Undeclared (Burnham College #2)

by Julianna Keyes

  “Did you apologize?” Crosbie asks.

  I exhale. “I haven’t called. I haven’t texted. No flowers. No note.”

  Choo and Dane look horrified, but Crosbie, who knows me better than anyone, just looks sad. “Last year,” he says, “when you went through that whole sex list, contacted all of those girls and asked them to get tested, you apologized. I heard you.”

  “Well, I had to say something.”

  “You apologized because you were sorry,” he says. “And because you didn’t really care if they forgave you. And now you’re avoiding Walsh because you’re afraid she won’t.”

  “When did you become so insightful?”

  “I told you,” Choo says. “We’re not just handsome, funny, handsome jocks.”

  I try not to laugh. “Before I left,” I begin. “That last summer at home with Andi, something happened. I don’t know what it was. We went to this baseball game and on the way back she froze me out. It was like she just changed her mind about me. The flip of a switch. Best friends. Sex friends. No friends. I got here and I just wanted to forget it. To get over it.”

  “And you got gonnorhea instead.”

  “Why does everyone insist on bringing that up?”

  “Because it’s sick but funny, since it’s curable.”

  “I’m afraid to talk to her. I’m afraid I’m still that guy in the front seat, watching her in the back, trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong.”

  “You know what you did wrong,” Crosbie says. “What you don’t know how to do is apologize.”

  “I can totally apologize.”

  “Really?” Dane says, scratching his temple. “Because last year you walked into the dining room naked when I was having dinner with Bailey, and you didn’t apologize then.”

  “It was a joke!”

  “She finished that meatloaf and went straight home.”

  “That might be because you made her meatloaf.”

  “I bought that meatloaf.”

  “We’re getting off track,” Choo interjects. “What about that time you said you would buy eight thousand tiki torches from my uncle, but then you didn’t?”

  “That never happened, buddy.”

  “But it still could.”

  “You apologized to me,” Crosbie points out. “After Chrisgiving. You sent no fewer than three hundred and twenty-two texts.”

  Choo and Dane look at me askance. “What?”

  “I was very sorry,” I mutter. “And it was more like eighty.”

  “So you know what to do,” Crosbie says matter-of-factly. “It’s just a matter of doing it.”

  I sigh and pick at a piece of grass. “What do I say?”

  * * *

  When I think of apologies, I think of long, rambling speeches full of tears, promises and excuses. I don’t think Andi would believe any of that, so in the end, I keep it simple. I’m sorry, I type. I stare at my phone, wondering what else to add. An emoticon? Probably not. More words? I flick my thumbs over the keypad. I panicked. It’s me, not you. I hate me too. Did you like Battleship Potemkin? I did.

  Delete, delete, delete.

  I’m sorry stares back at me like it’s daring me to press send. I take a deep breath, add a period so it’s a complete sentence, and take the dare.

  I instantly want to take it back. I want to reach into whatever invisible network will relay my message to Andi and un-say it all. But I can’t.

  Not that it matters, in the end, because Andi doesn’t reply. By the time Friday night rolls around, she hasn’t answered, not even to tell me to fuck off. The cold shoulder is her patented move, as we know. The only difference between then and now is that I know exactly what I did wrong.

  I work on my Film Theory assignment, which is to discuss the Kuleshov Effect, an editing technique used in Battleship Potemkin and created by its director. It seems obvious now, but back when the movie was made, I guess no one else had come up with the idea. The basic premise is that when people see two or more images in sequence, they derive additional meaning from them. For example, if they see a man’s face then see a hamburger, they reason that the man is hungry. That same man’s face and a crying baby suggests that the man feels empathy. The same face followed by a picture of a monster implies the man is scared.

  I think of Andi seeing my apology text. What’s she feeling? Rage, probably.

  I finish typing the essay, press save, then lean back in my chair and look around the empty apartment. I’m bored. I’m lonely. Crosbie and Nora are gone on a romantic weekend he’s been secretly planning for a month, Choo and Dane have away games, and I’m...here.

