by Rachel Shane
Keane dropped beside me. “Not really. Not when you realize that we’d never actually put your life in danger. Key and Lock has its member’s backs. Always.”
“Unless they’re late to a meeting. Or they don’t play by the rules. Or they—”
He laughed. “All right, I guess there are some exceptions.”
My eyes settled on the large gate surrounding the dangerous edge of the roof on the opposite side of the hill. “How did you even find this place?”
He shrugged. “It’s a hobby of mine to scout locations. I drove by this once and thought it was perfect. Then I found out it was abandoned. Even better.” He nudged me with his shoulder. “Good show on volunteering as tribute.”
A little thrill swept through me at his approval. He was the leader, but he was also my friend. My secret.
I shifted my weight on the blanket, a blast of wind icing my exposed ankle before I covered it again, and focused on the way Angie Eberhart glided across the balance beam without a care in the world, the way I wanted to do. The way I failed at.
The spectators lifted their thumbs in approval and my stomach squeezed that I hadn’t received anything but sucked in breaths. Even Keane watched Angie with a strange fascination.
I cleared my throat, and the sound dragged Keane’s eyes away from Angie and back to me. “Shouldn’t you be over there?” I jutted my chin toward the roof.
The leadership position lasted an entire school year and was delegated to a senior of highest ranking. No voting involved, you had to earn your way to the top. You were allowed to refuse the position but no one ever had. The position came with benefits like being exempt from all rituals because they were the one to design them. The leader could shape the members to his or her will—though there hadn’t ever been any hers in charge. This was only the third year girls were allowed admittance into the society as a whole.
Beside me, Keane shrugged. “I do what I want. And what I want is to ask how you’re doing.” A wicked grin crested his face.
The appropriate answer to this question was fine. But this was Key & Lock, we had no secrets. “My brother got into Throckmorton.”
“That’s great. Make sure he comes to—”
I swallowed hard. “But my parents can’t afford tuition ever since my dad lost his job and they were denied financial aid.”
Keane’s entire face fell. “Oh shit.”
“So…I’ve been better.” I tried to inject some pep into the end of my sentence.
Keane scooted closer, his arm brushing against mine. “Can he apply for a scholarship?”
I shook my head. “His grades are only so-so. He sucks at sports. And his talents range from being able to sleep fourteen hours straight to binge-watching full seasons of shows in twenty-four hours. He’s not exactly the kind of kid the scholarship programs reward.”
Keane rubbed his chin with his index finger and thumb. “Hmmm. Maybe—”
“What’s going on with you?” Suddenly I didn’t want to talk about my family anymore. I’d come here to distract myself.
Keane nodded, understanding my subject-changing intentions. “Well, I’m thinking we need a change around here. I’m sick of everything being stuffy and the same.” God, he was a natural leader and here I was, stuck as Our House’s new president and no clue how to shape them. Across the way, another guy stumbled off the beam and crashed to the ground with a blood curdling scream. The reds still waiting on the roof trembled more, probably imagining death upon death that the spectators shrugged off as if the members had quit rather than dying. “So I’m doing something about it. Starting with tonight.” He let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, I guess starting with yesterday, technically.”
I raised a brow at him. “What happened yesterday?”
“Yesterday.” He met my eyes with his dark brown ones in a way that made me sit up straighter. His voice dropped even lower, forcing me to lean closer against the howling wind. “I broke up with my girlfriend.”
My heart thumped wildly against my ribcage even though I knew why Keane was telling me this. And only me. Because when I joined the society freshman year, he took me on as his mentee. The guys used to take on little brothers, much like fraternities, but with girls and guys alike joining the ranks, the terminology changed. He became my mentor and then he became my friend as he showed me the ropes of the society, helped me avoid pitfalls and faux pas, helped me blend in. Helped me succeed.
But as part of the rule of the society, we never interacted outside the confines of the house or the broken down walls when it came to rituals. He was my friend, but only in all things Key and Lock. I’d never met his girlfriend. She didn’t go to this school and I’d only seen glimpses of her on his social media posts—a stray elbow here, a wisp of blond hair blowing into the camera there. She usually stayed behind the camera, documenting Keane’s achievements in all different hipster filters. As he rode on his bike through Brooklyn, I imagined her she balancing on a separate bike behind him, snapping the photo while her legs peddled. She donned a sequined red dress—according to the swatch of fabric that landed in the frame anyway—and snapped photos of him at the Met gala. In every caption on every photo, he always credited her to taking it, thanking her for both being the one to capture his image…and his heart.
Keane remained staring at me, not blinking, waiting for me to react.
I brought my beer up to my lips and took a sip to stall, the cold liquid burning my esophagus. “I’d ask if you’re okay but your smile already answered that.”
Keane took a sip of his beer, grinning around the brown bottle rim. “I heard your podcast,” he said, seemingly out of nowhere. “I think…” He tapped his fingers against his thigh. “That I made the right choice in choosing you to be part of us three years ago.”
He was spitting out random, phrases, each one dissonant to my ears like a song spliced together. But maybe it was harmony. Maybe his words were connected. He inched closer to me and tugged the blanket to cover both our pressed together knees.
