In My Dreams I Hold a Knife

by Ashley Winstead

  We were supposed to dazzle the Homecoming crowd into handing East House its sixth first-place win, and cement our place in campus history. I’d worked for weeks drawing the entire thing, from the castle to each flower that surrounded it, directing others where and how to paint.

  All of our work, for nothing.

  What the hell happened?

  I searched my friends’ faces, seeing my panic mirrored. We’d worked with other people from the dorm, sure, but this competition had been ours. Our stroke of genius, our leadership. Our excuse to see each other every day, on top of every night. In such a short time, we’d become the kind of friends who were less separate, distinct people and more limbs you couldn’t live without. This attack felt like a personal affront.

  Mint, standing near the head of the float, dropped his backpack full of fireworks. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, causing Frankie, hovering behind him like a shadow, to shift out of the way, eyeing it warily. Beside me, Caro braced her hands over her face, shielding her eyes from view.

  Coop stepped close to me and lowered his voice. “That float was a piece of art.”

  I dropped my eyes, feeling the loss of my work more sharply now that someone had named it. “It was just a little painting. Not important.”

  Jack picked up a piece of limp, broken vine and cradled it. “What in the world could have done this? It’s like the float was hit by a bulldozer.”

  “Wrong question. You mean who could have done this.” In the crowd of stunned faces, Heather’s alone was mercenary. Heads turned in her direction.

  Courtney put her hands on her hips, her slim elbows making razor-sharp angles, even under the bulk of her coat. “We all know exactly who did it. It was those freaks from Chapman Hall. Led by twin weasels Trevor Daly and Charles Smith. They want to win so badly they decided to take out the competition.”

  There was a murmur of agreement. Trevor and Charles were loudmouths and well known for pulling pranks only they thought were funny. Like stealing girls’ underwear out of the laundry room and stringing it up on tree branches.

  “Hey, now,” Mint said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his peacoat. “Trevor and Charles are rushing Phi Delt.” He offered this like it was a talisman of protection against accusations, an endorsement that couldn’t be argued with. Phi Delt was, after all, the best frat on campus. It was where everyone knew Mint would end up. They were rushing Frankie and Jack, too, but that was mostly because they came with Mint, like a package deal.

  “How did Trevor and Charles even know where to find our float?” It had been my idea to hide it behind the grad student apartments, tucked on the edge of campus, where undergrads rarely ventured—an idea I’d been proud of until this moment.

  Frankie rubbed a hand across his reddening face. “I might have…mentioned something during beer pong…about blowing things up and grad students yelling at us…”

  A chorus of groans and What the fuck, Frankies echoed around our small group. And that was definitive proof the situation was dire, because normally the whole dorm loved our resident football star.

  “Frankie, you and your big mouth.” Jack blew out a frustrated breath. “One secret, man. I dare you to keep one secret in your whole entire life. Do it, and I’ll die of shock.”

  “Do you see?” Heather was transitioning into her favorite mode: high theatrics. I could picture her striding across a stage, lifting a sword, bellowing Now we are at war to a rapt audience. “They knew we were the dorm to beat, and they knew where to find our float. This is sabotage.”

  One of the guys who lived a few doors down from Mint and Coop had drifted to the back of the float. Now he started laughing, pointing at the crumpled castle wall. “Mint, you gotta see this. They left you a message.”

  We moved en masse to look. Drawn across the back of the float in lurid red paint, lines marred by drip marks, was a stick-figure boy cradled in the lap of a stick-figure woman. They were surrounded by crude dollar signs. The boy had a dialogue bubble protruding from his mouth: My mommy bought me this float. Underneath the stick figure, in ragged letters, were the words and all my friends, followed by East House cheats. Love, Chapman.

  “How do we know that’s supposed to be Mint?” Caro whispered.

  “Please,” Heather scoffed. “Of course it’s Mint.”

