by Dahlia Adler
It’s easy enough to find online that night, now that I’m allowing myself to look for it, and the more time I spend on the KU website, the angrier at Reagan I get. Greek life? Check. Multiple enormous libraries? Check. Visual Arts major that’s basically perfect for me, and a law school, which is perfect for her? Check. Check check checkity check check check.
So why have we been ignoring this glaringly solid option?
My computer dings—it’s Javi, looking to chat. I have no idea what time it is in Fiji right now, but it’s probably not normal that he’s awake. Not that it makes me hesitate for a second before I rush to accept the invitation to chat.
FijianPrinceJ: Bula! What’s goin down, little sis?
Victorius413: Hiiiiii!!!! What time is it over there??
FijianPrinceJ: I’m 17 hours ahead, Vicky. Do the math for once.
Victorius413: How many times have I told you not to call me that??
FijianPrinceJ: It’ll never be enough. How was your trip this weekend?
I debate just how much to tell Javi. Obviously I’m not up for sharing sexual details with my brother, even though he’s way too far away to hunt Jamie down. But I also don’t seem to be able to talk to my best friend these days, and unfortunately, I don’t have lots of other options.
Victorius413: It was fun. A little weird. They’ve all been fun and a little weird.
Victorius413: I think Reagan and I are fighting.
FijianPrinceJ: You think?
Victorius413: It’s not really fighting. But things are weird. I told her about Ashley.
Javi’s quiet for a while on the other end, but I can see that he keeps starting to type and stopping. Finally, I lose patience and stab at the keys.
Victorius413: She didn’t even say anything. I mean, she said she was sorry and told me her own stuff, but that was kind of it.
FijianPrinceJ: What else did you want her to say?
Victorius413: I have no idea. It just felt like such a big deal, telling her. It’s weird that it wasn’t. I was so worried about her reaction and she didn’t even blink at the fact that I’d been expelled.
FijianPrinceJ: Do you wish she was more judgmental? Isn’t it good that she isn’t?
Victorius413: Of course, but it just made me feel so…I don’t know. Silly, maybe. That I built it up in my head. That I build everything up in my head.
Now is when I’m desperate to ask—Was I building it up in my head with you, too? Am I really why you left?
But I don’t.
FijianPrinceJ: Maybe you do, a little bit, but things build up IRL too. You know none of us blame you for Ashley, right? Not that it’s OK to hit someone, but…
FijianPrinceJ: No one blames you. And you apologized. So stop blaming yourself. It’s time to figure out what makes you happy, and just do it. Worst comes to worst, you make a mistake and then you change paths. That’s the best freaking part of being a teenager.
Figure out what makes you happy. Like that’s so easy.
Though, actually, shouldn’t it be?
Victorius413: Do you miss being a teen already, o wise one?
FijianPrinceJ: Nope—legal drinking age in Fiji is 21. Happy to be right where I am.
Victorius413: Good priorities, Bro.
FijianPrinceJ: Thanks, I thought so too. Lunch time’s over—I gotta run. The kids are calling!
FijianPrinceJ has signed off.
Do what makes you happy. Says the guy who lives in a freaking jungle and can’t talk to his sister for more than five minutes because a bunch of kids need his attention. But at least Javi’s hanging out with friends, doing some traveling, seeing beautiful things, learning new languages, and getting a sick tan. What am I doing other than getting felt up by some guy in a field?
I click back over to the KU application and check out the admission requirements. My GPA and ACT scores are definitely in the safe zone; my dad would’ve grounded me for life if they weren’t. The Department of Visual Art stuff is a little trickier; I don’t have a portfolio. I have a bunch of sketches I’ve done, but nothing portfolio worthy. Tia Maria, I’m once again hopeless.
Or maybe not.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and text what’s quickly becoming a familiar number. Hey, up for giving me another ride to CCC tomorrow?
It takes Freckles less than a minute to text back. Sure, what’s up?
