by Rachel Shane
The keyword there was need. Not want.
He only needed me.
But I wanted him.
I managed to keep my cool all the way to my bedroom. It was a skill I had perfected back in junior high, when I was elected news anchor for the morning video announcements and then segued that into a paying gig hosting a teen-focused weekend news feature that ran on the local Atlanta ABC affiliate. The trick was simple, suck in a breath, grit my teeth—best when done while hidden behind a perky smile—and place one foot in front of the other.
I commanded my hands to stop shaking by threatening to amputate them if they continued their betrayal. It usually got me through small stints of nerves, like when I interviewed Taylor Swift back in high school and managed to not fumble over any words.
But the walk from the basement up to the second floor where sanctuary in my bedroom waited was the hardest test of composure in my entire career. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind me that I let out my breath. My head landed against the wooden door and I did the one thing I’d vowed never to do in my chosen high profile career. I squealed.
Like a little girl. Like a victim in a horror movie.
Trever Clever knew who I was. Trevor fucking Clever flirted with me. The biggest pop star in the world—until last year anyway—wanted to have a public showmance with me.
I hopped up and down in excitement, cupping my palm over my mouth to stifle the sounds coming out. Anyone walking by my room would probably think I was strangling a wild animal. But I didn’t care. I didn’t even care that Trevor’s interest in me was just a publicity stunt. The guy I’d been in love with—from a music fan perspective, anyway—for years was no longer just an irrational dream bucket list item for my career. It had now crossed over to a personal dream. To reality.
I was friends with Clever Trevor. He held my hand. And I held my own against his banter.
A snickering sound coming from the closet made me snap my head up. My heart thrashed wildly in my chest. I listened for a moment, earning only silence in return, until a hiccup gave away my audience.
“Ho—holly?” I called, my cheeks already flaming over the idea of being heard.
She poked her head out, giggling. “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt. You seemed to be enjoying yourself way too much.”
I slapped my hands over my face. “I can’t believe you heard that.”
“I can’t believe you’re squealing. Over a guy who used you as a party date and then abandoned you five minutes later. And is using you again right now.” She cupped her phone, revealing a text from Mackenzie, who had clearly already spread the word about how the interview went to everyone who cramped into our house.
I shrugged, trying to appear casual. Composed. News anchor-esque. “Maybe he’s changed.”
She snorted. “Oh no.” She strode toward me and placed a palm over my forehead. “Yikes, it’s worse than I thought. You’ve come down with Celebrity Nearsightedness. It’s a very serious condition.” She pursed her lips, assessing me the way she probably did dummies during her nursing classes. “Comes with a variety of symptoms including delusions, inability to focus, poor decision making, and worst case, heart break.”
I slapped her hand away. “I’m fine. Really.” I squared my shoulders and turned away, hoping this statement was true and not another thing I’d caught from Trevor: ruses.
EVERY HEAD SWIVELED IN my direction when I plopped down in my usual desk for my unfortunately anagrammed BJ class. Thirty different sets of eyes centered on me. Thanks to my daily routine of yoga and a youth that included years of dance and gymnastics classes, I usually had no problem staying upright and rigid. But now I felt like crumbling, the world tipping to the side and taking me with it. I gripped my desk for support with one hand, sucked a deep breath into my lungs, and focused on the front of the room, where an empty news anchor desk rested, waiting for practice to start. All around the room, my classmates kept glancing at their phones and then at me. I twitched, eyeing my own phone deep in my bag. I’d vowed not to check again for at least an hour but I lost the battle against my wills. My thumb hit refresh, and I gasped out loud. The number of podcast downloads quadrupled since I last checked, surpassing three million in less than six hours.
Trevor was right. I needed him.
Not that this was a surprise. After he left the house, we unanimously decided to release the unedited version of the interview. Cutting it up into sound bites as Trevor expected went against everything we were trying to do: lie, cheat, and steal. Or well, lie about our intentions, cheat our way into the former Office of Residence Life’s hearts, and steal back our house.
