by Kiley Roache
Chris: Don’t get me wrong it’s fun texting with you. But I don’t want you to think this is something it’s not.
In my dorm more than a year later, I stare at the text that made me cry for twenty minutes while sitting in my driveway.
It wasn’t the first time I’d made up love in my mind. Listening to Taylor Swift as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining dates and cute moments and a life with a person, just because he had a nice smile or said I was pretty one time.
It was a fun sort of bittersweet pain. Easier than the dull ache of loneliness was the drama, the saga of unrequited love for someone who was half real, half your own imagination. But it was kids’ stuff.
I plug in my phone in and set it on my shelf. Framed next to it is the poster I bought on Etsy that says Who Run the World?
I don’t have time for distractions anyway.
Chapter Six
Braden
My phone buzzes against the table, again. Sara looks up, sending daggers my way.
I shrug and read my message. It’s not my fault; it’s Friday night.
She sighs. “Could you please take this seriously?”
“What?” I don’t look up from my phone. “I didn’t text myself.” I set my phone down and meet her gaze, daring her to say more.
Robbie starts to chuckle but quickly masks it with a cough when she turns her Stare of Disdain in his direction.
“Ugh.” She types something on her computer rapidly, her many bracelets jingling as she researches God knows what dead end or already-done idea. Or maybe she’s just documenting all the ways I annoy her.
I fold my arms over my chest. It’s not like I wasn’t worried about this too. I realize how royally fucked we are. More than halfway to the deadline with zero done. But it’s not like sitting here stressing and running through her weird improv design games—or whatever they’re called—is gonna get us any closer. I might as well be getting drunk somewhere.
Another text lights up my phone, almost on cue.
I lean back on the couch and put my feet on the table. We’re in the lounge of Sara’s and Robbie’s dorm this time, sitting on half-worn-through cloth couches, as people wander around us, playing foosball or discussing some nerd TV show. A group walks by laughing loudly as they drag a keg toward their dorm room.
Sara, in her latest email analysis of our progress, had mused that maybe working in the HP Garage was putting too much pressure on us. So far we aren’t having any better luck here.
She’s staring at her screen now, fingers poised above the keys as if she’s waiting for something to happen.
“Maybe if you flip upside down the creativity will fall to the top of your brain,” I suggest.
“Ha-ha.” She makes a face at me. “Thank you for finally contributing to the group.”
Next to me on the couch, Robbie is ignoring us, clearly checking his email.
“No, I’m serious,” I say. “I learned it in my ‘design thinking’ class. East Coast style is different.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, a surprisingly young reaction from someone who likes to pretend she’s already thirty. It’s so out of character that it’s kind of charming.
“Are you making fun of me?” she asks.
“Not at all.” I smile slyly. “It’s a real technique.”
“Okay, fine.” She looks at me with I dare you in her eyes, closes her laptop carefully and sets it on the seat next to her. She flips over, swinging her legs up to rest against the back of the couch, her head hanging off the end, blond hair pooling on the floor.
I snort, and Robbie looks up from his email, confused, before breaking into the biggest smile I’ve seen on him since we became part of this godforsaken group.
For a second I almost forget how much I don’t want to be here. My phone buzzes again. Almost.
I stand without a word and start packing my bag. Maybe they won’t notice I’m gone if I make my exit stealthily.
“What are you doing?” Sara’s eyes narrow.
“Uh, leaving.” I continue to pack my things.
Her jaw drops, or, I guess lifts, as she is upside down. The amusement of a moment ago pops like a soap bubble. She scrambles back up to sit normally.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Her voice is angry, but in a calm way. She doesn’t yell. “You take three follow-up emails before you respond to anything, you show up late to meetings to shoot down ideas and call me babe and Blondie more often than my name. And now you want to leave early, two weeks before we’re presenting? Give me one reason why we shouldn’t kick you out of our group right now.”
“Because I’m all you’ve got.” I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder. “You need three people in your group, and no grad student is going to join two freshmen without an idea, no matter how many ‘ideation’ charts you make.”
Robbie sighs. “He’s right.”
“So you’re really going to leave?” she asks.
I check my phone, quickly responding that I’m on my way. “What?” I shrug. “It’s the biggest party of the year—you don’t expect me to stay here, do you?”
“And yet you expect us to?” she snaps back.
I raise my eyebrows. A daring move, but an empty threat I’m sure. I think of all the project emails I got from her between 10:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. last Saturday. “No, I don’t. You’re welcome to come with.”
Sara crosses her arms, “Well, maybe we will.”
“We what?” Robbie looks from me to her and back.
Sara stands, brushes a piece of lint off her dress pants and looks me dead in the eyes.
“I mean,” Robbie says, looking down at the crumpled papers in front of him, “I want to give up for the night as much as any anyone but—”
“No,” Sara says, eyes unwavering. “Braden is right—we are stuck with each other. And if we have to work with him, he has to party with us. We’re in this together, whether we want to be or not.”
She’s daring me to sit back down in a huff, to admit that if they aren’t doing the work for me, I’ll see the need to do it on a Friday night. But I’m not about to give her the satisfaction. “Fine, but the buses leave in an hour and I want to have at least two drinks at the pregame, so I’m only gonna give you fifteen minutes to change.”