Just want to check something out. No reason to say any more than that until I know what my options are. But for once, the ideas are coming fast and furious, and for the rest of the night, I simply take a pencil and sketchpad and let them flow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
REAGAN
What’d the blonde say when she opened the box of Cheerios?
I bite my lips to hide a smile as the millionth blond joke of the week from Dev flashes across the screen of my cell phone. He’s been doing this for days, ever since I broke down and texted him Make me laugh after that weird morning with Quinn’s lumberjack and Vic. Not sure who told him it was a good idea to send blond jokes to a blonde, but he’s been at it with a vengeance. For what it’s worth, he’s got a pretty good arsenal; he’s been accommodating my request all week. It’s almost been enough to take my mind off things.
Almost.
“What’s so funny?”
Apparently I’m not hiding my smile well enough from Sherlock Freckles. “Nothing.” I tuck my phone into my back pocket and fill up a couple of thirty-two-ounce cups with cola that table four most certainly doesn’t need; the kids are already running around on a sugar high. My butt buzzes with the punchline just as I’m handing them over.
Doughnut seeds!
My barked laugh is loud enough to draw attention from half the diner. Where does he get these? You are truly twisted, I text back, away from Freckles’s prying eyes. I haven’t been responding to most of them, because every time I do, we seem to get into lengthy conversations that occasionally turn into phone calls that make me mad at everything all over again, but with this one, I can’t help it.
So I take it this one was your favorite? Cool, mine too.
I’m going back to ignoring you, I text back, praying I’ll find the strength to make good on that.
I’d like to see you try. Then you won’t get to read my favorite favorite one.
You just said that was your favorite.
Yup, but I still have a favorite favorite. You wouldn’t want to miss out on it by ignoring me, would you?
I hate myself for burning with curiosity. I also hate myself for the tiny part of me that wonders if this is in fact how he sees blondes. I don’t know much about Sara, but if she’s Indian as Jamie said she is, then I’m guessing there aren’t many jokes about her hair color. Am I just this dumb toy to Dev? Just this blond…thing?
“Rae, can you see what Mrs. Masone wants?” Freckles asks, breaking into my stressing session. “I have to go deal with the triplets’ spill.”
Ugh, Mrs. Masone may be a pain in my ass but nothing beats scraping globs of mashed potato off the floor, compliments of the now-five-year-old Benning triplets.
“With pleasure,” I mutter, sliding the phone back in its spot. Turns out her coleslaw’s not sweet enough. She complains about this at least once a week, but it never stops her from getting it on the side. It also doesn’t seem to matter that Joe’s coleslaw is just about sweet enough to require a root canal on contact.
I do a round on the floor, checking to see if anyone has any complaints—almost everyone does—or needs anything, which, again, is pretty much par for the course. I’m just finishing my sweep of handing out extra mayo, straws, napkins, salt, and “a menu that doesn’t have a speck over there” when I hear the familiar jingle of my cell phone ring coming out of my butt.
I quickly silence it and glance at the screen. Dev. No one on the floor seems to need anything for the next five seconds so I flash a hand signal to Freckles to let him know I’m going on a quick break and then dash out into the back alley to where most of the others take
their breaks with Marlboro Reds in hand.
“’Lo?”
“You’re not really ignoring me, are you?”
I’m so out of breath from dashing into the alley in time to get his call that my laugh in response actually hurts my lungs. Or maybe that’s the chilly autumn night air. “You’re an idiot.”
“Is that a yes? A no? I forgot which one I’m even hoping for.”
“I’m at work, so I actually can’t answer you every four seconds. These people aren’t going to eat an entire cow’s worth of ribs on their own, you know.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot about your great service to humanity.”
“You wanna pay my gas bills?”
“Fair point. So, where are you and Tori”—he always gives her name just enough extra weight to make me roll my eyes—“going this weekend?”
“Well, Dave”—because really, I’m not going to let him get away with pretending he didn’t do the exact same thing—“we’re not going anywhere.”
