by Vanessa Page
She looks back at me with something like indecision in her expression, her gaze warring between me and Arthur Hall, which is finally in sight about fifty yards ahead, now that we’ve rounded the Bates building. But she slows her pace. “Fine,” she sighs, “but if we get a crappy assignment, that’s on you.”
“And I promise to faithfully do my share and your share of the work for said crappy assignment,” I promise solemnly.
“Obviously,” Abby teases and we continue our trek. We veer off the sidewalk and onto the grass, opting for the straightest line to our destination instead of navigating the latticework of concrete pathways that culminate in a common area between the six surrounding buildings. We’ve probably only shaved thirty seconds off our walk, but judging from Abby’s almost smile, the gain is enough to satisfy her that we’re getting there as quickly as possible.
“Is your rush really about getting a good assignment, or are you maybe into this RJ guy?” I ask, knowing full well that Abby loves a challenge. And if this guy is difficult, then that qualifies him as a challenge for her.
“What? Ew, no!” She exclaims a little too loudly, a little too emphatically, to be believable.
“Uh huh.”
She shoots me a dirty look as we reach the entrance to the building, and she grabs the handle to open the heavy glass door. “Seriously, Krys. He’s cocky and a whore.”
“I thought you weren’t into slut-shaming,” I tease.
She holds the door open for me and then follows me into the hallway, her sneakers squeaking lightly on the linoleum floor. “This is different. He’s probably slept with half the campus. I even heard he met with one of his teachers last semester for… extra credit.”
I wrinkle my nose at the idea. “Ew.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “The small auditorium is this way.” She leads me down the hall and around a corner to a set of heavy wood double doors.
She pulls one of the doors open and ushers me through. Unlike Abby, I am not an Arts major, especially not a drama major. I hate being the center of attention and would never willingly do anything on any stage in front of people. So, the idea that this is the small auditorium blows my mind. Fifty rows of seats must fill the space between the door where I stand and the stage down in the front. Only one center aisle cuts through the rows, but at least ten to fifteen seats make up each row on either side of the aisle. This room could easily seat five hundred people.
“What the hell does the big auditorium look like?” I ask as Abby brushes past me and starts down the aisle steps toward the front and a small group of people gathered there. Truly small, not “small auditorium” small. More like handful small. One, two, three… I mentally start a headcount. Eight. Apparently, Drama Club only has eight members. Nine, counting Abby.
I recognize Jameson, Miranda’s date from last night, immediately. I’m not super familiar with theater types, aside from Abby, but I never would have guessed he was into it. Maybe the tanned, tone physic—even his muscles have muscles—is what fooled me, but I’d just assumed he was a jock, or a gym guy.
“It has a balcony,” she calls back.
“Naturally,” I respond as if the idea should have occurred to me already. I follow in her wake, though her progress is much faster than mine.
Just as I reach the bottom step, a side door next to the stage opens and in walks Jace holding drink carriers stacked with disposable hot cups.
“Coffee’s here!” he announces, holding up his haul triumphantly.
“Naturally,” I mutter again, because of course it should also have occurred to me that he would be here. And with coffee. Because the universe hates me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jace
The first thing I notice when I walk into the small auditorium in Arthur Hall is Krystal. I don’t know much about this girl besides her last name, but my body knows her; my brain knows her, my attention drawn to her like she’s a lighthouse, a beacon calling me home after a long journey at sea. She feels like trouble and fresh air all at once, and the way my body immediately responds to her leaves me feeling off balance and a little out of breath.
I plaster on my widest smile, tear my gaze away from her, and pretend I haven’t even noticed her when I announce, “Coffee’s here!”
A handful of bodies immediately crowds around me, effectively blocking her from view, but I still feel her. She could be at the back door of the auditorium, as far away from me as possible while still being in the same room, and I would probably still feel her. Something about her has me hyper aware of her whenever she is near, and the more I’m around her, the more I want to be around her, despite the horrible blind date last night, despite the weird text exchange after. Despite the fact that I never bothered responding to her last message. Because why rehash the whole I-don’t-date thing? As the crush around me clears, and I’m left holding far fewer coffee cups than I was a moment ago, I am unable to stop myself from drifting closer to where she has claimed a seat in the front row of folding auditorium seating.
“Coffee?” I offer, holding one of the carriers out to her with only one cup remaining in it. I have one more in the tray in my right hand, and that’s for me. But if I were honest with myself, I would have to admit that I’d probably offer her that one, too, even if it were the only one left. The fact that I would be willing to give up my morning coffee after being up until 2 a.m. studying for next week’s Anthropology final says a lot about how much I must like her. And that makes me want to stay as far away from her as possible.
“Bless you!” she exclaims and extracts the cup from the tray, then takes a long sip. I’m helpless to do anything besides stand and watch as she lifts the cup to her mouth. Her lips are rosy pink and lightly glossy, and they wrap gently around the plastic lid as she takes a long, slow pull through the hole there. When she lowers the cup, her pale pink tongue darts out to glide across her lower lip, and I swear I can feel the action on my own lips. And just like that, all I’m thinking about is kissing her, running my own tongue along her bottom lip, delving into the soft velvet of her mouth on a moan.
