bunch of older girls.
“Initiation time!” one of them screamed as another picked up a handle. “Now, drink!” she yelled. Mimi shrugged and opened her mouth. Callie clamped her lips and shook her head. No way was she participating in any form of initiation. . . .
She turned around and saw Lexi smiling. Smiling? Yes, smiling—at her, a knowing expression in her eyes. Still smiling—creepy—Lexi started making her way toward Callie.
“Hi!” she said, pouring some Bloody Mary mix into a plastic cup and selecting a piece of celery. “Are you enjoying your weekend?”
Callie simply stared at her.
“I’d make the most of it if I were you. . . .” Lexi continued, taking a sip of her drink. The bloodred color and her pale, smooth skin made her look a bit like a vampire, and Callie was about to open her mouth and say just that when somebody stumbled into her from behind—
“Hey, watch—” Callie snapped before she realized that Mimi was literally collapsing into her arms. “Whoa there, drunkie—”
“Je dois sortir. Je vais être—être—MALADE!”
“What?” yelled Callie, shepherding her to a less crowded area.
“I said—” Mimi sputtered, tripping over her own feet, “ThatIamgoingtobe—SICK! PUKE! NOW!”
“Oh!” cried Callie. Then: “Not you too! What’s wrong with the pair of you—YOU’RE NOT FAT!”
“NO, YOU IDIOT. I MEAN—” and then Mimi barfed—all over Callie’s ten-dollar, bargain-bin flats.
“Well, I guess that’s why I don’t buy nice shoes!” Callie mused with cheery matter-of-factness, grabbing Mimi midway through her descent earthward. “Feeling better?” she asked, her concern mounting as Mimi continued to sink downward: limbs like a rag doll’s, eyes half closed.
“Nah . . .” Mimi mumbled. “Shtill shfeeling shick . . .”
Callie guided Mimi away from the crowd, past rows and rows of cars, and toward a grassy knoll. Mimi sank onto the ground. Callie cursed herself for worrying so much about Clint, Gregory, Lexi, and Vanessa that she hadn’t paid closer attention to how much her roommate had been drinking. She was trying to figure out what to do—leave Mimi there and go get her some food?—try to see if she wanted to throw up again?—find Vanessa and ask for help?—when all of a sudden, a man in a golf cart zoomed over in their direction.
As he got closer, Callie realized that he was a cop. “Shit!” she muttered. Then: “Mimi, we’ve got to move!”
“Blerg . . .” Mimi mumbled, closing her eyes and leaning her head against Callie’s chest. A disturbing-colored spit bubble formed around the rim of her mouth.
Shit.
“You girls look like you could use a little help,” said the cop, parking the golf cart and making his way toward them.
“Oh no, officer,” Callie said, trying to sit Mimi up straight. “We’re doing fine . . . just fine—”
“Dandy!” Mimi opened her eyes and yelled happily, “Peachy keen!”
Nudging Mimi in the ribs, Callie continued, smiling: “Yep, just fine and definitely not in need of any assistance. But thank you very much for asking!”
The officer didn’t budge. “Your friend looks very, very drunk,” he said.
“Define ‘drunk,’” Callie said slowly as Mimi groaned and her head dropped between her knees.
“How old are you girls, anyway?”
“Twenty-one, officer” Callie offered at the exact same moment Mimi cried: “TWENTY-FIVE!”
“Right,” he said, staring down at them. “Well, in that case, you don’t have a choice. I’m going to take you to health services so they can get you to a hospital.”
Head still sunk low between her knees, Mimi lifted her hands as if she were waiting to be cuffed: “Take me away, officer.”
“Uh—no, Mimi—HOSPITAL,” said Callie, trying to lift her to her feet. The officer bent to help.
“L’hôpital? Oui, bien sûr . . .” Mimi murmured as he scooped her up and carried her to the golf cart.
“Can I come, too?” asked Callie.
He surveyed her skeptically. “Usually it’s not allowed unless—”
“Please, sir,” Callie interrupted, starting to panic. “She’s not a U.S. citizen, and I don’t want to leave her alone—”
“All right. You can wait in the lobby at the hospital—but don’t cause any trouble!”
Seven hours later Mimi was still asleep, hooked up to an IV while Callie waited in the lobby. Numbly Callie had watched many of her fellow freshmen being wheeled in on stretchers. She had watched the football game on a static-ridden TV in the corner. She had watched the clock tick away the hours. And at around noon she had watched her cell phone lose its final bar of battery power as it beeped its way to a tragic, untimely death. . . .
The nurse who had been updating her on Mimi’s status walked through the double doors. Mimi was fine—lucky, even, to have escaped a stomach pumping—but she was still very weak.
“Is she awake yet?” Callie asked, standing as the nurse approached her.
“No, not yet darlin’,” the nurse answered in a sedate, maternal voice. “We need to let her hydrate and sleep for at least another twenty minutes. In the meantime ain’t there anyone you can call to come pick you gals up?”