  I chanced a look at him. Even though we were friends now, looking at him hadn’t stopped feeling dangerous, like each time I was skimming too close to the sun. But he wasn’t looking anywhere except at the painting, even with Courtney standing so close behind him, her shoulder brushing his every time he moved. It seemed Mint and Courtney were an inevitable pairing—like to like—so I tried to ignore the way their closeness rubbed at me, stirring old, bitter feelings.

  But something was wrong with Mint. In the two months I’d spent watching him, I’d never seen his face look like this, with tracks of scarlet blooming down his cheeks and neck. His skin looked painful, hot to the touch. His eyes darted around, taking in the snickers and soft laughter.

  Coop rested a hand on Mint’s shoulder. “You’ve been immortalized. And here I thought it’d be your name on a building or something.” His mouth quirked. “The likeness is chilling, you have to admit. I told you to double down on leg days. Those calves are looking a little thin, man.”

  Mint wrenched his shoulder away. “Get the fuck off me.”

  His anger was a lightning strike, completely unexpected. Coop took a half step back and raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, easy.” Behind Mint’s back, he found my eyes, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  It was a message for me alone, a look to make a private space between us. He was always doing that. It didn’t matter if we were at a party, packed wall to wall; or if I was leaving a lecture hall, adrift in a sea of people, only to spot him reading on a bench; or if we were having lunch and he was the last to arrive, setting his tray at the opposite end of the table. He always found me, and for that first, single moment when our eyes met, we existed in a separate place. A private room he’d built to tell me something I could never parse before the moment was over.

  “It’s not funny,” Mint said sharply. I looked away from Coop, drawn to Mint’s hands, which he’d clenched into fists. “It’s a lie.”

  “Obviously,” said Frankie, ever loyal.

  “Fucking losers.” Mint kicked the float, right in the center of the painting, and it cracked, wood splintering. “Liars.” A hush fell over the group as he kicked again, still red-faced. And then Frankie was kicking, too, until the side of the castle gave away completely and the painting turned into a gaping hole.

  For a few seconds the only sound was Mint’s hard breathing. Then Jack said, “I guess we’re not salvaging the float.”

  One of the girls from my floor sighed. “I can’t believe I wasted so much time on this. What a disaster.” She tossed her hair, turning to walk away.

  “Where are you going?” asked Caro, her face the portrait of betrayal.

  The girl gave her an incredulous look. “It’s the night before Homecoming, Caro. I’m not missing parties just to cobble together some pitiful makeup float and lose tomorrow anyway.”

  “Me either,” someone else said, and that was the death knell, the curtain falling. There was murmuring, and then everyone was shifting, adjusting backpacks over their shoulders. In twos and threes they walked away, muttering about Chapman Hall and dick-swinging contests and pranks gone too far.

  It left only the eight of us, doing our best not to look at the hole in the float.

  “Can you believe them?” Caro asked. “One setback and they jump ship. Where’s their loyalty?”

  Jack sighed and sank to the ground, perching among the dead leaves. “I hate to be the one to say it, but I think we’re screwed.”

  Heather dropped beside him and leaned in close. Jack’s cheeks turned rosy, and he glanced ar
ound to see if we were watching. After two months of being friends, I knew that particular shade of pink meant Jack was happy with Heather’s affection but would melt if anyone mentioned it. Heather called this shyness Jack disentangling from years of repression, a line she’d cribbed from one of her Intro to Psychology books. At night when she and Caro and I sat around talking, waiting for our face masks to dry or watching mindless TV, Heather told us secrets Jack had told her, like that he’d never been kissed, never been allowed to have a girlfriend. But she was patient; she made the first move with him, over and over, fresh each day. Heather was like that. She was a girl who did things I’d never known were an option.

  “Come on, there has to be something we can do to fix the float. Or at least a plan to get back at Chapman.” Heather dropped her head on Jack’s shoulder. He sat straight as a rod.

  “Let’s just burn Chapman to the ground and be done with Homecoming,” Coop said. “Shit’s lame.”