  I find a backpack, toss in a pair of swim trunks and a towel, and jog over to the gym. It’s eight o’clock and though they’re open for another two hours, the pool is empty when I dive into the deep end. I guess people have better things to do with their Friday nights.

  I swim along the bottom as far as I can, surfacing for air at the halfway mark. After ten laps my lungs and shoulders are burning, but I pick up the pace. Ten laps, then ten more. When I’m ready to drown I brace my forearms on the edge of the pool and attempt to recover. I finish up with five laps of back stroke, then stagger out and take a shower, rinsing away the potent chlorine smell before getting dressed and starting the short walk home.

  I feel exhausted and better. Better mostly because I’m so physically drained I can’t think about how guilty I feel about the whole Andi situation, and—

  I come to an abrupt halt in front of my apartment. I have one foot on the bottom step but my brain orders me to freeze. The door is open. Just a crack, but still. It’s open when it should be closed. And locked. Now a thin shaft of light beams onto the steps from the lamp I left on in the living room.

  I rack my brain, trying to convince myself I must have forgotten to lock up in my haste to leave, but I know I didn’t. I remember turning key, hearing it click, tossing the keys in my bag. My recently-calmed heart starts jack hammering in my chest. I pull out my phone and inch up the steps, giving the door a tentative judge. It swings open and there’s no more kidding myself.

  From here it’s easy to see that the door jamb is damaged, the wood pried open by a crowbar or some crude tool. My neatly ordered shoes are messed up in the foyer and are now joined by the dining table, one chair and a couch cushion. At the top of the stairs is the upended couch, which blocks the rest of the room from view.

  My hand is shaking as I back down the steps and retreat to the curb, looking at the parked, silent cars lining the street on either side. I don’t see anyone watching me, no one waiting to make a getaway. They’re either hiding upstairs or long gone. I dial 9-1-1.

  * * *

  The police arrive in less than ten minutes. I’m still on the sidewalk chatting with Naomi, the operator, who seems happy to have someone to talk to. We say goodbye as the patrol car pulls up and two officers, one male and one female, climb out. They introduce themselves Officers Wong and Fisher and instruct me to wait at the curb as they approach the front door. They don’t look nearly as scared as I feel and now that Naomi is gone, I also feel very alone. I start to call Crosbie, then stop. He’s at some B&B in Cannon Beach, probably sprinkling rose petals on the bed or feeding Nora grapes; he doesn’t want to hear from me. It’s ten o’clock, so Choo and Dane are probably watching tape after their games or traveling back to the hotel. I send them both a text asking them to call, but don’t expect a response and don’t get one.

  I shiver, adrenaline wearing off and leaving me in a damp sweatshirt with wet hair and a briskly cold October night, the temperature in the forties. The front door swings open and the Officer Wong gestures for me to come in.

  “Place is empty,” he says. “Ransacked, unless you decorated like this?”

  I smile weakly at the lame attempt at levity, and he steps back as I enter. I try to close the door but the jamb is ruined and the lock won’t catch.

  “You live with anybody?”

  “No.”

  �
��All right. Don’t touch anything, but take a quick look around, tell me if you notice anything missing. Did you keep any cash in here? Valuables? Anything somebody would want to steal?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” I climb the stairs and ease around the upended couch. The television is still on the console, its screen smashed in, most likely with a baseball bat or the same crowbar they used on the front door. My game system is gone but my laptop is sitting on its side on the floor, most likely dumped off the dining table before they hurled it down the stairs.

  What little food was in the refrigerator is now all over the place, a handful of eggs tossed at the wall, their whites and yolks drying in streaky smears, a carton of milk oozing over the counter. In the bathroom the mirror is shattered, reflecting my pale, fragmented face from the sink.

  My bedroom wasn’t spared. The bed has been tossed, the closet emptied, and it smells distinctly, disgustingly, of urine. I return to the living room, keeping my back to the police officers as I struggle to stay calm.

