Just a little.
I reply with the blushing emoji.
I walk up to the UPenn rep, a silver-haired man in a navy blazer. “I’m Cameron Bright. I’m a senior,” I say.
“Good to meet you, Cameron.” He shakes my hand. His expression is warm, easy, welcoming. It does a little to calm the cold tingle of nerves in my chest and fingertips. “Do you know what you’re planning to study in college?”
“I’m interested in the Wharton School,” I declare, reaching for the Wharton pamphlet.
“Wharton is, as you know, a top-flight program for business,” he tells me. “I hope you’re ready for a schedule filled with business credits. Wharton students have very demanding course loads. I tell prospective applicants to be certain of their interest in the program before committing.”
Committing. Be certain. The words wind an unexpected twist in my stomach. I open the Wharton pamphlet and find the coursework list, which confirms what the rep’s saying. Courses line the length of the page: Statistics, Advanced Mathematics, Financial Analysis. Economics.
I feel the twist in my gut tighten, reminded of my Economics in the Entrepreneur’s Market homework. Of bleary-eyed nights spent unraveling the complicated concepts and problems, or trying. I’ll be confining myself to years of nights just like them if I go to Wharton. To a lifetime of them.
From behind the Wharton brochure peeks a blue corner of the UCLA pamphlet Paige gave me. The image flits behind my eyes again of days devoted to design instead of derivatives.
“Hold on.” The representative blinks, breaking me from my thoughts. He studies me. “Did you say your name was Bright?”
“Um,” I say. “Yes.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be Daniel Bright’s daughter, would you?” His expression’s taken on a new interest.
I force a smile. “I am.”
“Wonderful!” he exclaims. “I had no idea Daniel’s daughter was a senior. Well, a Bright would certainly excel at Wharton. I look forward to mentioning it to your father. I hope to see your application in my pile.”
The idea of doing design in college collapses in my head. Replacing it is what I’ve known for what feels like forever. Wharton is my father. Economics is my father. He’s the reason I’m doing this, why I’m committing to this life. The opportunity to live in his world, to never worry about unpaid bills or borrowed blazers, to have a future of my own, is worth every endless night.
“You will,” I promise. “I already sent it in.”
I thank the representative for his time and walk away from the table. The crowd is emptying from the courtyard now, everybody heading for their cars. I don’t find Brendan’s tall frame in the throng. He and Paige have probably already left, I realize with a touch of disappointment.
I pull out my phone, where I find a reply from Brendan. A pleased flutter runs through me, enough to calm my nerves.
Wait. Did I, video game nerd Brendan Rosenfeld, make you blush?
Don’t be ridiculous.
Okay . . .
Just a little.
I reply, thoughts of Wharton thousands of miles away.
Twenty
PAIGE HAS NEWLY PURPLE HAIR. IN THE reading nook under the SCIENCE FICTION sign in the Depths of Mordor, I watch her intricately hand-stitch an apron to what appears to be a French-maid costume. Even with her fingers decked in the cheap plastic rings you get from a vending machine, she deftly passes the needle through the fabric, not wincing when the point hits her thumb. She completes ten, twenty stitches in seconds.
It’s impressive. Kinda cool, even.
She explained to me the other day what “cosplay” is, how she devotes days and weeks to recreating the costumes and props of her and her friends’ favorite characters from video games, TV shows, and the Japanese comics they’re always reading. She’s proudest of the Effie Trinket character she designed from The Hunger Games a couple years ago. Personally, I can’t understand putting that many hours into a costume you’ll wear for one day, but I caught the pride in Paige’s voice when she described her pink Effie suit, and I held my tongue.
In the chairs opposite us, Abby and Charlie play a game I don’t recognize. It’s got dice and a board and decks of cards with pictures of grotesque creatures. They’re focused on the board, wordless. The shop’s predictably empty otherwise, except for Grant on a couch near the register trying to do homework, his nose in a book, and the WINTER IS COMING dude, who I’m convinced lives here and never changes his shirt.
“Andrew didn’t say anything about me?” I press Paige. “For the whole rest of the night?”
