It’s super awkward when Nora comes the next day, since she’d been in this same heartbroken condition a year earlier and I’d had a hand in the conflict. Then I’d evicted her.
“At least you’re not homeless,” she tries. “You should eat something,” she adds, when I don’t respond. I’ve been sitting in my uniform of sweatpants and T-shirt, half-heartedly watching old holiday movies and dying a little at their saccharine hopefulness.
“I’m not hungry.”
She sighs and comes to perch on the arm of the couch, waiting until I reluctantly look at her. “It’s going to get worse,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Impossible.”
“Marcela’s on her way.”
My survival instincts kick in and I jump off the couch. “What? Why? No. No!”
“There’s more.”
“Don’t tell me Nate’s coming.”
“Nate’s coming.”
“Nora! I thought you were the least awful one of the group! How could you let this happen?”
“You need to change your clothes,” she says firmly. “You need to eat something that’s not mac and cheese. And you need to go to class.”
“I missed two days! You moped for the whole holiday last year!”
“I recuperated,” she says archly. “I showered regularly. And I made a turkey.”
“I’m not making a turkey. That’s stupid.”
“Knock knock!”
My skin prickles from more than the cold when Marcela’s voice swoops in. I glower at Nora who stares back impassively as we listen to coats and boots being shed, then Marcela and Nate climb the steps. The only good part of this situation is that Nate looks as miserable as I feel, which has the ironic benefit of cheering me up slightly.
“I don’t need this round-the-clock babysitting,” I protest. “I really don’t. Just the threat of your company makes me see the error of my ways.”
“Relax,” Marcela says. “Nate brought you a gift.”
Nate’s holding a rolled up newspaper.
“I don’t want it.”
He tosses it to me anyway, and I catch it because it’s better than getting hit in the face. Burnham’s local paper is a whopping twenty pages thick and though I really don’t want to, I peel off the elastic band and unroll it. My eyes bulge. “What the fuck?”
I sink back onto the couch and gape at the color photo on the front page and its accompanying headline. Burnham’s Beautiful Bandits—Busted!
“Is that Jazzy?” I gasp, though the answer is obvious. She’s wearing a pink track suit, her hair a mess, as she and another girl are led away from McKinley residence in cuffs. I skim the article as quickly as I can.
“Everybody’s desperate to make their mark,” it begins. “But first-year Burnham College students Jasmine Bahar and Jolie Dunn took it to the next level, vandalizing more than a dozen homes, residences, and school structures...”
I look at my friends. “Jazzy ransacked my place?”
Marcela nods. “Yep. Started the fire at McKinley, broke into half a dozen frat houses...”
Nate picks up. “And crashed Julian Crick’s car when she tried to get away from the sorority she robbed two nights ago. That’s how she got caught.”
Misery loves company and I perk up a little more. “She wrecked his car?”
Marcela pats my shoulder. “Now you can sleep in peace again. The closet-peeing cheerleader has been caught and Julian doesn’t have a car.”
“Well, great.” I say it sarcastically, but it is rather nice to know I’m not the only person who seriously fucked up when trying to build a reputation for myself. Still. I return the newspaper to Nate. “I feel so much better. You can all leave.”
“Why would we leave?” Marcela asks as she settles onto the couch. “We ordered a pizza.”
“What?”
“And I brought a movie,” Nate says, brandishing a DVD copy of Citizen Kane. “Marcela said it was your favorite.”
“And you believed her?”
“Well, no,” he admits, as she snickers. “But it’s my favorite, so...”
“That’s my cue.” Nora gets to her feet. “I’ll tell Crosbie you guys said hi.”
“Tell Crosbie we’re not friends anymore. Better yet, tell him to come over here and suffer through this movie.”
“No can do,” she replies, already descending the stairs. “I love him too much.”
I cover my face. “I can’t live like this.”
“Deal with it,” Marcela suggests, kicking back and resting her socked feet on the coffee table. “You have friends, like it or not.”
“Not me,” Nate clarifies, popping in the DVD then joining Marcela on the couch. “Other people.”
* * *
Lest anyone else should come to watch over me, I make myself get out of bed on Wednesday morning, shower, eat something and head for class. Somehow in my misery I forgot about an even more miserable piece of the puzzle: Bertrand.
“Morning,” he calls from the sidewalk. He’s drinking a protein shake and wears shorts with his winter jacket, tiny ponytail tightly tied.
The weather is as damp and chilly as my mood, the sky a familiar gray as I reluctantly descend the steps to join him. “Why are you here? You’re dating Ms. Shaw, aren’t you? You don’t need me anymore.”
“Ms. Shaw is none of your business,” he says. “But she thinks it’s charming I escort you to class, so suck it up.”
I really don’t have the energy to argue, so I just sigh in defeat.
“Ready for exams?” he asks after a silent, slushy block.
“I guess.”
“Think you’ll take more film classes next year?”
It’s his weirdly jovial nature that makes me notice what should have been obvious from the outset. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t know,” I say.
“Know what?”
“Bertrand.” Part of the reason I’ve been so reluctant to leave the house is because I didn’t want to face whatever reaction awaited me from the banquet fall-out. Pity, indignation, smug superiority. Bertrand might be a way to get it all over with in one pony-tailed package.