A perky girl with too much eye makeup hovered in front of my desk. “What was he like?” Her knees bobbed and she looked like she was one second away from hopping up and down.
I shrugged. “You heard him.” Inside my head, I mentally groaned. This was not the way to win fans. But a weird part of me wanted to keep the real him to myself. If he wanted to fake a public will-they-or-won’t-they, then whatever happened in private was all I had. He didn’t have to hold my hand. It wasn’t being filmed. That was all for me. And his text messages were mine and mine alone as well, like the one I received right before class: you know you love me.
I shouldn’t. I didn’t. I did.
I can’t.
I’d flirted right back with: I only love the number of downloads.
His heart was probably on another planet while mine was beating for him. I had to stop feeling real things for him. HAD TO.
I bolted upright and forced a smile onto my face. Then I looked away as if I had a secret I couldn’t tell her. I even went so far as to bite my lip. Two could play at the acting game.
She squealed. “Oh my God. Have you kissed him?”
My stomach spasmed at that prospect, but I looked down for a few seconds, demure. In the three years I’d been at Throckmorton, I’d never had a meaningful hook up, only meaningless ones. And already a kiss from Trevor would mean too much to me. Then I met her eyes with a fierce gaze. A few other students were milling toward us, their ears trained on this conversation. “Not yet.” And then I hit them with the classic, the romance trope that made all the women swoon and open their wallets at the box office. The guy pining after a girl who wouldn’t have him. “I’m not sure I want to.”
Oh God did I want to.
“Have you seen his abs?” another girl said as if that was all the evidence I should need to want to kiss him.
“Screw his abs. Have you seen his dick pic?” The first girl went so far as to pull up the picture of Clever Trevor wrapped in plastic wrap, giving me a full view of his abs…and everything else he had to offer. And it seemed he had a lot to offer.
Before I could stop it, my cheeks flamed and the harem of girls squealed again as if this was confirmation I wanted Trevor.
It only took an hour for the girl who questioned me to release a YouTube recap of her conversation with me in class. It went viral too.
As I exited my classroom, my phone buzzed in my pocket and I welcomed the distraction from the swarm of classmates heading in my direction, their eyes wide. I fumbled it to my ear and held up a hand to the crowd gathering around me, giving them a quick shrug of my shoulders as I ducked into a quiet alcove. “Hello?”
“Yo yo yo!” the voice on the other end said in the phone.
“Hi Robby.” My younger brother was a huge fan of all things cliché, like catch phrases that went out of style ten years ago and gold chains…that also went out of style ten years ago. “What’s up?” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. Please don’t be about dad. Please don’t be about dad.
“Good news, sistah.”
Good news. I let out a breath, and then groaned at his inability to annunciate, finally able to focus on this conversation and not the fears overtaking me. I wasn’t sure how he lost his way when he came from a family of newscasters who prided themselves on being able to speak properly and clearly. And also on our ab
ility to deliver devastating news without so much as a crack in our faces. “Looks like there may be two Behrs on the loose up in Throckmorton next year.”
I sucked in a breath as I leaned against the concrete wall, flyers crinkling against my back. “You got in?”
He clucked his tongue. “As if you doubted me.” He paused. “Wait, why do you sound skeptical?”
He didn’t know how deep our family’s money problems ran. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. I gritted my teeth and injected my voice with as much pep as I could muster. “That’s great!”
The smile immediately flatlined on my lips and for once I was grateful he was “too cool” to bother with video chatting.
“Wait, for real?” He sounded wary.
My rapid pulse beat in my neck. I had to keep this causal. He was getting suspicious. I let out a laugh which morphed into a cough. “Yes, loser. Contrary to whatever you believe, you’re my brother and I’d love for you to come here.” I paused for a second. “Mostly so I can look out for you and stop you from getting into trouble.” In the past, I would have stopped him from joining a lame fraternity as well, but that wasn’t an issue anymore.
