by Dahlia Adler
His phone rings just then, cutting him off. “Sorry, I’ll—oh, I actually need to take this. Excuse me.”
I shrug. “Go right ahead.”
He does. “Bonjour, Maman.” What follows is string after string of fluent French that makes my mouth drop. It’s…unexpected, given that he doesn’t have so much as an accent as far as I can tell. It’s also weirdly sexy. He catches me gaping, and the corners of his lips lift in a rare tiny smile. He points at something on the wall behind me, without breaking in conversation, and I turn to see a Canadian flag mounted above a bookshelf.
I walk over, leaving Connor to his conversation with his mother, and examine the picture frames on his shelves. In one, Connor and a pretty brunette are smiling at the camera, a hockey game in the background. They’re both wearing jerseys. It looks like a cute date, which surprises me, since I can’t quite imagine Connor out with a girl. Then I look at the other picture—same brunette, plus an older woman—and realized all three share a marked resemblance.
Of course she’s his sister. Connor Lawson with his arm around an actual woman is just too hilarious to contemplate. I can’t even imagine what kissing him must be like. Boring, probably. Prosaic, somehow. Soft-looking hair and gorgeous eyes can’t cure that personality.
“See anything interesting?”
His voice makes me jump ten feet in the air. I’d forgotten he was even in the room, his French conversation drifting away like background music. “Your sister’s pretty,” I blurt, because the only other thing in my brain is the image of him kissing, and that doesn’t seem like a wise subject to broach.
“She gets that a lot.”
“Are you from Quebec? Is that where your mom and sister are?”
“I am from Quebec, and my mom’s still there, but Sarah isn’t.” He waves a hand at what I now see are a bunch of postcards on the wall behind him. “She’s kind of…all over. Has been for a while. She’s a travel blogger.”
“What does she blog about?”
He shrugs. “Which hotels only have thread-count in the double digits? I have no idea.”
“You don’t read it?”
“I’ve read a few. I read her post on Istanbul. Speaking of which….” He pats the desk.
I take a seat, but I’m not done with my questions. “What about your dad?”
“What about him?” Connor asks coolly.
“That close, huh?”
“Even Canada has assholes.”
I snort with laughter, and Connor purses his lips, obviously not pleased with himself for having said that out loud. Which is a shame. It made him so much more human for a minute.
Almost like someone I could actually enjoy hanging out with sometime.
“We should get started,” he says, more firmly this time, and I know we’re done with questions for the afternoon. “Did you do the reading on Symeon’s invasion of Byzantium?”
I stare back blankly. Reading probably would’ve been a good thing to do before this session. I’m not really sure why that didn’t occur to me, but I feel like an ass right now. So much for the high of being on top of my work.
He sighs. “Do you have your book here, at least?”
“Yes!” I say far too excitedly, considering it’s not even the bare minimum of what I should’ve done in preparation. I pull it out of my bag, hoping Connor doesn’t notice how absurdly new and untouched it looks, outside of the water rings (which are more likely beer) on the cover.
He notices. Even though I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to see that eye roll.
“Page 194,” he says. “Read it. Out loud.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You want me to read out loud? Like, first-grade style?”
He raises one right back, the meaning clear. Do you really think you’re above that level right now?
Touché.
I do as he says, and though I feel like an idiot doing it, he’s actually pretty nice and helpful when he periodically stops me to go over what I’ve just read. Plus, hearing the words out loud seems to make them stick in my brain. By the time I finish the reading, I feel for the first time like I actually have a clue what’s going on. Or at least as much as I’m going to, given it’s maybe the third or fourth reading I’ve done all semester.
“Sounds to me like you’re getting it,” Connor observes as I close the book. His tone is somewhere between curious and suspicious, and he obviously wants to say something else, but he’s keeping his mouth shut.
“What?”
“What what?”
“What aren’t you saying?”
He presses his lips in a firm line while he ponders his word choice. “I just don’t understand why you insist on not doing the work when you’re obviously a very capable student.”