He keeps up the innocent charade for a full two seconds, then says, “You fucked up, bro.”
I laugh sadly. “They pay you to provide this advice?”
“Just barely. I stock groceries on the weekend.”
“What? Really?”
“No, Kellan. Not really. They pay fine. And yes, this is the quality of the advice.”
“Well, it sucks. I gave you far better advice. At least you got the girl.”
“You got the girl,” he counters. “I saw you. Then you fucked up—on the big screen.”
“I know what happened.”
“Tell me you at least appreciate the irony.”
“I barely know what that means.”
“It means the whole reason I started stalking—I mean, counseling—you this year is to get you to declare your major. Get it—declare? Speak up? But then you chose to speak up by saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible moment.”
“I don’t appreciate the irony.” My steps falter as we approach the Klein Building. Already people are looking, whispers circling. Bertrand stops when I stop, and for a fleeting second I’m grateful for his obnoxious, hulking presence, the way you’d be grateful to be surrounded by a ring of fire if there was a hungry wolf on the other side.
“I can’t do this,” I mutter, taking a step back. “I thought I could, but I—”
“Don’t blow off your last week of classes before exams,” Bertrand says. “That’s real advice.”
“She told me to leave her alone. That’s all she wants from me. If I go in there—”
“There are a hundred and fifty people in that class. Sit next to someone else.”
I try to take a deep breath but it feels like my lungs won’t expand. A hundred and fifty people. Three hundred eyes. The only two I care about looking any direction but mine.
“I can’t,” I say again. “I can’t.”
“All right,” Bertrand says, gripping my arm and propelling me down the hall. “In we go.”
“What the fuck?” I whisper shrilly. “Stop.”
“Remember when I didn’t want your advice about Ms. Shaw...”
“This is different!”
“...but I took it anyway and things worked out?”
I’m too agitated to even be smug about it. We come to a halt in front of the second set of doors, propped open with garbage cans. Students trickle in and out of the auditorium, more than a few slowing in an effort to eavesdrop on our unwelcome conversation.
“That girl thinks you’re an asshole,” Bertrand says in a low voice. “A lot of people do. I did. I mean, I sort of still do. But you’re not as bad as I thought. You’re smart when you try. You’re thoughtful. You’re loyal. Most importantly, you’re getting better. That’s why you can’t give up. You can’t run away, no matter what your scholarship is for. And most importantly, you can’t let a roomful of strangers determine who you are. It would help if you stopped wearing that stupid letter jacket, but we’ll tackle that another day.”
“I earned my jacket!”
“You know what cowards do?” he continues. “They bail. And in their absence, that becomes the things that defines them. Not the name on their jacket, not some list in a bathroom, their actions. You’re in college—you get to decide who you are and who you want to be. You get to make mistakes, and you get to learn from them. And I get to advise you. Now I advise you to get your ass into that classroom, find a seat, watch the movie, and think.”
“Those things are all the opposite of what I want!”
“Exactly. Now go.”
I rub my sore arm. “I don’t understand.”
“No kidding. Enjoy the movie.”
* * *
I don’t enjoy the movie. It’s a fucking romantic comedy, and Bertrand is a fucking asshole. And even though she’s on the far side of the room, I’m one hundred percent aware of Andi the whole time we watch Love, Actually.
Yes, Love, Actually.
The worst and best movie of all time, depending on what shape your heart is in. Mine’s in a terrible, twisted shape, and I vow to give Ms. Shaw a scathing review when this class is over. I’m also going to report Bertrand for stalking me. The mental image of him being arrested in a pink jogging suit makes me smile and I escape the second the credits start to roll.
“You look better,” Crosbie comments when I exit.
I jump at the sound of his voice, lost in my own world of depressed thoughts and recriminations. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought we could get some lunch.”
“I don’t need you guys to keep watch over me like this. It’s a nice gesture but—actually, you know what? It’s not a nice gesture. It’s incredibly annoying and I want it to stop. When you had your heart broken, you ran away. Let me do the same.”
“I can’t, Kell. You have exams.”
“Metaphorically!” I exclaim. “I’m going to write the exams. Just pretend I’m gone. Act like I’m not here.”
His expression is unyielding. “No can do. When I took off last year you sent me three hundred and twenty-two texts.”
“What? That’s insane.” I mean, I know I sent a lot of texts, but no way it was more than...forty.
“It was definitely alarming,” he concedes. “And annoying. But ultimately the fact that you didn’t give up convinced me to give in and be your friend again.”
“Let’s be friends in January,” I suggest. “I’m really not in the mood now.”
“What movie did you watch?” he asks, following when I start the walk home. I pull up my hood to shield against the light rain and his prying eyes. Fortunately, campus is quiet, the weather and approaching exams encouraging people to stay home.
I sigh. “Love, Actually.”
“That’s a good one. Nora likes it.”
“I hate it.”
“So what’s the plan?” he asks.
“I’m going to take a nap, wake up, study, have dinner, then go to bed. Tomorrow I’ll repeat it. And I’ll shower. Don’t send Marcela back.”