Callie’s eyes widened despairingly. “My cell phone,” she whispered, “it—died.”
“And I s’pose a landline ain’t any help to you kids these days, mmm?” the nurse said, sounding more weary than judgmental.
“Yeah,” Callie admitted, “that’s right. I don’t have any of our friends’ numbers written down or memorized. . . .”
“And your girlfriend—she don’t have a cell phone?”
Callie shook her head. “I couldn’t find it anywhere. . . .”
The nurse sighed. “I s’pose y’all are just gonna have to pay for a cab, then. I’ll write down the number for you soon as your friend wakes up.”
Callie watched her amble back through the double doors. She didn’t have the heart to cry out and explain how they’d left all their cash, wallets, credit cards, clothes, and everything locked in their room back at the hotel—the keys to which she had for some reason stupidly entrusted to OK.
Shit, she thought miserably for the ten thousandth time that day. She didn’t know if she could think of a way to euphemize the phrase stranded at Yale-New Haven. Slumped low in her uncomfortable plastic chair, Callie watched a dark-haired man with the collar of his coat pulled high against the cold sweep through the sliding glass doors, a look of panic in his eyes.
“Gregory?”
“Callie!” he cried, hurrying toward her and locking her in a fierce embrace. After a few moments he pulled
back, looking embarrassed.
“How did you . . .” Her head was suddenly heavy with exhaustion.
“It took me a while, but after talking to a couple of people who saw you leaving the tailgate, I was able to piece it together. I already checked the other two hospitals and this was the only one left. Is Mimi okay?”
“She’s fine. Still sleeping, but they said she’ll wake up soon,” Callie said. She sank back down into her plastic chair, finding that her feelings of gratitude were too overwhelming to put into words. “I just can’t . . . Thank you so—”
“I’m just glad you’re all right,” he cut in, sitting down beside her. “I need to text Clint and tell him that I found you,” he added, pulling out his phone. “He’s been really worried, trying to reach you all day, but he said you’d turned off your cell phone. Since I was the one with the car, I offered. . . .” He looked up from his phone. “Unless, do you want to call him?”
Slowly she shook her head. His eyes lingered questioningly on her face.
“I’m just so tired,” she offered lamely.
Gregory shrugged and clicked Send. Five seconds later his cell phone vibrated in response. “He says he’s glad you’re okay and that you should call him after Thanksgiving break if you’re ready to talk.”
Ready to talk about why I freaked out on Thursday? thought Callie, shifting in her chair. After Thanksgiving break? How about more like never?
“Do you . . . want to tell me what that’s about?” Gregory asked, holding up his phone.
“No, not really,” she said. “What I actually want—more than anything—is a sandwich.”
“A sandwich? Why? When was the last time you had something to eat?”
“Mmm . . . breakfast?”
“You mean, the mimosas we drank before we left the hotel? That doesn’t count.”
“I see your point.” Her stomach rumbled. “Too bad my wallet’s been locked in the hotel all day.”
“Hang on,” said Gregory, standing and walking toward the vending machines over by the TV. In a minute he was back holding a candy bar and a bag of chips.
“Not quite a sandwich, but I did the best I could under the circumstances.”
“Thanks,” she said, accepting the chips. “You really are a lifesaver.”
They were quiet for a moment as she ate. Then: “What was that in your back pocket?” she asked.
“What?”
“When you stood up to go to the vending machines, there was something in your pocket.”
“What were you doing staring at my back pockets?”
She was too exhausted to blush. Instead she glared. “Are you going to tell me what it is or not?”
“Fine,” he said with a sigh. Then he pulled something small and slim out of the back of his jeans. It was a book: Persuasion, by Jane Austen.
Callie grabbed it, her eyes growing wide. “You brought this book—to the tailgate?”
“So?”
“To the tailgate?”
“I usually bring a book everywhere I go—in case I get bored.”
“Yes, but this book?” she repeated again, mostly to herself rather than to him. He actually liked Jane Austen? Meaning he hadn’t made it up all those weeks ago just to torment her?
“I understand it’s not your favorite. . . ,” he began.
What? There was no way he could have remembered!
“Maybe I judged it too quickly,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed with a smile. “Maybe you should give it a second chance.”
“Maybe I will,” she said, opening it. He had scribbled all over the pages: the marginalia almost as extensive as the notes in her ancient copy of Pride and Prejudice. Her head felt light—with hunger, surely—as he leaned in to read the first paragraph over her shoulder.
They were only three pages in when a very pale, very embarrassed Mimi shuffled into the lobby.
Immediately they stood and Gregory shoved the book back into his pocket. Callie gave Mimi an enormous hug. “Feeling better?” she asked.
Mimi nodded.
“Let’s get you to the hotel,” Gregory said, throwing a protective arm around her shoulders. She nodded again and allowed herself to be led out to the parking lot.
“Callie . . . ,” she started, fumbling for words.