My heart thumped in a different way from the beam. There was a time freshman year that I’d had a massive crush on Keane with his chiseled jaw and dark, soulful eyes. But I’d written him off as unattainable. After all, he had a girlfriend, he was my mentor, he was forbidden.
“And I think…that I don’t like this Trevor dude.”
I inched closer to Keane, sucking in his clove cigarette scent. “You’re not alone. No one likes him after what happened last year.”
Keane shook his head. “That’s not why I don’t like him.” He took another giant swig of his beer. “In related news, another thing I’m trying to change?” He lifted himself onto his knees in preparation of standing up and already my heart was squeezing at the loss of him. A frigid blast of air on my knees punctuated the gesture. He was why I’d joined—I’d admired his work ethic from afar freshman year—but he was also why I’d stayed. “That damn rule about not getting romantically involved with members.”
He winked at me before he loped away, clinking beers with the guy who just made it across the beam.
THE NEXT MORNING, MY bastard of an alarm had the gall to beep incessantly at nine o’clock. I pressed my palm against my pounding forehead, my mind foggy from lack of sleep. I’d only crawled under the covers two hours ago, the sun beating me in a competition back to my house. Last night seemed like a dream, but it was one hundred percent real. And one hundred percent strange. After everyone made it across the beam, we’d thrown a party in the abandoned house thanks to a computer, a speaker, and battery-operated strobe lights. Beer and wine (and possibly other substances) flowed into everyone’s stomachs and we danced like crazy to dispel our nerves. The dance parties were the best parts of the rituals. It was the only time we could all let loose with no qualms or reservations.
Except I watched as Keane danced with every member, bobbing his head next to the guys and shaking his booty next to the girls. Making everyone feel welcome. Making everyone feel like his atten
tion was only on them. But then on the dance floor, Keane swept me into an embrace, his knee fitting between my thighs, his grip solid on my waist, and we rocked to the beat for one, two, three verses, his head nuzzling against my neck. His mouth found my ear, his warm breath leaving an imprint, as he whispered, “I definitely made the right decision.”
“I bet you said that to everyone tonight.” I meant it as a joke but my voice came out strangled. After all, after he’d left my blanket, he’d gone to chat with every other member.
Keane leaned back to study me, his smoldering eyes squinting, before he pressed his lips against my ear. “I only talked to everyone else to cover up the fact that I really wanted to talk to you.”
Goosebumps swarmed across my skin from his hot breath and something deep inside me swirled. I bit my lower lip to fight back my smile.
And then he pushed away from my body, sliding his arms from around my back to do shots with a few guys.
I squeezed my eyes shut, concentrating hard on the image of Keane dancing with me…and not the one of him dancing with everyone else.
My alarm blasted again, and I let out a scream, though I wasn’t sure if it was triggered by the beeping or my memories of last night.
“Shut that fucking thing off!”
I bolted upright, my teal comforter falling down to my waist. On the other bed, Holly covered her ears with her hot pink pillow. I slammed my hand down on the stop button, breathing hard.
“You were out late,” Holly mumbled from beneath her pillow. “What time did you get home? Three? Four?”
“Yes,” I said even though the clock had said 7:06 when I’d finally crawled into bed.
“But the library closes at midnight?” The unspoken part of her question hung in the air, “Where were you the rest of the night?”
“Yeah I went to the studio to fill in for the graveyard shift last minute,” I said fast. It was muscle memory. This excuse had left my lips many times before. “Producer position,” I added so she wouldn’t be tempted to watch the recording and realize I wasn’t at the anchor desk.
“Again?” She whistled through her teeth. “Man, they keep doing that to you!”
I let out what I hoped sounded like a self-deprecating sight. “That’s because I always say yes.”
I swung my legs out of bed and fought back a yawn as I glanced at my phone. My eyes bugged out by the number of missed calls. Practically a hundred. All from the same, unknown number. Heart racing, my mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusion possible. My dad had finally hit rock bottom and jumped from the third floor of our Victorian house. He’d been moping around the house all winter break in a stinky bathrobe, a bottle of scotch clutched tightly in his fist, and a death wish. Counseling had kept his feet planted on the ground so far, but my mother had taken far too many vacation days we could no longer afford just to make sure his condition didn’t worsen. She’d run out of them last week. My brother was supposed to be keeping an eye on Dad in the afternoons, but when he was at school, there was no one to protect him.
I’d taken to calling my dad every hour during the day. But I’d slept through three crucial ones.
I squeezed my phone in a tight fist, cold panic racing up my spine. With shaky fingers, I pressed the most recent of fifty voicemails. Holly sat upright, her mouth parted in concern at whatever she saw on my face.
“Erin, honey, you’re killing me here.” The voice on the message sounded older. Desperate. “You’re in college for Pete’s sake! What could you possibly have that’s more important than calling me back?”