Too late, I realize I’m staring at her lips and raise my gaze to meet hers. She’s staring up at me with a look of confusion, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open. Cheeks rosy with a slight blush. Does she know that I was just thinking about kissing her? Would she want me to? Of course she would. She made that clear last night. And that’s exactly why I shouldn’t.
I shake the train of thought away before I get carried away. I’m not interested in dating Krystal, I remind myself and turn away from her before I can change my mind. I don’t need her standing outside the dorm yelling about what an asshole I am. I won’t be the next Ryan.
“Now that everyone’s here.” My buddy, RJ, looks pointedly at me. “We can begin.”
I raise my coffee cup to him in mock salutation and wink. I know he’s grateful for my morning cafe run. He probably woke up ten minutes before this meeting and didn’t have time to stop for himself. I’ve known him long enough to know that he values sleep over pretty much all else and often pushes the limits of punctuality because he slept to the very last possible moment.
He holds up a clipboard with a few sheets of printer paper clipped in. “I have a list of all the tasks that need to be completed in preparation for Thursday night’s charity dinner. This is going to be the last meeting before the event, so I thank you all for coming, and for bringing beautiful new friends.” He casts an appreciative look at Krystal.
Abigail Kinkade, who I assume must be the reason Krystal is even at this meeting leans forward in her seat next to Krystal, and says, “She’s here to help. Quit trying to use Drama Club as your own personal hookup club.”
“Jealous?” RJ shoots back, and several other club members groan.
Abigail and RJ have been going back and forth like this all semester. They bicker like they hate each other, but there’s no mistaking the sexual tension whenever they’re within fifteen feet of each other. Part of me wishes they wo
uld just sleep together and put us all out of their misery.
“What are the tasks?” I ask, breaking into their staring contest. RJ stops glaring daggers at Abigail and looks down at his paper.
“We need to confirm headcount with the caterer by tomorrow. Nina, do you have the final tally of RSVPs?”
Nina nods her head, her shiny black ponytail bouncing behind her with the movement, and holds up a little pocket notebook she’s currently taking notes in. She takes notes at every meeting and then emails them to the rest of us. We should have put her in charge of planning, but she refused to volunteer when RJ and Abigail did. I suspect she didn’t want to get involved in whatever competition was going to ensue. Ultimately, we had to vote, and the club chose RJ by a narrow margin.
I voted for Abigail.
RJ skims his finger down the list in front of him. “We all need to make sure maintenance leaves the south door to Franklin Hall open, even though the building closes at six. That’s the entrance all of the guests will be using.” RJ looks at me for confirmation that I handled this one already.
I pull my phone out and hold it up. “Bob Jenkins confirmed that the building will be unlocked until 11:30 p.m., which gives us enough time to clean up after the event wraps at 9:30.”
“Good,” RJ says and then moves on to the next item. “Is the list of silent auction items complete and all items turned over to us?”
That one is Abigail’s job. When he looks up at her, she gives him the finger and sips her coffee.
“Is that one of the auction items? I didn’t realize you were for sale. I’ll be sure to leave my wallet at home,” RJ tells her.
“Because you don’t want anyone to know you’re broke? Good plan,” is Abigail’s response.
RJ rolls his eyes and goes back to his list.
“Okay, tasks that still need someone assigned are… initial setup—we’ll need four people for that; final cleanup—also a four-person job; two people to man the auction items during the auction hour; and someone at the door collecting invite cards and directing people to the ballroom.”
“I’ll collect the invitations and direct,” Nina calls. RJ makes a note on his list.
Brian Holtzman raises his hand and calls, “Andy and I can man the auction items.” Andy, Brian’s partner isn’t here today, but they’re always a team on these things, so Brian volunteering for them both is not unexpected. RJ notes the assignment.
Jameson confers with his sister, Jules, the only reason he’s even a part of this club, since she forced him into it as part of some bet that he lost. He still won’t tell me what the bet was, and two whole years have gone by. He signals with a wave of his fingers in the air between them, “We’ll do setup.”
Maggie, Brian’s best friend, raises her dainty hand with a dramatic flourish. Every move she makes is fit for an audience, always. In a stage-worthy voice she says, “I, too, will help with setup.
“And me,” the new guy, Scott, calls out quickly. He’s only been a part of Drama Club for about three weeks, and the fact that he’s only here because he’s got it bad for Maggie is painfully obvious.
“Great! That just leaves cleanup,” RJ announces. He points to Abigail and Krystal and says, “You two can do cleanup,” and writes it down on his sheet without waiting for a response.
Abigail practically jumps out of her seat. “Not alone we won’t. You said it was a four-person job. You and Coffee Boy over there can help us.”
To be fair, we are the only other people left in the room without an assigned job for Thursday night. And I don’t particularly mind having to stay after to clean up. The caterer and the janitorial staff will do the hard lifting. All we have to do is move tables and chairs back into place and whatnot.