I held my breath, praying my distraction worked.
His voice grew serious. “Well, then there’s some bad news too.”
My gut clenched, fear clawing up my spine. “Is dad okay?”
He sighed, and I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing for the worst. “No, I mean, that’s not the bad news, but also, he’s not okay.”
I bit back a sob. “Still depressed?”
“He refused to get out of bed for a few days. We finally coaxed him out, but—I don’t know. It freaks me out.”
I swallowed hard, both at this news and the way he was speaking in perfect sentences. For Robby, that meant he was really scared if he was willing to drop the act. “Me too. Has he agreed to therapy yet?”
“Nope. Still flat out refuses.” He sucked in a deep breath. “We’re trying here, but…things got way worse when my acceptance came in.”
“Worse?” I slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. “I thought you getting in might lift his spirits.” After all, Throckmorton was his Alma matter.
“Except…Mom and Dad can’t afford the tuition.”
“Oh.” I dragged my hand over my face, pulling the skin there taught. Mom and I had agreed to keep Robby out of this, keep him innocent, while we looked into financial aid possibilities. But she was never as stoic about breaking devastating news as the rest of us.
“I don’t really understand it,” Robby continued. “But their money is mostly allocated into retirement funds and stocks, so it basically makes me ineligible for financial aid since I guess it makes us look like we have money even though we can’t touch it.”
I groaned, a knot forming in my stomach. Mom hadn’t told me that news. When dad lost his job a few months ago, one thing I learned was that my parents were very good about contributing to 401ks they couldn’t touch for ten more years and very bad about saving any cash to use for things like mortgages. They very much lived by the paycheck. My mom had been a stay at home mom for as long as I knew. Her old college teaching degree was now completely defunct thanks to not keeping up with the necessary credits. We lived comfortably on my dad’s salary. Or so I thought.
“So, I guess I’m not coming there after all.”
“You are.” My voice cracked. “I promise you, I’ll find a way.”
But I didn’t know how to help Robby. Or my dad. Or anyone, really.
Mackenzie and Corey recorded their ridiculously adorable movie podcast. Harrison’s buddy Carlos created a cocktail podcast talking about the history of some liquor brands plus concocting exotic recipes for eager college students to try. And even Holly delivered a podcast called Sex Outside the City where she’d give helpful tips and tricks, mostly from a nurse’s perspective, but also from a girl who liked sex perspective. Every week she planned to have “anonymous” guests who would divulge secrets like their favorite position, most adventurous place they’ve done it, and kinkiest trick. Sounded great in theory until she lined up her first few anonymous guests. Corey. Mackenzie. Bianca. Harrison.
Guess who planned to never listen to Holly’s podcast?
Unless she planned to interview Trevor, that was.
We agreed to add paid advertisements on the podcast in the form of shout outs to local businesses. When we split the proceeds, I planned to give all the money from my portion to my brother…but first we needed actual advertisers. So far we’d only offered free slots to show others what they could receive.
Our demo reel needed only a few more editing tweaks before it was ready to go. Just in time, too, because I had other plans that night. I threw a bunch of books into my bag on top of the change of clothes resting on the bottom. My yoga pants and glasses provided the ruse. “I’m going to the library,” I told Mackenzie and Corey, who were sprawled out on the couch.
“Have fun!” she yelled.
Corey wrinkled his nose. “She’s right. Have fun. As in, avoid the library.”
I gave them a tight smile. “Can’t, have a test tomorrow. Tell Holly not to wait up.”
When I turned toward the front door, I rammed straight into Harrison who had rushed downstairs to cut me off at the door. “Hold up a sec. I have an idea.” He used whisper levels and glanced over my shoulder to see if Corey and Mackenzie heard. He didn’t have an idea. He had a secret. Likely a bad one.