  “Coop’s right. I still can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Courtney turned to Heather, her red-painted mouth pulling into a frown. “I told you from the beginning that winning a glorified arts-and-crafts contest wasn’t going to put us on top of Chi O’s list. And now we’re not even going to win. It’s humiliating.”

  Like Phi Delt, Chi Omega was the best on campus. The sorority boasted a perfect rush record. Every year, each girl they offered a spot took it, gratefully, knowing a place in Chi O meant four years breathing rarefied air. It was rumored none of the other sororities came close to their record, not even the second-best, Kappa.

  I’d learned quickly that social life at Duquette revolved around two things: football and Greek life. Winning a football championship was life or death, the stakes only outmatched by getting in to the right house. In some ways, it was antiquated—the football and Greek life like something out of Pleasantville—but in another way it was timeless: these were just more ways of being sorted. And as every student who’d fought or sunk their way to Duquette knew, life was nothing if not a constant cycle of compete, rank, sort. Hierarchy, that was normal. What was strange was how deeply you could come to need it; how eventually, over enough time, you would long for someone to come and put you in your place.

  “Courtney,” Frankie snapped, “can you shut up for one second and let us think?”

  Courtney’s eyes flew open. No one talked to her like that.

  I slipped away to where Mint stood, arms folded tight over his chest, and—taking a quick, steeling breath—brushed a hand over his shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

  He didn’t pull away from the touch, but he didn’t look at me, either. “I overreacted. It’s just that Charles’s family knows my family, and I thought—”

  My heart drummed.

  “You know they’re just jealous, right?” I decided to chance it, leaving my hand on his shoulder, my eyes on his face.

  He turned to me, the movement sharp. “Jealous?”

  I was caught. Warmth bloomed through me like sunlight. “Obviously.”

  He smiled.

  “Jessica.” Courtney’s icy voice broke through. “I know you’ve got to take your best shot at Mint while he’s down, but now is really not the time for flirting.”

  It was like she’d reached across the grass and slapped me. Or worse—like she’d wrenched my top off, leaving me exposed, my intentions and desires naked for everyone to see. I recoiled, pulling my hand from Mint’s shoulder, eyes stinging with hot humiliation. But before I could draw one shaking breath—to say what, I didn’t know—Heather cut in.

  “Courtney, stop being such a bitch.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. Heather was dogmatic about right and wrong, saw the world divided up smoothly into good and bad. I’d attributed this to the fact that her life had been uncomplicated, devoid of obstacles, for eighteen years. The easy sailing had allowed her to believe the world was black and white, no gray. Heather could afford to think this way because she didn’t need to claw, constantly, for what she deserved, or live her life in the gray just to understand the people she loved. It was yet another luxury, like her beautiful clothes and her purses.

  Still, Heather and Courtney were a pair—best friends, roommates. That’s where her loyalties should lie.

  “Are you serious?” Courtney looked as stunned as I was. A kick of wind blew her glossy, magazine hair around her shoulders. “You’re choosing her?”

  There it was, a line in the sand. I could do nothing but blink at both of them.

  Heather was quiet for a beat, then said: “Yes. Stop punching down.”

  She’d chosen me.

  Courtney’s mouth fell open. She searched the circle of faces, looking for an ally, some measure of sympathy. Her gaze lingered on Mint. But whatever she saw had her swallowing hard, then rolling her eyes. “Fine, whatever. I’m bored. Have fun wasting your time on lost causes.” She glanced at Heather. “I guess I’ll see you later, or something.” It sounded more like a question: Will I? In that moment, Courtney looked young and unsure.

  Heather nodded curtly. “See you at home.” But when Courtney walked away, she found my eyes and smiled.

  I filled with light. Forget Mint; this was like looking into the sun. Heather had defended me. Picked me. Who had ever done that?

  “You guys.” Jack’s eyes were wide with excitement. “I just got an idea. A way to get back at Chapman and reenter the Battle. The only problem is, it’s slightly illegal.”