“Oh my god,” she groans, not skipping a stitch. “For the hundredth time, no. I didn’t even know you were still into him.”
I collapse onto the armrest. “I’ve liked Andrew for a year! You’re the one who ruined everything.” I find myself not hesitating to confide my crush in Paige, even though it’s definitely friend territory. I guess our friend-date went well.
“You ruined it on your own, Bright.” It’s exactly what she would have said a couple weeks ago. Except this time, she’s giving me a teasing grin.
“I know . . .” I sigh.
Paige notices my dejection. Her eyes flit to me before returning to her needle and thread. “He’s having a hard time with the team,” she offers. “We pretty much just talked about that after you left. He probably would have said something about you otherwise.”
I pull my head up off my hand. “What’s happening with the team?”
“Oh, you know,” Paige says easily, “he just feels like he doesn’t fit in with the other guys.” I didn’t know. Why didn’t I know? “Those guys are more interested in partying and hookups,” Paige continues. “They don’t exactly want to come over and watch Sherlock with Andrew.”
“Sherlock?”
Paige glances up from her costuming, openly aghast. “Come on. You can’t be too cool to know what Sherlock is.”
“I know what Sherlock is,” I reply. Honestly, I’ve long had a thing for Benedict Cumberbatch. He’s definitely gawky and nerdy, with his bushy hair and narrow frame, but I’m into it. “I didn’t know Andrew was a fan.”
She snorts incredulously. “Haven’t you seen Andrew’s room? It’s practically a shrine to the BBC.”
I feel a pang in my chest, the way I did when Paige went to help Andrew with his History homework. Paige and Andrew have only just become friends, and she’s been in his room? I haven’t in over three years of friendship. Or what I thought was friendship.
“Hey, did Brendan have a good time last night?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
Paige brightens. “I think he actually did!” she enthuses. “I was kind of amazed he didn’t leave after he talked to MIT. Do you know how rarely he hangs out with people?”
“I don’t know why,” I say. “He’s plenty socially capable. And he’s really talented. He’s definitely going to get that Naughty Dog internship. The Girl’s a Sorceress looks amazing. He sent me a few images the other day . . .” I trail off, noticing Paige’s expression. Her eyes hold questions alongside a knowing glint.
“Wow. You know more than I do,” she says.
I blush, not entirely knowing why. It’s not like being friends with Brendan is an embarrassment. But I feel like friendship isn’t exactly what Paige is suggesting. “I just mean Brendan’s really cool, and he must have friends in his grade.” Or he should. But I guess I haven’t seen him hanging out with people.
Paige gives me her characteristic you’re-an-idiot look. “Your nickname certainly didn’t help,” she says pointedly.
My face falls. “It’s really because of me?”
Picking up her needle, Paige pauses for a long second. “It’s not entirely your fault,” she says eventually. “Truthfully, it’s Brendan’s choice. He doesn’t try to have friends. Home stuff is . . . hard on hi
m. If it weren’t, the nickname would’ve only been a bump in the road.” From the way she says it, I understand she doesn’t want to elaborate. I leave the conversation there and let Paige return to her stitching.
Hearing the thud of the back door, I glance behind me. Hannah walks out in her Depths of Mordor shirt and goes to shelve paperbacks on a robot-themed display. She comes no closer to Paige and me. Ever since the talk I had with Hannah in the parking lot, she’s done a remarkable job of remaining just far enough from me that I’m unable to start a conversation. She pointedly keeps her eyes on the books, never glancing in Grant’s direction or mine. She finishes shelving and retreats behind the counter.
Paige scratches her head and winces violently enough to drop her thread. I grab it before it tumbles off the coffee table. “Thanks,” she says.
I give her a sympathetic glance. “Cracked scalp?” I remember my mom furiously itching over breakfast every time she’d bleach her sandy blonde hair a couple shades lighter, trying to imitate Reese Witherspoon or Cameron Diaz. She’d twitch in pain and spill milk on the counter or coffee on the floor.