The words are like a punch in the gut. If only he knew how many times I’d asked myself the same thing. I don’t have any more of an answer now than I did a year ago. “I’m sorry I came unprepared,” I say firmly as I get up and put the book away. “I’ll do the reading in advance next time.”
“Elizabeth, I wasn’t—”
“Lizzie.”
“Lizzie, I wasn’t scolding you. I’m genuinely curious.”
“And I’m genuinely late for a study date with my friend, so, thanks a lot for this, and I’ll see you in class on Tuesday.” I’m actually an hour early to meet Cait—she’s a secret math nerd and agreed to help me with my Statistics homework an exchange for the use of my car this weekend—but Connor certainly doesn’t need to know that.
I push out of the room without another word, even though I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I go.
• • •
I decide to make a little less of a liar out of myself and head back to my old suite, where I’m meeting Cait. I still have keys—housing wouldn’t issue a partial refund since it’s too late in the year to find a replacement roommate—and the standard-issue bed and desk are still mine until winter break.
When I let myself in, I’m surprised to see Matina standing at the fridge, probably looking for an apple. I’d never known anyone to take the “apple a day” maxim as seriously as my pre-med former roommate. She greets me with a brief wave, as if seeing me walk in is an everyday occurrence; I wonder if she even knows I’ve moved out. I don’t bother starting up a conversation, but just let myself into my old room and hop up onto my old, naked mattress.
It’s not my first time back in the room since I moved out my things for good, but the other visit was quick, just stopping in for Cait to grab a sweater. It’s weird to be here now, seeing the walls stripped bare of my old posters, and the one picture of my family that’s now on my new fridge. You’d think the room would look neater without my crap all over the floor, but instead, Cait’s just taking up double the space.
Still, even though I only lived here for a month, it feels far more familiar than my new apartment does. It’s amazing how many places I don’t live in that I’d sooner call home than the one place I do.
Not that my parents’ house is really home anymore. Sooner or later, I’ll have to deal with selling it. It doesn’t make any sense to hold on to it. But I’m not ready to let it go just yet.
The sound of the door slamming behind Matina is enough to drag me out of my morbid thoughts, and I get to work spreading out the contents of my bag. Much as I enjoy pissing off Connor, I have no desire to sit through another session of Lizzie Learns to Read. I have an entire syllabus of readings I completely ignored this semester, so I pick up a highlighter, start from the beginning, and keep going until I hear the front door to the suite open, heralding Cait’s arrival.
I hop off the bed and am about to open up the door when I hear her laugh and say, “Just a drink. I have someone coming over.”
“Could I take this someone in a fight?” a masculine voice I don’t recognize responds.
“Probably, since she’s about five-foot-six, but I’d rather you didn’t,” Cait teases back. I suppose I have to appreciate that at least she doesn’t wan
t me to get my ass kicked, even if she’s the only person on campus who doesn’t. Still, whoever this guy is, he needs to GTFO; I’ve got Stats to study for and I need to pick up Max in an hour.
“Ohhh,” I hear the guy’s voice come knowingly through the door. “You live with that psycho bitch, right? The one who was banging Matlin? He’s been going ape-shit since she told his girlfriend. Tryin’ to hunt her down an’ shit.”
My stomach seizes up and I wait quietly for Cait’s response. She doesn’t disappoint. “My friend is not a psycho bitch, and Trevor Matlin’s a dick. When you leave here, now, you can tell him that if he’s looking for her, it better be to apologize.”
His muttered reply is drowned out by the sound of her slamming the door shut behind him. Then I hear a long, deep sigh, and brace myself.
“Oh, shit,” are her first words when she opens the door and sees me sitting on my old bed.
“Sorry for the accidental cockblock.” I don’t really know what else to say.
She closes the door behind her and hops up next to me on the bed. I instantly drop my head onto her shoulder, and she strokes my hair. “I’m sorry you heard that asshole. He’s just a stupid prick, and he’s obviously not getting laid by me today or any other day.”