RJ just rolls his eyes and makes a note on the page. “Okay, now that that’s settled, we need to go over the schedule of events for the night. Nina, want to run us through the schedule?”
Nina nods and flips through her little notebook until she finds the page with her schedule notes. We spend the next twenty minutes drilling through the events, the timing, the details, until each of us can pretty much recite it by heart. It takes me longer to commit the details to memory because I’m almost obsessively distracted by Krystal. I’m expending way too much brain power just trying to not look at her, to not let on that my entire focus is centered on her right now. Finally, RJ calls an end to the meeting, and I’m quick to make my escape.
Clearly, I’m going to have to get better at avoiding Krystal. But how can I do that when I have no idea where or when she’s going to appear. I had never seen her before last week, and now, in the span of four days, I’ve run into her just as many times. Clearly, the universe is having a nice laugh at my expense, throwing this adorable, pain-in-the-ass girl in my path every time I turn around just to make me squirm.
Maybe I’ll beg off helping with the charity dinner on Thursday. I’m sure RJ and Abigail can manage cleanup for one night without killing each other. Maybe.
~
Krystal
Four glorious, quiet, Jace-free days pass after the drama club meeting, but Thursday arrives like a punch to the gut. Jace left after that meeting over the weekend without even so much as acknowledging that he knew me, let alone had practically sexted me and then left me on read when I asked him to put up. I get that the guy doesn’t date, but what kind of game is he playing that he can’t even have a civil conversation with me?
I’m not looking forward to seeing him at the charity dinner tonight. I consider not going. I’m not even part of the drama club, after all. I’m only going because I promised Abby that I would be her plus one. And because there will be free food, which I’m always down for.
I don’t actually own a formal gown, though. Fortunately for me, Miranda keeps pretty much everything she’s ever bought or been given. So, she had several… one for every homecoming and prom in high school, and a hideous yellow taffeta tulip number she had to wear for her cousin’s wedding last summer.
At some point, I should probably stage an intervention to help with her hoarding problem, but tonight, it benefits me. I’m wearing her junior prom number. I’m just a little too small for the black slip with a blue lace overlay, but Abby improvised an empire waist with a piece of black ribbon and pinned it behind my back with a safety pin and hid the pin with a dark blue silk rose. The asymmetrical hem falls just below my knee, and the gown’s straps are just glorified strips of ruffled lace sitting on my shoulders. I look cute, not chic or haute couture or anything, but cute.
Abby looks smoking hot, like something straight off a high-fashion magazine, in a tight red wrap dress with a slit almost to her hip. And when we arrive at Franklin Hall, I’m quick to realize that everyone else is dressed as formally as Abby, and I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb.
Nina is standing next to a large white sign with crisp black lettering announcing the event. She looks amazing in a tight black number made from a silky fabric. Her hair is fashioned like something out of a wedding magazine, the shiny black strands weaved and folded into the shape of a bouquet of roses hanging down the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades. Her dark skin is shimmery, even in the bad fluorescent lighting from the ceiling lights above. Not only am I not as fancy as the other attendees, I’m pint-sized. Compared to Nina and Abby, I look like someone’s frumpy kid sister trying to play dress up.
“Oh good, you’re here,” Nina exclaims the moment we step through the glass doors into the atrium.
“Everything okay?” Abby asks.
Nina nods her head as she bounces on the heel of her rose gold stiletto. “I have really got to pee. Can one of you take over for me for a few minutes?” She holds out a clipboard with the guest list attached and a stack of collected invitations tucked under the clip.
Abby takes the clipboard from Nina, then immediately hands it off to me. “Actually, I could use a bathroom myself. Krystal, can you hold down the fort for a little bit?”
“Sure.�
� I’m less than excited about being the first person that people see when they arrive. I feel like that’s probably not the best impression the drama club could be making right now. Nina or Abby would make a far classier first impression, but who am I to deny anyone the right to pee? Even if Abby did just go at the dorm twenty minutes ago.
Nina is off in a dash, practically scampering away down the hall with Abby right behind.
Almost ten minutes pass without a single guest arriving and without a single sign of Abby or Nina. Did they forget about me? Before I have a chance to fully consider the possibility, a group of attendees approaches the entrance, and one of the men in the group opens one of the outer doors, holds it wide for everyone else to enter. I straighten my dress and my posture, and try my best to look like I belong here.
“Good evening, welcome!” I greet them cheerfully. “Do you have your invitations?”
The man who opened the door for everyone holds his out to me first. I scan the names, Mr. and Mrs. Woodrey, and scan my list for their names, cross them off. “Excellent! Just go straight through those doors,” I point to the heavy wood doors that section one hallway from another, “and make a left. Then just head straight through the double doors at the end of the hall.”
The only reason I know this is because my psych class is in Franklin Hall and the room number where this little shindig is taking place is printed on the invitation the gentleman handed me.
A pair of women, dressed to the nines in elegant black dresses, and more jewelry than I’ve ever owned cumulatively in my entire life, step up in front of me as the first gentleman escorts his wife in the direction of room FR 110.