It should have been easy to take it. I even typed out Maybe we should cancel so they have time to replace us. For some reason, I just couldn’t hit send. In my mind, I saw Dave’s face so clearly. Shadows crossed his beachy good looks. He probably had his lips pressed into a tight, pale line.
Dave almost never wrote music entirely on his own. I had songs that were mine, but with the exception of a few experimental ambient tracks he put together on his keyboard, the only music Dave had belonged to us both. It was unfair to cut him off like that. He had always fronted like he was the talented one, the star quality—but I was starting to realize that perhaps he needed me even more than I thought I’d needed him.
Glancing over my desk, I stopped to look at some of the leftover paperwork from my Michigan application. I skimmed the sheet, a partial CV that listed all my performance experience. All of it, every single bit of it, was something I’d done with Dave.
I changed my response.
Yep. Looking forward to it. You?
The reply didn’t match my question. Great, thanks. TTYL.
Before I could type anything else, Dave went offline. My stomach felt oily sick, but I shook it off. It made sense that things might be a little strained right now. It would be fine, I decided. Once we got on stage and got back to the music, it would be smooth and easy like it always was.
Peeling the towel from around my body, I tossed it toward the bathroom. Stripped naked and still damp, I actually let out a little peep when the connection tone in Skype blared to life. Blushing, I sat down quickly. I arranged the screen so Will saw me from the shoulders up and accepted his call.
The video stuttered. The screen was too dark; I heard people talking and laughing in the background. Suddenly, the video brightened. A blur of motion filled the screen, replaced a moment later with Will. His hair was still a mess, and his face was flushed pink. It looked like he’d been out running or something.
“There you are!” I exclaimed. I was relieved. Though I’d had to rain check him, I was afraid things would get too cool or too fun for him to catch up with me later. Even the BRT hadn’t erased that anxiety entirely. Now I could relax and settle in with him.
A little out of breath, Will pushed his dark hair off his forehead as he settled in. “Yeah, sorry about that. There’s a club fair out on the quad, I was checking it out.”
At the same time, I was checking him out. With glass between us, he couldn’t see me straight-up objectifying him. A wicked thrill ran through me. It zinged beneath my skin and sweetened my blood. Apparently, my body didn’t care that Will was four hours away. It wanted a taste of him while his skin was still flush and earthy with sweat.
“Find anything?” I asked, my toes curling a little.
He shook his head, the picture finally stabilizing. Behind him, I could make out a desk and a computer. It was the most generic dorm background possible. “Eh, I don’t know. I was mostly window shopping.”
The picture flickered, the connection threatening to fade. I embarrassed myself by moaning out loud. “No, don’t go away!”
After another patch of static, Will reappeared. “I don’t know what the deal is. I have five full bars.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. Fully exposed to the air, I was a little chilly. My wicked thoughts warmed me from the inside, but they did nothing for the outside. Standing up, I covered the camera with my hand for a second. “That’s just me, hold on a sec.”
“Where are you taking me?” he asked.
Shameless, I replied, “To bed.”
“Oh, I didn’t know it was that kind of Skype.”
With a laugh, I shot him down instantly. “Sorry, sailor.”
Now that he’d mentioned it, I couldn’t help but wonder. Will had seen me stripped to the skin before, but I wasn’t about to give him a sexting show. It was one thing to be alone with somebody I loved. Putting on a striptease all alone in my room? I’d never done anything like that, and the idea made me slightly embarrassed. A random, singsong thought wound through my head: maybe not today, but maybe someday . . . ?
My blush deepened. Picking up the tablet, I held it at an angle that captured my chin and my nostrils, but definitely not my bare skin. Carrying Will to bed, I dropped into my soft summer blanket and tried to tug it around me. “Okay, all settled in. Can you see me?”
With a lilt in his voice, he seemed to rake his gaze all over me. “Well, I see some of you.”
“I just got out of the shower,” I explained.
Will pointed down, asking playfully, “Pics or it didn’t happen.”
“No pics,” I snorted. “No Snapchats, no video. Sorry.”