“Buses?” Robbie asks.
“Change?” Sara asks, looking down at her ensemble.
“Yes.” I turn to Robbie. “To the club in the city. And—” I look Sara up and down, blouse buttoned up to her neck and form-concealing pants, and laugh “—yes. Change.”
I wait outside their dorm and smoke a cigarette. The door behind me clicks and I turn to see Robbie.
“What’s up?” I nod my head.
He waves.
“Smoke?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I nod. “Most West Coasters don’t. I’ll never adjust to the looks I get, like I’m killing kittens or something.”
He hops onto the little brick wall I’m leaning against. “A lot of my friends did in high school.” He stretches his arms above his head, yawning. “I just don’t see the appeal.” He readjusts the way he’s sitting. “It doesn’t seem worth it to me. But I don’t...judge you or anything.”
I nod and look at the ground. I flick some ash off the end of my cigarette and watch it as it flitters toward the pavement, then take another drag.
“Although...” He half smiles, his eyes lighting up mischievously. “Cats can get lung cancer, especially if their owner smokes, so you, uh, kind of might be killing kittens.”
I laugh and cough out the rest of the smoke I was blowing. “I guess I really am the devil then.”
He turns and looks toward the dorm behind us. “Depends on who you ask.”
“True.” I pause to take another drag. “You know, I really am willing to do
my part. I’m not trying to get you guys to do all the work. I just can’t deal with all the sitting around stressing. Running through the same ideas that will never work, pretending to move forward and wasting time.”
“Yeah, I know.” He clears his throat. I can’t tell if he’s being honest or just trying to be nice. “And I get that Sara can be a little high-strung or, like, overzealous sometimes. But I don’t know if pushing her buttons is the best way to deal with that.”
“But it’s just so fun.” I put my cigarette out on the stone bench.
As I look over my shoulder at the dorm, the front door swings open. Out steps a blonde, her hair reflecting the light from the streetlamp. A tight black dress hugs her curves, and when she steps forward it is with a grace few can manage in stilettos that high. Her makeup still looks natural but is slightly darker and smokier near her sparkling eyes, and there’s a dash of bright red across her lips. Sara looks hot.
Heat rushes to my face and I avert my gaze, realizing I’ve been staring—gaping, practically the entire time she’s been walking toward us. And so has Robbie.
“What?” she asks. Like she genuinely doesn’t understand our reactions. “Am I too dressed up?”
“No, you’re perfect—I mean, fine, you’re fine.” I stalk forward, “We’re just late.” I take off down the street.
The preparty is in full swing by the time we arrive at the Sigma Alpha frat house, one of the ones that hasn’t gone coed yet, ignoring the trend that’s been sweeping campus since some girl pulled a stunt last year and pledged a fraternity. Loud music—the most recent chart-topping pop song—emanates from the house. Through the window, colored lights swing through the crowd, lighting up people dancing or sipping from red cups. The entrance is jammed with students trying to get through the door, which is guarded by a member of the house. They reach past each other, yelling, positioning themselves to get closer. Warren’s out in full force since undergrads—or at least undergrads not in Professor Thomas’s class—haven’t been assigned much work yet.
“Looks unlikely we’ll get in,” Robbie says.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Just follow me.”
He shrugs. “Whatever you say—it’s your night, man.”
“Excuse me.” I push through the crowd. I stand tall, like I’m meant to be there. Like I’m there all the time and annoyed at the sudden crowd. People step aside for me, my confidence separating our group from their desperation like oil in water.
Glancing behind me, I see that Sara is just feet behind but Robbie has been cut off from us by the shifting crowd. “Yo, hurry up,” I yell back to him.
He pushes himself through the crowd.
When I turn back, Sara is already through the door, looking back at us and waiting.
I try to step forward and an arm reaches out to stop me. “No freshmen,” the frat member playing bouncer tells me.
“Yeah, yeah.” I nod. “Connor invited me. I’m a potential pledge.” I pull out my phone and show him the texts from my high school friend who is now in Sig A. I remember Robbie. “And he’s with me.”
He examines the messages, grabbing my phone to look more closely.
“Yeah, okay.” He nods and steps aside to let us through.
“What was that about?” Sara asks.
“We’re dudes,” I answer.
She seems confused, but I don’t have time right now to explain the way the world works. We make our way down a hall, through more people, some of them leaning against the walls, flirting while casually sipping drinks, others loudly and excitedly telling stories fueled by alcohol and Syllabus Week excitement. There is a roar of noise, music and conversation, but no words are discernible.
I turn to Sara and watch as she takes it all in, her analytical mind probably trying to figure out what decision-making strategy the fraternity brothers used to choose the music and the cheap booze.
Speaking of, at the end of a hall there’s a table with a few open boxes of wine and 30s of beer. I pick up a Rolling Rock and examine it, wondering if the taste is worth the 5 percent alcohol content.
“Braden!” I set down the beer and look up to see Connor rushing toward me. He is still wearing his hair in that overdone boy-band-wannabe way, and his face is already flushed and sweaty from the party.