I placed one hand on my hip. “Shouldn’t you be telling your girlfriend your ideas?”
He rolled his dark eyes. “Not that kind of idea.” He leaned in closer, conspiratorially. “I was thinking about Key and Lock.”
My entire body went rigid and I eyed the door, debating how much force I’d need to shove him out of the way. “What about them?”
“They have connections.”
I raised my brow. “We have a viral Clever Trevor interview.”
“Sure, but that’s only one of the podcasts. If we’re going to convince the school, we need backing.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal sign for moolah. “Investors. People of clout recommending us to the school. Key and Lock can get us that.”
“And how do you expect them to do that?” The volume of my voice rose in both volume and snark.
“Their alumni are the CEOs from the top companies, major politicians, some A-list celebrities.” The way he said the last one was clearly a jab at Trevor’s exile from the celebrity list. “A few of those put in a good word for us and throw a few dollars at the school and we’re golden.”
I twitched. It was a good idea. Except one tiny problem. “We don’t know anyone in Key and Lock.”
“Sure we do.” Harrison tapped a bunch of keys on his laptop, and then held it out to me to see Kean Fitzsimmons’s Instagram feed. Every photo of him cast him in a different light.
In one, he was the perfect definition of lumbersexual with a scruffy beard and fitted flannel shirt, lounging at a camp site with a cheeky grin on his face as he shielded something clearly illegal beneath one hand. He lifted the other to his lips, inviting the viewer to share his secret. In another, he’d upgraded the lumber vibe for hipster chic, donning plastic rimmed glasses and an I-don’t-care air as he rode a bike through the streets of Brooklyn, worn paperback novel sticking out of his back pocket. Then there were the ones of him in crisp, expensive suits, schmoozing with big wigs at NYC galleries, a smile worth a million bucks plastered on his face. Intermixed with the selfies were artsy snapshots of sunsets and cleverly arranged scenes of food.
“Wait, there’s more,” Harrison said.
Keane’s Tumblr was a mass of information on innovative business practices, as if he were getting a head start on being the youngest CEO ever. His Facebook contained mostly friends with boobs, each of whom left sappy comments on his wall about how much they missed him, heart heart heart. And finally there was his Twitter, where he hobnobbed with celebrities who res
ponded and retweeted him as if he were one of his own.
The guy was a conglomerate, an enigma, and a fake. No one could be all those things at once. And I knew first hand that he chose his various personas to appeal to different audiences. But Harrison didn’t know him like I did. In fact, Harrison didn’t even know I knew him. “Who the hell is that?” I asked.
Harrison donned a wicked grin. “Your new boyfriend.” He slid his phone back into his pocket. “That’s how we get Key and Lock to do our dirty work. You have to hit on this guy.”
I held up my hands. “No. Hell no.” Harrison just blinked at me, needing more. My hands balled into fists. “No. We don’t need them. We can do this on our own.” I straightened, effectively ending this conversation by storming out.
I went straight to the library as planned. But only to change into my black cocktail dress, exchange the glasses for contacts, refresh my make up, and slink into the back door of Key and Lock for tonight’s ritual.
THIS WAS JUST THE distraction I needed to stop thinking about my brother’s college tuition. Darkness shrouded the Key and Lock house in mystery. On the outside, it looked dead, abandoned, a place only utilized for a few hours a day. Every light inside had been switched off and blackness pressed against my vision. I trailed my palm along the twisty walls to guide my way. The soft scent of rose water drifted from some place deep inside the house. Behind me, the back door swung open and another black-clad person fumbled along in the dark.
I increased the tempo of my steps, my heart beating fast.
I counted twenty paces until I reached the end of the hallway where a row of unlit candles usually stood guard in front of a door. I took a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut for courage, and reached forward until I found the array. Using the only sense available to me—my sixth sense—as a guide, I plucked one out. Please not red. Anything but red. But that was the thing about darkness. It robbed my sight of all color.