He glowed with a smile. “Gotcha. Ask again later.”
At once, I was exasperated and amused. And it was just like he was in the room with me. While I couldn’t touch him, everything else was the same. The joking, the easy flow of conversation . . . we still had that. My body was on a slow burn, acting like it had a chance to twine around his tonight. The ache between my thighs urged me to bare skin so he would come closer. My brain helpfully reminded it that he couldn’t. Careful to keep myself covered, I slid out to lie on my side in bed. Propping my iPad against a pillow, I settled in.
“You promised me a tour.”
“That’s right,” he said, standing up. “I did. Sorry, okay, so this is the dorm room.” He waved the phone around so fast, I caught nothing but smears of color. “My roommate’s not here right now. He’s at Robot Boxing, and that tells you everything you need to know about Antwon.”
Propping my chin in my hand, I watched as Will plotted his path. He carried the phone out in front of him. No longer in the shot, Will narrated the hallway while I tried not to get queasy from all the shaky-cam.
“This is the hall I live on. The RAs decorated all the doors before we got here. There’s a robot for Antwon right there. And for me, a pair of tennis rackets.”
They looked more like fat, white mittens—but it was the thought that counted, right? Twisting my hair over my shoulder, I laughed softly. “You want to know what’s funny? I mean, I know you played tennis and golf at East River. But if I were cutting out construction paper to represent you, that’s the last thing I would have put on there.”
“Do tell,” Will said, carrying me on down the hall. I caught glimpses of whiteboards already filled with notes. People’s feet clopped by in flip-flops.
I tried not to get distracted by the scenery. “I mean, you were class vice president. Why not a flag? Or a stock chart, since you’re a business major.”
“A red Solo cup,” he countered, turning the camera to face him. He grinned, tossing his head back. “You know that’s my actual rep.”
Rising above, I informed him, “Maybe, but inaccurate. Root beer bottles would have worked better.”
Will blew me a kiss, then turned the camera into the hall again. Approaching the elevator doors, he flashed me toward a room I couldn’t quite see. “Laundry over there.”
Once he said that, I made out the sounds of dryers rumbling. They hadn’t been at school all that long. It made me wonder who already had a whole load to run. Maybe there had been a soda accident or something. A girl laughed, her voice muzzy, disappearing into the mechanical hum.
“How long are they allowed to stay?”
“Who?” Will asked. The elevator dinged, and he stepped inside. “Next stop, the common room. And my tiny, tiny mailbox. You should send me things. It’s empty and sad.”
Nodding toward people I couldn’t see, I said, “I will. But the girls. I thought I heard a couple girls in there.”
Brows knit, Will peered at me, baffled. “I don’t follow.”
“Isn’t there a curfew?” I asked. It was awfully late. “When they have to get off your floor?”
Will shook his head. “No, uh-uh. I mean, I can’t have guests longer than four days in my r
oom, but that’s about it. We can all visit anyone at any time.”
“Oh,” I said.
My surprise didn’t show, because Will pressed on. “In fact, I think you’d love my next-door neighbor. Her name’s Hailey. She plays the guitar, too.”
Wait, wait, wait. He was in a co-ed dorm? Somehow, I felt like I should have known that. He should have mentioned it; it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. All those girls living in the same building with him, just doors down, mere steps away . . . I couldn’t help but remember what Tricia had said. One wasn’t enough. Two wasn’t either. Now he had a whole dorm full, right down the hall. Right next door. Doing their laundry in short-shorts and worn-out T-shirts. Panic closed my throat.
It would be so easy for him to pick and choose. And even if he didn’t go looking, would he say no if they came to him? It wasn’t like I was the first girl to throw myself in his path. Would I be the last?
I tried to keep my voice light when I said, “That’s cool. Acoustic?”
“Yeah. But she’s not as good as you are,” he reassured me. “You kick ass.”
How completely fantastically amazing, a girl with a guitar right next door. Two steps away. From my Will, who already knew her well enough to know her name, and her guitar, and how well she played it. So, so awesome.