I let out a breath. No mention of my dad. But I still couldn’t relax. I switched to the first voicemail, left last night at nine P.M., as my heart rate calmed back down to normal after the scare I’d given myself. “Hi Erin,” the nasally male voice said. “This is Cliff Rogers, Trevor’s agent. And soon to be yours. That’s an ultimatum.” He chuckled into the phone. “I’m just kidding.” Still, electricity jolted my organs awake. An agent. Potentially my agent, if there was a little truth in his just kidding. “We need to discuss logistics for the next show. Trevor’s keen to release one as early as tomorrow. Call me back, Hun. Day or night. I don’t sleep.”
Now my fingers shook for a different reason. Holly was still watching me as I hopped off the bed and paced the floor. When I hit re-dial, a groggy voice answered followed by a snore as if he’d fallen asleep again immediately after saying hello. I gripped my dresser to steady myself. I’d dreamed of this moment for so long: having an agent call me with the intent to sign me. Sure, some newscasters in low-reach markets got gigs on their own, but I’d never be able to crack the Hollywood TV hosting circuit without someone to get me through the front door. Key and Lock might be able to help, but only if I remained a member in good standing through graduation…and past it. Alumni rituals were just as important. “Hi,” I said, my voice wavering. I cleared my throat and injected authority into my words. “This is Erin Behr. I’m—”
“Erin! Honey!”
Now he sounded so loud and so very awake that I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “So glad you called,” he continued, “Though it would have been really nice if you had called, say, twelve hours ago.” He clucked his tongue. “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging another session because Trevor’s time books up fast.”
I snorted. “How is that possible? He’s been blacklisted.” Across the way, Holly leaned forward, an excited smile on her face. She must have guessed the subject of the call by now.
“True. So true. But there’s his fitness trainer, his nutritionist, his acupuncturist, his herbal specialist, you get the idea. So I’ve slotted you both in for ten A.M. today for another recording and—”
“Whoa. Hold up. That’s in”—my eyes flew to the clock on my dresser—”less than an hour. No way can we put it together on such short notice. We need people, equipment. Not to mention I have class then.”
“Not to worry, I’ll talk to your professor and get you excused.”
My nostrils flared. “No, I’m going to class. I need my classes. That’s non-negotiable.”
With a heavy sigh, he said, “Fine, I’ll just re-arrange some things in his schedule.” He clucked his tongue, and then tsked. “Well, all I’ve got available other than ten is nine thirty A.M.”
“Earlier?” I scoffed. I’d barely even have time to get dressed, let alone brush my teeth. “Look, I really need more than a few hours’ notice. Plus, we need a better location than the basement. I’m going to talk to the school about that, but—”
“When are you meeting with the school? I’d like to attend on Trevor’s behalf.”
An angry scream burned inside my chest. I opened my mouth to let loose but then clamped it shut again. Having a ballsy agent accompany me to the meeting might actually get results. “Okay, you can come, but I don’t have an official meeting. I was just going to head there after class.”
He let out a small laugh that sounded more like he was laughing at how ridiculous I was. “I’ll set up the meeting. You make sure to be there at—how long do classes last?”
“I can be at the Office of Residence Lift at twelve thirty.” His words from one of the voice mails pinged in my mind. “But I need a few other things too. You offered to be my agent, and I’d like to discuss that in detail.”
Holly’s brows shot way up her forehead.
There was a long pause. I paced the short distance between my dresser and my bed, my socks skidding along the hardwood floor.
“I’m not opposed,” he finally said, “But you need a lot more training before I can sign you. Get a few of these podcasts under your belt, grow your audience reach, and we’ll talk again in a few weeks.”
A lump jumped to my throat. He was deferring the decision to the future, but it felt like a brush off. Still, I refused to walk away empty handed. When an interviewer tries a question that gets no results, they move onto the next one without getting frustrated. It was Broadcast Journalism 101. “Equipment then. We borr
owed from a friend last time but they refuse to lend again.” Not exactly true, but I suspected this agent was only telling me half-truths anyway.
“Send me a list; I’ll have the items you need by your next recording with Trevor. Six P.M. tomorrow and that’s my final offer.”
I blinked at the phone as he rattled off his email address, and then swiftly hung up, taking my silence as confirmation.
At twelve-thirty sharp I spotted a guy wearing a too-loose suit pacing in front of the building where the Resident’s Life office resided. He seemed to be screaming into a cell phone on the top of his lungs. His hair was shaved because I guessed it required the least amount of effort to style. Probably the cause of his wrinkled shirt too and lack of jacket. He kept ramming into the sides of the snow-packed sidewalk with his knees, cursing under his breath, and turning around only to do the same thing on the other side as if he expected the snow to just get out of his way. But it was mid-February and only a thin path had been carved out of the fifteen-foot high banks. The snow usually stopped sometime in March, and in fact, the weather channels were predicting a heat wave starting next week, “heat wave” in this town being defined as weather above freezing temps. A gust of wind blew a dusting of snow onto his shirt and the guy kept pacing, not even breaking his stride.
I sucked in a deep breath for courage. Something about his harried appearance told me I was going to need it.
I hopped in front of him with a little pep in my step, a move I’d done to make an entrance. He glanced up at me before his vision traced me up and down, taking in my puffy winter coat, my red plaid scarf wrapped around my neck, my hand-knit mittens with the technology patches on the index fingers. He rolled his eyes and let out a giant sigh into his phone. “Call you back.”