  And just like that, the last half hour was washed away, the slate wiped clean. We grinned at each other.

  “Spill,” Frankie said.

  Jack winced at Caro. “Okay. You know how Charles is obsessed with Caro?”

  Mint cracked a laugh. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

  “Whatever you’re thinking, no,” Caro said.

  “Hear me out. What if, since Chapman destroyed our float, we stole theirs?”

  “Silly Jack,” Coop said. “You had me at illegal.”

  I tried to smile at Coop, but he wouldn’t look my way.

  “We know Chapman’s hiding their float behind Bishop.” Bishop Hall was a dorm for seniors, so one of the Chapman freshmen must have had an upperclassman connection. “All we need is for Caro to get into Charles’s room and take the keys to their float. Then tonight we steal it, turn it into the East House float, and tomorrow we ride it to victory.”

  “Brilliant,” Frankie breathed. “We can even use the fireworks.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So the whole plan hinges on Caro being James Bond for a night. No pressure.”

  “Yeah, forget it,” Heather said. “Caro can’t prostitute herself. She hates Charles. He’s a lacrosse douchebag.”

  “A Phi Delt lacrosse douchebag,” Coop corrected. “Which means it’s okay.”

  “No, wait a second.” Caro took a deep breath. “I’ll do it. For you guys.”

  I squinted. “You sure?” Sometimes I worried about the depths of Caro’s loyalty.

  Frankie clapped. “We’re going to be legends.”

  “One small hiccup,” Mint said. “I’m pretty sure I remember Trevor saying the Chapman float theme is Duquette in Paradise.”

  “Meaning?” Heather asked.

  “Meaning it’s a rolling beach, palm trees, sand, and everything. They were planning to ride it in bathing suits.”

  “It’s October,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, clearly they’ll do anything to win. Point is, we’ll look pretty stupid riding in sweaters.”

  “Shit. Well. Thank God we’ve been working out all semester.” Frankie looked around at us and frowned. “What? Why are you all looking at me like that?”

  Coop patted Frankie’s shoulder. “It’s sweet how your mind works.”

  “As soon as they realize their float’s missing, Chapman will know we took it,” Jack said. “We need to hid
e it somewhere they won’t find it before the parade starts. Let them panic, waste their time searching.”

  “They won’t dream we had the balls to enter it,” Heather said. “But we should get to the stadium early anyway. Be out in the middle of the parade before they even realize.”

  Coop bit his lip. “I know a place we can hide it. Old abandoned field a few blocks away. Pretty shady, but they won’t think of it. I can guarantee.”

  Caro snorted. “How can you do that?”

  He only shrugged. “I know which Duquette students know about it, and which don’t.”

  “Whatever. Coop’s creepy field works for me,” Heather said.

  “Okay, then.” Jack slung an arm over Caro’s shoulder. “Text us when you have the goods and we’ll put this plan into action.”

  ***

  We skidded into the near-empty parking lot outside the basketball stadium as soon as the cheerleaders moved aside the orange cones, signaling the parade was moments from starting and floats should line up.

  Heather scanned the parking lot as we bumped along. “Excellent. No Chapman Hall spies.” A smile curved her lips. “Probably still pulling their hair out, running around campus.”

  We were early enough that there was only the grand marshal’s float ahead of us, which by tradition was always first, and always filled with rowdy football players. After a few minutes of tense waiting, watching every float that drove into the parking lot behind us, music swelled from the other side of the stadium. A voice boomed over the loudspeakers, saying something I couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded rousing. Suddenly the cop directing parade traffic straightened to attention. He pointed at the grand marshal’s float, then looked at us and waved us forward.

  It was too late to turn back now. Before today, I’d never imagined committing grand theft auto, then flaunting it for the world to see. Now here I stood atop a stolen float, shivering in—of all things—a black bikini, about to reveal myself to the entire student body and the alumni. And all I could think about was whether the cops serving as parade organizers would be gentle when the jig was up, and they wrestled me down.