“Cracked and now seared to a crisp because of the bleach,” she replies. I nod understandingly. Paige pushes her hair behind her ear, and I can’t help noticing how stiff and frayed it is. I’m honestly surprised she still has hair, what with her dyeing it every two weeks.
“Why do you do it?” I wonder out loud. “Change your hair so often, I mean.”
“To express my inner pain.”
She gives me a dramatic look. It’s pretty convincing, and it’s Paige. She’s probably serious. I restrain myself from gagging over the teenage-cliché factor.
“Just kidding,” she says, winking and cutting her thread. “I do it to piss off my parents.” She tosses the costume to Abby, who doesn’t catch it. The dress knocks a deck of cards to the floor, and I hear Charlie groan.
Paige rolls her eyes. Collecting the dress, she pulls Abby from her chair and ushers her into the bathroom, ordering her to try on the costume.
I’m left with volume one of Saga, the comic Paige dropped in front of me when I got here and ordered me to read. I’m enjoying the plot, I have to admit. On the couch, Grant has his book open. Romeo and Juliet, I read on the cover. But he’s not turning the pages, and every couple minutes his gaze darts to Hannah, who’s talking to WINTER IS COMING guy.
It’s unexpected, how at home I feel here. I couldn’t have imagined myself weeks ago in this dusty bookstore with this group of people. It’s nothing like the afternoon would have looked with Morgan and Elle, whom I realize with a touch of remorse I haven’t hung out with in a while. We’d probably be in Starbucks, ordering Frappuccinos, and I’d be listening to Elle detail her newest sponsorship and Morgan rave about her weekend on set. Instead, I’m reading a comic book next to a sewing machine and a board game I’ve never heard of—and I’m enjoying it just as much.
Hannah cheers when Abby comes out of the bathroom. Abby’s in the French-maid costume, and she spins, showing off how perfectly it fits. I catch Grant scowling, evidently jealous of Hannah’s enthusiasm.
“Paige,” Hannah squeals, “you’re amazing. We’re definitely going to win.”
Paige gives a dramatic bow. Despite the exaggeration of the gesture, I read genuine pride on her face. “I’m devoted to the cause,” she tells Hannah. She returns to our corner and drops into a chair.
“Win?” I ask.
“Yeah, for Rocky Horror,” Paige replies. “There’s a costume contest. The winners get to go on stage for ‘Time Warp,’” she adds, like I have any idea what she’s talking about. “Hannah’s really into it.”
“Does everyone dress as a character?”
“Yeah, well, not exactly. People sometimes just put on whatever outrageous, sexy stuff they can find. Whatever’s Rocky-worthy.” Paige pauses, her eyes finding mine. “Wait. Why do you want to know?”
I look at Hannah, fussing over Abby’s costume, and feel a grin forming on my face.
Twenty-One
I’M HEAVING MY ETHICS TEXTBOOK FROM MY locker on Monday morning when I glimpse two words on a piece of paper under my books. NOT INTERESTED. I blink. I’d forgotten I kept the note inviting Brendan to lunch.
I pause in front of my open locker. People pass me in the hallway, heading toward their classes, conversations ending in classroom doorways. I have a few minutes. Biting my lip, I impulsively remove the note from under my book pile and pull a pen from my bag.
Below Brendan’s NOT INTERESTED, I write, How about now?
Throwing my locker closed, I walk quickly toward the other end of campus. The robotics room is still empty when I open the door and dart to Brendan’s desk. I neatly place the note on his keyboard.
I pass the first half of the day in anticipation. It’s a different kind of anticipation from the last time I left the note on Brendan’s computer. I’m not just eager to accomplish a goal, to check an item off a list. Honestly, I enjoyed hanging out with Brendan. I hope he enjoyed hanging out with me enough not to hate the idea of joining me and my friends for lunch. I’ve had enough of him hiding his pretty outgoing personality in the robotics room.
Ethics, Economics, English—the morning drags by while I think of what I can talk to him about and how I’ll explain this development to Elle. When the bell rings for lunch, I hurry to collect my lunch from my locker and head to our table on the patio, irrational excitement pumping in me the whole way.