“Don’t mention it,” Callie reassured her, patting her on the back. “It could have happened to any of us.”
“Yeah, but not everyone—”
“Shhh . . . We can talk about that later,” Callie said. “We’re just so glad that you’re safe.”
“Yeah,” said Gregory as they all climbed into his car. “I wasn’t that worried because you know I don’t really like you . . . but my roommate! Man, if you’ve ever seen a large emotional African on the verge of tears, then you know it isn’t pretty.”
Mimi smiled feebly from the front seat.
“I practically had to chain him to the radiator before he agreed to wait by the phone in case you called!” he continued.
Calling the hotel? thought Callie. Why didn’t I think of that!? Stupid, stupid, stupid!
“He’ll be feeling happier now,” Gregory added, the gray, darkened streets of New Haven whizzing past. “In fact, he just texted me a few minutes ago to say he ordered from room service: ‘everything that the buggers had on their menu’ in case you’re feeling hungry! Including,” he added, glancing in the rearview mirror back at Callie, “a sandwich.”
“Thanks,” Mimi whispered. Callie smiled.
Several minutes later they were handing the car keys to the hotel valet and piling into the elevator. Callie wondered if she ought to get in touch with Vanessa, who she thought was staying either on their floor or a few floors above. Was she worried? Did she even know what had happened?
Better to let Gregory or OK tell her, and then maybe when they all got back to school, Callie could find it in her heart to forgive Vanessa for the Lamont Library Conspiracy.
As soon as they got off the elevator, the door to Gregory and OK’s room burst open and OK ran toward Mimi, folding her so tightly in his embrace that she actually squealed.
“Ah! LetgooFMe!”
“You’re alive!” he boomed, holding her back from him at arm’s length and studying her as if eight years had passed, rather than eight hours.
“Of course I am alive,” she snapped. A tiny hint of color had sprung into her cheeks. “Know anywhere that a girl can get a decent meal around here?”
“Right this way, mademoiselle!” OK cried, flinging open the door to reveal five carts of food. Mimi shook her head and smiled before following OK inside.
“Still hungry?” Gregory asked, turning to Callie instead of heading into the room.
“Actually, no.”
“We should probably let them be alone, then,” he murmured.
She could feel his eyes on her as her fingers fumbled with the key to her room. It slipped twice before the lock opened with a click.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked when they were inside, gesturing toward the balcony.
She shook her head. Despite Callie’s protests Mimi had been quite firm about reserving a luxury suite and charging the entire bill to her mother’s credit card, assuring Callie that to let her do so was a “tremendous favor” in service of the great, ongoing goal to “exaspérer ma mère.”
Silently Callie followed Gregory onto the balcony. She settled down in the wooden lounge chair next to him, propping her feet on the built-in footrest. The night was dark and it had started to mist. A cool wind danced through her hair. She shivered.
“You cold?” Gregory asked. Before she could reply, he had disappeared into the room, returning moments later with an ashtray and a soft fleece blanket. He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, then settled into the other chair and lit his cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he stared out into the night.
“Can I have one of those?” she asked.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t.” S
he sighed. “But I think I could really use one right now.”
“It’s a bad habit, you know,” he said.
“Well, I suppose it’s the bad habits that are often the most tempting,” she ventured, meeting his eyes.
He looked away, staring off into the distance for a few moments as if he hadn’t heard her.
“So, what’s up with you and Clint?” he asked suddenly. “Why isn’t he here with you?”
“Not sure . . .” Callie sighed. “I guess we’re not really together anymore.”
“Really? That’s interesting,” he said quietly, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Interesting?” she asked as her heart began to pound like a bass drum. “Interesting to whom?”
“To me,” he answered, and leaning toward her, he kissed her.
She was drowning in the sound of her thundering pulse, her head dizzy. She felt as if a rug had been pulled out from underneath her feet and she was floating upside down in the misty rain, kissing him like she had never kissed anybody in her entire life, wanting to go on kissing him for hours, for it to never end.
He pulled her to her feet. The mist turned to a drizzle and then into rain, but they kept on kissing, oblivious to the world—to the storm, to the blaring horns and shouts from the streets below, and to the ashtray that had fallen unnoticed into a puddle. They were oblivious to the horrified face of a girl who was leaning, her wet hair plastered against her cheeks, over the railing of a room that must have been only several doors down the hall: watching their every move.
Finally Gregory broke away and gazed at Callie intently. Then he led her back inside.
There were no hesitations—no questions, no conversations. There wasn’t anything at all, in fact, except bliss.
As the story usually goes, things were decidedly less rosy in the morning. Gregory was gone, and Mimi, who must have come back sometime after dawn, was hovering near the other queen-sized bed, muttering and flinging her clothes into an oversized duffel bag.
“Morning,” Callie mumbled, squinting her eyes against the sunlight filtering through the curtains. She was still completely naked.
“Er, Mimi? Did you happen to see my—”