“I don’t want to be fucking up your social life. It’s not your fault you got saddled with me as a crappy roommate.”
“Oh hush. Though I did warn you pulling that crap with Sophie was going to bite you on the ass.”
“Yes, master. Can we save the ‘I told you so’s until after Stats? I have to pick up Max in an hour. And yes, I’ll fill my car with gas on my way home so it’s in tip-top shape before you borrow it tomorrow.”
“Deal.” She pulls her hair up into a ponytail while she waits for me to put away my history stuff and find my Stats homework. “But seriously, what are you gonna do about Trevor? He’s not gonna let this go. Neither’s Sophie.”
“Trevor and Sophie can suck it,” I say flatly, even though I know she’s right. “I have more important stuff on my mind right now. If I lose my scholarship and can’t afford Radleigh anymore, they won’t even be an issue.”
She sighs. “Guess I can’t argue with that.” I can tell it’s still bothering her—Cait’s hatred of drama extends to her absolutely despising it going without resolution—but thankfully, she doesn’t say a word, and instead focuses on helping me understand the mess of numbers and formulas my brain cannot compute on its own.
Before I know it, the time is up, and my homework’s only half done, but I’ve gotta go. I thank Cait profusely, peck her on the cheek before hopping off the bed, and tell her what time I’ll drop off the car tomorrow. And then I’m off, forcing myself to move, and leaving my old room behind yet again when all I want to do is bury myself under the covers that are no longer there and pretend life outside isn’t happening.
Without my car, and parties, and friends, my weekend is obscenely productive, especially since I’ve pretty much locked myself in my room to give the boys free access to the TV in order to make up for the fact that I can’t take them anywhere. Every now and again I have to go outside to feed them, mediate arguments, or beg them to get at least a few minutes of fresh air by doing their homework on the patio, but inside, armed with nothing but textbooks, my laptop, and my own thoughts, I’m actually putting a dent in my work.
I’d spoken to Professor Ivanova about doing some extra credit to make up for handing assignments in late earlier in the semester, and she’d been more than happy to heap on the work. The same had been true for my English teacher. My Stats professor wasn’t budging, but fortunately, my mini-session with Cait had been helpful enough for me to at least catch up on the newest assignment, if not make up for earlier sins.
I save Byzantine History for last, waiting until the pizza delivery is devoured and the table’s cleaned off before I tackle it. After how smoothly it went with Connor in his office—relatively, anyway—I expect it’ll go quickly. But after ten minutes of wading through the muck of dates and names and locations and battles, I start having flashbacks to my first few weeks at Radleigh, and the panic attacks that followed.
I slam the textbook shut.
In high school, I was pretty decent at history. It wasn’t my best subject—that was Spanish, helped massively by the fact that my mother was fluent—but I never struggled with it the way I do here. Probably because my parents loved helping me study for it, quizzing me on names and dates, making a game out of hanging up information on Post-It notes around the house. Plus my mother could talk about Spanish Colonialism forever, and was more than happy to do so as she brushed my hair or let me practice my nail-polishing skills on her.
I should’ve studied with her via webcam. I should’ve taken Tagalog or something. I should’ve done anything that would’ve pushed me to spend more time with her while she was there and I was here.
Why do I always fucking realize these things when it’s too late?
I grab my phone from my desk before I can allow sanity to settle back in my brain and stab the keys in an angry text message: Your class sucks.
Connor’s nothing if not quick with his replies, always. I hope that means you’re doing the homework, at least.
Ugh, how is he always so…unruffled? What a pain in my ass. Couldn’t he just cry, or something? I’m trying. How is anyone supposed to remember all this crap?
This time, he takes a minute to respond. Then, Check your email.
I do, wondering if this is some sort of trap. There’s a new message from Connor, labeled “Study Aids.” Inside is a whole bunch of files, from a color-coded map to an illustrated family tree, and even some cutesy poems tying certain rules to certain events. They look like study materials for seventh graders, and already I know they’re going to be exactly what I need. Why do you have these??