“I didn’t mean your plan for today, I meant your plan for Andi.”
My heart clenches at the mention of her name. “She told me to leave her alone. That’s what I’m going to do. This is Kellan 2.0. The guy who gets dumped but respects people’s wishes.”
“Well that guy deserved it,” Crosbie points out. “But that’s not Kellan 2.0. That was Kellan 1.0, rearing his stupid head one last time. Kellan 2.0 declared a major, erased his sex list, didn’t bang the psycho cheerleader, and finally fell for someone.”
“Not finally,” I mutter.
“What?”
“I didn’t finally fall for her. I’ve always known.”
He looks dumbfounded. “Then why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I—I just—I didn’t want to miss out.” It’s the truth, but it sounds unbearably selfish when I hear it out loud. “I grew up in a small town and I wanted out. I wanted to live life.” That sounds bad, too, like Andi would somehow prevent me from living. “And I didn’t want to tell her something and resent her. I didn’t want to wonder if there was something I was missing. I was afraid.”
He mulls that over for a moment. “That’s fair.”
“What?”
He shrugs. “Who doesn’t wonder if the grass is greener? Now you know it’s not.”
“Now it’s too late!”
“No, now it’s too soon. Give her some time to cool off. Then make some grand gesture that shows her you’re for real.”
“Did Nora do something like that? Last year, when you guys got back together?”
“Not really.”
“Did you?”
“No. We just kind of met and talked things over.”
I’ve never heard the story of their reconciliation, but this might be why. It’s boring. “Is that a euphemism for something? Like sex?”
“Nope. We talked about what happened, cleared the air, and got back together.”
“It was definitely more exciting in my head.”
“I don’t want to know what perverted things go on inside your head. But I do want to know that you’re okay.”
We stop in front of my apartment and I pull out my keys. “I’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Do you have my house key in your pocket? Are you going to come in anyway?”
“Yes. I’m also going to order some take-out, because I’m starving.”
I sigh and give up. “If you invite Nate over, we’re done. Forever.”
“Why would I invite Nate? I hate that guy.”
“Okay, you’re not so bad. You can come in.”
* * *
I take everyone’s advice. I give Andi her space. I shower regularly. I study for my exams. I write my exams. I won’t get my grades until January, but I know I aced them. And the night before I’m set to drive home for winter break, I join the guys at Marvin’s to watch Choo’s first appearance as segment host on She Shoots, She Scores.
It’s one of the rare occasions where it’s guys only, and Dane, Choo, Crosbie and I manage to snag a booth with clear sightlines to the big screen televisions that hang over the bar. Choo’s onscreen next to Ivanka and they both look great. Choo smiles a lot and Ivanka keeps calling him Gary and it takes him a few seconds to respond every time, but overall he’s relaxed and funny and it makes perfect sense that he won.
“And when we come back,” Ivanka says, smiling into the camera, “we’ll have our first installment of Light It Up with Gary Zhang. Stay tuned. You won’t want to miss this.”
“Oh man,” Dane exclaims, rubbing his hands together. “I can’t wait.”
“Cheers,” Crosbie says, lifting his glass. “To Gary Zhang, whoever that is.”
“Light it up,” I say as we clink our glasses.
“Thanks,” Choo says. “It
means a lot that you guys are here.”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Because I won,” he says, pointing at each of us. “I beat you, and you and you. It’s basically a job for people who are smarter, funnier and more handsome than everybody else. I was worried you’d be jealous.”
“That’s what you were worried about?” Crosbie asks. “Not that untamable cowlick?”
“We can hardly notice it,” Dane adds. “Not when we’re distracted by your enormous Adam’s apple. It’s like a python swallowed a hundred-year-old tortoise.”
I laugh so hard I almost snort beer out my nose. When we’ve calmed down, Choo’s looking at me seriously. “What about you?” he asks. “I know you were expected to win. Then on top of everything else...”
“I’m happy for you,” I say sincerely. “If you won, it’s because you deserved it. I mean, probably. Let’s wait to see how the segment goes. It could be really embarrassing for you.”
Choo smiles.
“In all seriousness,” I continue. “I nailed my audition. I was amazing. But you won, so you did better. And I can’t wait to see it for myself. Congrats.”
We toast again, then the show comes back on.
“Thank God,” Dane whispers. “Any more talk about feelings and I was going to pass out.”
“Welcome back to She Shoots, She Scores,” Ivanka says. “I’m Ivanka Ling. If you’ve been following the show, you know we’ve been on the hunt for a talented junior segment reporter, and after several months, we’ve found the very best the Pacific Northwest has to offer. I’m pleased to present Light It Up with Gary Zhang!”
The bar explodes in applause which is just as quickly shushed so we can hear the part we all came for.
“Thank you, Ivanka,” Choo says, then smoothly turns to face the camera to deliver a rousing, heartfelt and exceedingly enthusiastic monologue about the basketball moment that brought the fans to their feet and convinced Choo he was destined to play the sport. A little cartoon torch appears onscreen at the end, flames flickering.
Undeclared (Burnham College #2) Page 27