  “Just the game...” I manage, pointing toward its empty space on the console. “Just the game system is missing, as far as I can tell. I had my wallet and my phone on me, my laptop is still here, just...” I swipe a hand over my eyes. I cannot be crying over a break-in. It’s just the stress of third year and Bertrand and Andi and all the swimming. My eyes are watering because of the chlorine. That’s it.

  “You have somewhere you can stay for the night?” Officer Fisher asks.

  I think about Crosbie’s room, but he’s gone and I don’t have a key. I think about the frat house, but I’m really not in the mood for that place on a Friday night. Marcela’s got a couch, but Marcela will probably take a picture of me sleeping and send it to Nate, so that’s out.

  “A friend?” she prompts. “A girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” I say abruptly, as it dawns on me. The one person I know who’s eternally upbeat and hopefully home. “Jackie.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Why don’t you give her a call?”

  “I will.”

  They get on their radios and ignore me as I find Jackie’s number in the call log—I should really add her to my contacts—and press Call. She answers on the second ring.

  “Kellan?” she says.

  “Jackie,” I say. “Hey.”

  “Hey. How are you?” She sounds curious, but not unhappy.

  “Ah, not that great, to be honest. Are you home by any chance?”

  “Yeah, I just got home from practice.”

  I hesitate. “Oh.”

  “Why?” she asks quickly. “Where are you?”

  “Um...” I look around the apartment. If not for the invasive, violating smell of urine, I could probably convince myself to stay here, piling furniture in front of the broken door and sleeping with a knife under my pillow. But I can’t. “I got robbed,” I hear myself say. “I’m at home and the police are here.”

  Jackie’s horrified gasp is gratifying. “Oh my goodness!”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty bad.”

  “You should come over,” she says promptly. “I’ll be pretty boring company—and I’m going to smell like camphor—but you can totally stay here.”

  “Really? You don’t mind?” I picture the tiny bedroom; the tiny bed.

  “Of course not,” she replies. “Do you want me to come meet you first?”

  I look around at the disarray. “No,” I tell her. “Thanks, though. I’ll just wrap up here and come over when we’re through.”

  “All right,” she says. “I’ll see you soon. There’s probably some vodka floating around. Maybe that will help.”

  I nod to myself. “Let’s find out.”

  chapter ten

  It’s almost eleven when I arrive at McKinley and Jackie buzzes me in. I trudge up the stairs, my legs feeling like lead. This is just a shit night on top of a shit week and a pretty shit year. Still, I muster up a tired smile when I knock, because I’m Kellan McVey and my life is awesome and I’m an asshole if I don’t know it.

  Jackie opens the door and I’m instantly overwhelmed by the camphor smell from her muscle rub.

  “Wow,” I say, sneezing twice. “You weren’t kidding.”

  She winces. “Sorry. I opened a window, but it got too cold.”

  “Don’t apologize. I should be thanking you. I really appreciate this.”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Get in here.”

  I step inside and drop my hastily-packed bag on the floor, shrugging out of my jacket. The room is as colorful as I remember it, but instead of headache-inducing it just feels kind of warm and nice. And the smell of camphor is always preferable to urine.

  “What did the police say?” Jackie asks, sitting on the bed and scooting back so she’s resting against the wall. She wears yoga capris and a Burnham sweatshirt, her hair twisted back in a complicated braid. She must have reapplied her makeup after practice, because she looks way better than I do after a tough workout.

  “They said there’s been a lot of vandalism in the area since school started,” I reply, joining her on the bed. “Some break-ins, cars getting keyed.”

  “The fire in here, maybe,” Jackie says. “I heard it was intentional.”

  “I don’t know. I think I just got unlucky.”

  “Kellan McVey? Unlucky? That sounds blasphemous. Whenever someone hears that I know you they always ask what you’re really like.”

  “Do you tell them I’m lucky?”

  She laughs. “I just tell them you’re nice.”

  I think about the unanswered text to Andi. “I’m not that nice.”

  “You’re nice to me.” She puts her hand on my thigh, just above my knee, the gesture oddly self-conscious.