Elle describes her concept for a new video. Brad tries to enlist her and Morgan in being bailiffs for his mock-trial competition. I wait with growing frustration, watching five, ten, fifteen minutes go by on my phone’s clock.
He’s stood me up. Again.
I know I shouldn’t care. I hardly know Brendan. Yet in the next instant, I’m grabbing my bag in a huff and getting to my feet with a hasty explanation to my friends. “Excuse me. I have to go set an idiot straight.”
Elle perks up. “Need backup?” she asks sympathetically.
“I got this,” I mutter, already on my way.
I head down the stairway, thread through lunch tables in the courtyard, and walk with purpose through the science hall until I’m in front of the robotics room. Without hesitation, I fling open the door. Brendan’s hunched over the computer, his back to me. He’s the only person in here, and he’s working half in the dark.
“Brendan,” I call. “Seriously?”
He whirls, looking startled. Finding only me, he relaxes. Not a reaction I’m used to provoking, but whatever. “Oh, hey, Cameron,” he says.
“That’s it?” I stride up to his desk. “Did you not get my note? I left it right on your stupid keyboard.”
“I got it.” He sounds bewildered. He pats the journal next to the computer, where the note sits on top of the cover.
I stare for a moment, waiting for further explanation. “And?” I demand when none comes. “What, you’re too cool to have lunch with me and my friends?”
Brendan grins, impossibly. He’s enjoying this. “I had no idea it mattered this much to you.”
“Oh, shut it.” His eyebrows flit up in amusement. “We hung out at the college fair. We text,” I charge on. “It’s obvious you don’t hate me anymore. Why won’t you just have lunch with me?”
His features cloud over. “Did you only ask me because you think it’ll make me more popular?”
I expected the question. “Maybe,” I reply. “Or maybe, despite my expectations, I actually enjoy talking to you, you weirdo.”
Brendan laughs once, genuine and involuntary. “Thank you?”
“You’re welcome,” I huff.
He pauses a moment, like he’s weighing his words. “You’re . . . not the worst to talk to, either,” he eventually says.
“Obviously,” I say, hiding how pleased I am by his admission. Pulling a stool over from one of the tables, I take a
seat beside Brendan. Easily, like I belong here, I unwrap my sandwich.
“What’re you doing?” He watches me uncomprehendingly.
“Eating my lunch,” I reply. “You’ve given me no choice.” I reach into the brown paper bag resting on my knee. “Carrot?”
“I’m . . . good.” He hesitates, his eyes wandering to his computer. He opens his mouth, and I realize he’s going to ask me to leave.
Which I have no intention of doing. Not when we’re having our fourth halfway normal conversation. I preempt him. “Show me what you’re working on,” I say, nodding toward his game.
Clearly caught off guard, he stares for a second, a combination of emotions I can’t decipher in his eyes. “I’ll do one better,” he finally declares. “Want to play it?”
The offer surprises me. “Video games aren’t really my thing,” I say, realizing a moment later it didn’t exactly come out gently. “No offense,” I add hurriedly.
But Brendan pulls my stool forward. Our knees briefly touch, the skin of my leg brushing the worn denim of his jeans. Before I have time to wonder if the contact was intentional, he’s pushed me in front of the keyboard. “Here.” His voice is low.
He places his hand on mine. I hadn’t realized how cold my hands were until I feel the warmth of his. Gently, he moves my right hand to the mouse and guides my left to the keyboard. Stunned, I don’t resist. His fingers linger a second on mine, and I find I’m holding my breath.
Okay, video games might not not be my thing.
“Now try not to die,” Brendan tells me.
“Wait, what?” The question has hardly passed my lips when the computer screen comes to life. I find my character in the hallway of a school, wearing a black baseball hat and toting a ridiculously hefty sword. Helplessly, I watch what look to be zombie teachers come out of the room marked TEACHERS’ LOUNGE. They circle my character, and he flashes red when they bite into him. In under a minute, I’m dead. “That was totally unfair,” I complain, rounding on Brendan—who’s holding in laughter.
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