“Hey!”
He pulls me into a hug.
“These are my...friends, Sara and Robbie,” I say. “And this is Connor—he was my prefect at boarding school.”
“No way!” Sara’s eyes glow. “Like Harry Potter. They really call it that?”
Connor laughs. “Yeah, they really do.” He reaches out to shake her hand, then Robbie’s. “Nice to meet you, guys. Can I get you anything?” He turns toward the table and picks up a box of “sunset” flavor wine, then examines the label. “Ah come on, y’all shouldn’t be drinking this shit.” He sets it back down. “I’m so sorry—we are terrible hosts.”
“Eh, we’re freshmen,” I say. “I’m just happy to be inside the party.”
“Come with me, I’ll help you guys out,” he says. We follow him past the dance floor and toward the stairs, where a scene similar to the front door is playing out. A Sigma Alpha brother guards a mob of people trying to explain why they should be able to get upstairs.
The guy waves when he sees Connor, and tells people to let us through. We make our way up the stairs and down the hall to the door with his name on it.
Connor swings it open to reveal a room crammed with three beds—two bunked and one raised above a desk. The furniture is the standard-issue kind provided by housing, the kind finally picked up by my movers. On the desk are a few books about international relations and computer science as well as a bottle of Patrón with about a shot left and a collection of squished limes. There’s also a half-empty bottle of Grey Goose.
“Help yourself to any of that.” He gestures toward the desk. “Or we have this if you prefer.” He pulls a bottle of champagne from his mini fridge. I take a swig of the Goose and throw him a thumbs-up. “Here, you’ll need these.” He holds out a handful of wristbands.
I set down the bottle and grab them, shoving them in my pocket.
We bring the champagne with us as we head outside to load the party buses. The front lawn is chaos, as those heading from the house to the bus merge with the crowd that never made it inside.
“Sara!” someone yells from behind us.
I turn to see a redhead flying toward us and hug-tackling Sara in the classic drunk-girl way.
“Oh my god, how are you?” she asks, like she hasn’t seen Sara in years, rather than since, let’s be real, probably lecture this afternoon.
“Uh... I’m pretty good.” Sara stumbles back a bit, confirming my suspicion that this greeting was a bit overzealous.
“Can you believe this bullshit? They’re barely letting anyone on the buses! I tried to pay them but they wouldn’t take my money.”
“Pay them?” Sara looks confused. “You don’t need to do that. It’s a party for Warren students.”
“Yeah I know, but ‘it’s a private party though.’” She does a voice for the second half—Generic Dopey Drunk Dude, I think it is. “I guess the house rented the bus so they can pick who they invite.”
“Here.” I pull the colored wristbands Connor gave me from my pocket. I hand one of the orange strips of paper to her, and she squeals. Okaaay then. I give the other two to Sara and Robbie, who take them more calmly.
“Oh my god, thank you.” The girl stares at her wristband like it’s Cartier. “What was your name again?” Now she looks at me like I’m Cartier.
“Braden.”
“Braden.” She steps a bit closer. “Thank you. I’m Colleen.”
She carefully steps around Sara and closer to me, her arm brushing against mine as we file toward the front of the line. As we climb onto the bus, she leans over t
o take my hand. “Let’s sit together, Braden.”
Chapter Seven
Sara
When Braden had said buses would come to take us to the city, I’d pictured the big yellow kind that used to bring us on school field trips, with brown pleather bench seats that split to reveal foam that everyone would pick at, and those windows that slid down when you pinched the sides. Or maybe even one of those coach buses, like the ones that took us to work events at my internship last summer, with plush seats that had real seat belts and high ceilings with luggage storage.
I had definitely not pictured this. The inside of this bus glows purple from the lights on the ceiling. The sides are lined with black leather seats, like couches. Above them are big mirrors, interrupted only by large speakers. Along the back is a bar and a cooler, which was empty save for ice but is quickly being filled with beer and liquor by the boarding students. In the middle of the bus are three large silver poles. Stripper poles.
“Interesting way to get around,” I say to Robbie.
He just nods, the back of his neck turning red.
I step around the stripper poles quite deliberately and take a seat.
“Oh my god, Sara.” Colleen plops down on the other side of me, flipping her fiery hair over her shoulder and sending a breeze that smells of perfume and whiskey my way. I’m surprised that she’s sitting with me, considering how she’s treated me in the past. Maybe it’s just because Braden is busy haggling with the driver about the aux cord. Though maybe that’s not fair. Maybe I judged Colleen too soon. “This is so cool. Thank you so much for getting me on here—you are so cool.”
“Uh, no problem.” I smile.
“So, this guy Braden...” She leans in closer to me, but doesn’t do a very good job of lowering her voice. “Is he, like, in Sig A?”
“In what?”
She looks at me sideways. “Sigma Alpha. The frat, silly, the one whose party we were just at.”
“Oh, uh...” I look around for Braden, but he’s still on the other end of the bus, talking to a girl who is leaning against one of the stripper poles. “No...he’s rushing, I guess, so maybe he will be soon.”