  I study her carefully painted nails, pink with baby blue tips. Hands that have probably never caught a snake or knocked out Leo Vargas with a perfect uppercut when he called her the C-word in the high school parking lot. Andi’s three-day suspension was extended to a full week when she not only refused to apologize, but said she’d do it again if he deserved it.

  Jackie inches her hand up higher and I’m smiling, but not for the reasons she thinks. “Kellan,” she says softly, shifting onto her knees and leaning toward me. “I think we—”

  “Hey,” I say abruptly, making her freeze. “I should put your number in my phone.”

  She blinks. “Um... It’s not in there?”

  “Not yet.” I scramble off the bed and dig my phone out of my bag. I honestly believe this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve tried to think of a reason not to have sex with someone. Someone beautiful and kind who responds to my texts. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. What am I thinking? I can do this. I can sleep with Jackie. In fact, it’s probably a really good idea. I just need a second to get ready, mentally. It’s been a long day.

  “Okay,” I say, phone in hand. I sit on the corner of the bed and shoot Jackie a smile as she stares at me uncertainly. I find her number in the call log and add it to my contacts, typing in her name. “Do you spell it with a ck or a q?”

  She hesitates. “What?”

  “Your name. Is it J-a-c-q—”

  “Oh. Um, it’s J-a-s...m-i-n-e.”

  There’s a very, very long pause.

  “What?”

  She avoids my eye. “My name is Jasmine.”

  “Jasmine? But at the party, you said... I mean, I purposely remembered...”

  “I said Jazzy,” she says quickly. “But the music was really loud and you misheard and I don’t know, I didn’t want to correct you. I’d just gotten to Burnham and suddenly I was talking to Kellan McVey and it seemed easier to just not say anything.”

  “Not even your real name?”

  “You were pretty close. Jackie, Jazzy. Is it really that bad?”

  “Jackie—Jasmine—Jazzy.” I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “We’ve been hanging out and just now we were going to—maybe going to—”

  “We still can,” she says quickly. “I want
to.”

  “No,” I say, too forcefully. “We can’t. You have to have higher standards than this. Than me. A guy has to know your name. Do you really want to be with someone who calls you the wrong—” I falter as a mental picture of the Student Union bathroom walls come to mind. Then the lists I’d made, to help me remember the girls whose names I either didn’t remember or had just never bothered to learn. Smells Like French Fries. Purple Hair. Green Bikini. I’ve already apologized for that, and I’ve been punished, and I can’t undo it. But I can choose not to do it again.

  So can Jackie. Fuck. Jazzy. Jazzy? Really?

  I look at her seriously. “You know there’s a list,” I say. “It’s in the Student Union bathroom. And if you sleep with me you’ll end up on it and you deserve better than to be part of some stupid, tasteless tradition.”

  “I’m already on it,” she reminds me.

  “How is that even possible?”

  “Because we’ve been seen together. But it says ‘Jackie,’ so most people don’t actually know it’s me.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, I’m not!”

  She sighs. “Kellan, be honest. Would you really know the difference?”

  “Of course I would! I know I’ve never slept with you!”

  “And if they’d gotten the name right and the list said Jazzy?”

  I stand, trembling with a mix of righteous indignation and tiredness. “Maybe not last year, and maybe not first year, but this year—yes, I do know the difference. In fact, I’m going to make a difference.”

  Jazzy yawns. “How?”

  I falter for a second, but then it hits me. Crosbie had a list, too. And last year that list got him in trouble with Nora, so he fixed it. Biked over to the Student Union building with a bucket of paint and covered up his list. A fresh start.

  “Do you have any paint?” I ask.

  “Why would I have paint?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have...Wite-Out?”

  * * *

  Jazzy hustles along beside me, more out of curiosity than a shared sense of righteousness. It’s a ten-minute walk through the middle of campus, largely deserted at this time of night. The sidewalks are empty, our shadows trailing briskly behind us as we start toward the Student Union building with two rolls of Wite-Out tape and one black marker in my pocket. It was the best we could do on short notice.