He’s silent for a moment, and then, “So, does that mean you decided on a school?”
“No, it means I decided to stop traveling around and visiting them. It got”—complicated—“expensive.” Both, really.
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?” I open up the back door and peer inside; Freckles looks swamped. I can’t stay out here much longer.
“I just happened to see that Chapman is having a thing this weekend, and I know you mentioned it. Thought you might be going.”
“And if I was?”
He exhales sharply. “I don’t know. Just thought it’d be cool to see you again. Maybe. That’s dumb, right?”
The battery’s growing warm beneath my palm. “A little.”
His rich, low laughter fills my ear. Such a substantial sound for such a skinny guy. “I’d love to see how you talk to guys you really hate.”
“Hang around Charytan for a day and you’ll see plenty of it.” Speaking of which, I’m pretty sure I see Sean Fitzpatrick’s stupid blond buzz cut in there. I let the door close and then lean back against it and close my eyes as a cool breeze washes over me. It’s jacket weather, which I always notice weeks too late.
“Is that an invitation?”
“Is what…” I replay my last words in my head. “Sure,” I say dryly. “Hang around Charytan any time you like. Nothing will make you happier with what you have than a few hours around here.”
“There’s a college there, right?”
“Yeah, if you can call it that. Charytan Community College. Where the finest minds of the world’s dumbest town go on to rot in classes like Wife Beating 101.” Then I think of Freckles, and the classes taught by Vic’s parents, and feel a brief flash of guilt. “Well, it’s not all bad. Just mostly.”
“But not all, right?”
It takes me a minute to see where he’s going with this. “Not all,” I repeat slowly.
“Seems like something I should probably check out then,” he says so that I can hear the smile in his voice. “You know, before I commit to anything.”
“Probably.” My heart thuds at the word, and I pry open the door for another glance inside. I really have to go. “I’m happy to help you make arrangements and stuff. Ya know, for the good of academia. I gotta run now, though.”
“Are you up for it? One last college visit?”
I breathe in deeply. Am I up for it? One more weekend of exploring my maybe non-existent future with a guy who represents everything I don’t and won’t have? Sure, that sounds like fun.
“I think I can do one last one,” I confirm. And then, “Bye.”
“G’night, Rogue.”
I have no idea what I’ve just done as I walk back inside to tackle the last few hours of my shift, but I know this: college had better make me smarter than I am now.
It’s been days since I’ve really talked to Vic, but by Friday morning, all I want to do is find her and tell her about Dev’s visit. Not doing so just feels like lying somehow. We don’t have any of our first three classes together, but fourth period, we both have study hall, and I know exactly where in the library to find her. Though if she’s not on the floor of our favorite aisle of the library—the one absolutely no one ever ventures near because it’s full of books for classes like physics that aren’t required and so no one ever takes—then I know things between us are bad.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot her on the floor, though she’s so engrossed in whatever she’s bent over that she doesn’t even notice me until I cough loudly. Even then, she just startles a bit, brushes her long brown bangs out of her eyes, and says, “Oh, hey.”
“Oh, hey, to you too.” I slide my backpack off my shoulder onto the ugly gray carpet and sit down across from her, resting against a stack of textbooks that probably haven’t been updated since Bleeding Kansas. “What are you working on?”
She pulls back from the papers on her lap and immediately the bright fuchsia on the page she’d just been sketching on jumps out at me. I bend over to examine it more closely, careful not to get smudgy fingerprints on the white paper. “Did you design this?” I’m not into fashion—at all—but the dress she’s sketched out looks pretty damn awesome. She’d been drawing studs on it when I interrupted, giving a bit of a badass biker look to the otherwise girly floor-sweeping gown.
“You like it?” She sounds almost…shy.
“It’s awesome! Are there others under there?”