Are they helpful?
If I can ignore that they make me feel like I’m in junior high, probably.
Good, I’m glad.
Stupid Connor. I just wanted someone to be a bitch to for a few minutes. Why did he have to go do a nice guy thing? Well, a sort of nice guy thing. Does he think I’m stupid? Is that why he’s plying me with graphics for little kids? He’d mentioned thinking I was a capable student at our last session. Was he just being patronizing then? Because I’m pretty sure he’s being patronizing now.
It’s Saturday night. My fingers fly across my phone in a digital rage. Why are you even available to answer my text messages?
I’m at a frat party, he types back. I’m just an excellent multitasker.
The very imagine of Connor at a frat party…well, there is no image. It does not compute. Seriously?
No, Elizabeth, not seriously. Goodnight.
Okay, fine, Connor won that round. And I’ll probably check out the stuff he sent, just in case.
But he’s still an asshole.
• • •
He isn’t the biggest asshole on Radleigh’s campus, though. That honor belongs to Trevor Matlin, hands down. I still haven’t seen him since that night in his room—I’ve been avoiding Greek Row like the plague, and as a Business major, he takes all of his classes in a different part of campus than I do—but it hasn’t stopped him from taking his revenge out on me for telling Sophie all our dirty little secrets.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Cait says for the million-billionth time.
“Cait. Chill. It’s not your fault.” It really isn’t, but it’s getting harder and harder to reassure her when all I want to do is punch my fist through every window of my car. No, not my car—my rental car, because my real car is in the shop. I don’t even know how Trevor’s frat brothers knew the Malibu was mine, but I doubt it was Cait’s being behind the wheel that led them to spray paint “Crazy Slut” on the exterior.
“You lent me your car for one day—”
“Yeah, I did, and you didn’t pop a tire or dent a fender or drive it off a bridge. So this is not your fault.” I sigh. “Unfortunately, I still need to get this
taken care of. I can’t drive my brothers to school in this. Do you know anyone else who has a borrowable car?”
“Can I be blunt?”
“Always.”
Cait crosses her arms. “How many people at Radleigh do you really think would lend you a car right now?”
Ouch. It might be less painful if it weren’t so completely and utterly true. Lord knows I’d burned any bridges I might’ve had with the Sigma Psis—if I ever really had any—and Frankie’s preferred method of transportation is a stupid bubble-gum pink Vespa. “Think anyone in my Russian class would be open to lending?”
“Do you have a phone number for anyone in your Russian class?”
“I have email addresses,” I say lamely, knowing I won’t use them. No one in the class even trusts me with a phone number; who’s gonna trust me with a car?
“Maybe I can paint over it? I’m sure Frankie get can get me stuff from the art department.”
“Unless you’re gonna paint the entire car, I’d rather not embarrass the crap out of my brothers. I’m pretty sure they have it hard enough with the whole ‘me being the responsible adult in their lives’ thing.”
At that, Cait smiles. “You’re a sweet big sis, Queen B.”
“I’m a lousy big sis,” I grumble. “I can’t even guarantee my brothers a ride to school in a car that doesn’t say ‘Crazy Slut’ in neon orange.”
“Maybe someone can pick them up?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You think I’ve made friends with neighborhood soccer moms? Let me tell you who I definitely don’t have a phone number for.” I drop my head into my hands. “Ugh, I do not want to explain to them why I have to take them to school in a cab tomorrow. And I’ll need to drive to the shop in that stupid car, and I’ll need to take a cab home to pick me up. I do not have the cash to be this fucking stupid.”
As if triggered by the word “stupid,” the worst idea in the world comes to mind, and I groan just thinking about it. “What?” Cait demands.
“I have someone I’m pretty sure will do it, but I would kind of rather die than ask.”
“Would you rather drive your brothers in the Slutmobile than ask?”