She nods and flips through slowly, taking care with the pages. The bright colors are a little dizzying, but really cool at the same time. A few of the outfits have a bit of an island-y vibe that I’m guessing are somehow Javi-inspired. A couple even seem to have sort of a Mexican flair. I’m not sure what the unifying theme is, or if there’s supposed to be one, but it looks like a pretty kickass collection. I tell her so.
“Thanks,” she says, shy again, as she tucks them away into a folder. “So, what’s up?”
I feel like I’ve just stumbled onto something really important and now talking about Dev just seems silly. In fact, I realize with a sinking feeling, I’ve done a lot of the “let’s talk about my stuff over your stuff” thing lately.
“What’s that for?” I ask, ignoring her question for now.
She shrugs. “Not sure yet. Applications, maybe. If I get into a design program.”
Applications. College. I’ve barely thought about college all week, but in a weird role reversal, Vic’s obviously a lot more on top of things. Meanwhile, I’m wrapped up in a boy. Again. What’s wrong with me?
“That’s great,” I say weakly, because she deserves my support, and it’s not her fault I’m a fucking mess. “I mean, I knew you could sew and stuff, but I didn’t realize you could do this.”
“I’m learning. Slowly.” I know she’s going for self-deprecating with her smile, but it’s impossible to miss the note of pride in it. The note of really, really well-earned pride. I don’t even know how one picks up skills in Charytan, but she’s certainly doing it, and I admire the hell out of her for it.
“Not so slowly, it looks like.”
She just shrugs again.
I sigh and readjust so this one pointy book will stop jabbing me in the back, then focus all my energy on scratching at a crusty patch in the carpet. When a friendship crumbles, there are only really two things that can bring it back: a shitload of time, or a sincere apology. And I am way too impatient to have my best friend back in my life to rely on the former.
“Look, Vic, I’m really sorry about…well, a lot of our conversations lately, I guess. Fitz is just a really bad topic for me. I should’ve just told you about him from the beginning and then asked never to talk about it again.”
“Is that what you want? To never talk about him again?”
I keep scratching. I don’t know why; whatever I’m touching is definitely disgusting. At least I’m pretty sure it’s not gum. “Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know. Not now, I guess.”
“Well, whenever you’re ready, I g
uess.”
We just sit quietly for a little bit after that, and then she reaches into her bag, but instead of pulling her drawings back out, I glimpse some equations. Definitely calc homework. I kind of wish she’d go back to the sketches so I can watch her work on them, but I feel weird asking, so I just take out my AP Chem notes and we work in silence, the same way we’ve done a zillion times before, only the vibe is weird.
I try again, finally daring to glance at her face. “I’m sorry about that Arizona bitch. If you want, on our next road trip, we can totally ‘visit’ ASU or something and go kick her ass. I’ve been lifting heavy boxes at Joe’s lately, so I’m pretty sure I could take her. I’d like to see them try to expel me.”
Surprise registers on her face for a moment, and then she laughs, so loudly that I clap my hand over her mouth because I really don’t want to get kicked out of the library right now. But I’m laughing too, and she claps her hand over my mouth, and just like that, we’re best friends and total idiots again.
“She’s not worth the gas money,” Vic says once we’ve composed ourselves. “But appreciate the thought. And, by the way, if you ever want me to kick Sean Fitzpatrick’s butt…well, I can at least leave flaming dog poop on his porch or something.”
“Now that is a wonderfully sweet thought. He actually came to talk to me the other day, after I got into a fight with that asshole who’s hooking up with Quinn. Just to demand what I know. Obviously not to apologize for being a total dick or anything.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, whatever. Soon enough we’re going to college and we’ll never have to think about any of these jerks again, right?”
“Right.”
Just then, the bell rings—I haven’t gotten a minute of work done during study hall, but it was worth it. Only as we’re making our way out of the library do I realize I still haven’t told her about Dev. But now that things are cool again, I don’t feel like getting into it, and anyway, there isn’t really time. So I just say, “See ya later,” knowing that I won’t, and head off to class.