I plastered on a smile. I wanted my tour, and I wanted my time with Will, and I wasn’t going to let a sudden case of envy ruin that.
“Where are we now?”
“Common room, ta-da,” he said.
He turned the phone away from his face. Slowly scanning the room, he pointed out the TV area and something that looked like a book corner. Pool table, foosball, and so many people in thin shorts and T-shirts, draped everywhere. In short order, he showed me the café, the mail-nook, and before I knew it, we were outside.
It was sunset there. The brilliant colors streaking the sky actually reflected on his face. He turned, and he was painted in gold and scarlet, and in that moment, I forgot. I forgot to be jealous, or to be worried. I forgot the distance from East River to St. P-Windsor. I forgot everything, because I remembered all over again—I was in love with Will Spencer.
He caught the expression on my face, even from so far away. Bringing the camera closer, he looked right into it, as if he could find my eyes through the screen. Nothing had changed except our proximity. I had all the proof I needed because he smiled at me, so softly, and said, “Hey, I love you, too.”
It was so easy to believe him. I had no idea how hard it was about to get.
TWENTY-TWO
“I love the senior parking lot,” Jane practically sang at the top of her lungs.
I loved it, too. We got to park closest to the doors, with our own numbered spots. I’d won number twelve in the lottery, so basically, I pulled directly into homeroom on the first day of school.
The usual first-day excitement was different this year. We’d finally made it to the top. We didn’t have to worry about being the new kids anymore. No more were we the looked-down-upon. We were the pinnacle, the people who got to define the tone for the year.
And for us, it was the start of a long party. Though we had classes, most of us were down to electives. As long as a nothing catastrophic happened, we were graduating.
Plus, we already had a good idea where our GPAs put us in the class ranking. The AP-taking-half-credit-marching-band people still had a year to duke it out over who’d get the 4.55 valedictory prize and who’d bomb into salutatorian with 4.54444. For the rest of us, we’d banged out most of our required credits and turned senior year into pre–college frosh by taking classes that interested us.
My schedule was packed with contemporary teen fiction, music, music theory, and music education—just out of curiosity. I wasn’t super-great with little kids, but it was a satellite class. That meant five days a week, I’d leave early to go play my guitar for fourth graders.
Senior year was set to be the perfect, no-stress, all-glory year. Especially because my early-action package was already in the loving hands of Michigan’s admissions office. I planned on putting in regular-decision applications to NYU, University of Chicago, Berklee College of Music, and St. P-Windsor—but if I had Michigan, I’d know soon.
I had a good feeling. I didn’t know why.
Slinging her arm around my shoulders, Jane hauled me into the school with a deep, ecstatic sigh.
“Ahh, nothing like the smell of fresh floor wax and breakfast burritos in the morning.”
“You’re so damaged,” I said, laughing.
We headed for the senior cafeteria. Our school had a big central kitchen, with two cafeterias on either side. In theory, it was supposed to speed up the lines. What it had effectively done was create a class schism.
Underclassmen were banished to the bad side, defined by the fact that the gym doors opened onto it. When they were propped open, the underclassman side took on the odor of eau de jock strap and mystery meat.
Juniors were allowed to eat in the senior caf, but only on the outskirts. The squeaky tables that framed the carpeted holy land, but didn’t impinge on it.
Now that we were seniors, Jane and I headed for the inner-circle tables. All of the tables were made of the same cheap faux-panel and plastic, regardless of location. And the blue carpeting was, frankly, disgusting. None of that mattered. This was our twelfth-grade-given right, and we were claiming it.
As we strode in, Simon hopped up and waved his hands over his head. The art people were already congregating on one side. It was weird how much one summer could change people. Round faces had taken on angles, our clothes were more together, and a couple of the guys suddenly had broad, broad shoulders.
Jane stepped onto one of the chairs and sat on the table in the middle of it all. “One hundred eighty days till freedom, my people!”
We all cheered and didn’t care who heard it. Sitting on top of Jane’s feet, I sprawled back against her knees. Though all our usual cliques had coalesced, the edges were looser than usual. As different as the pops were from the jocks from the arts, we had senior year in common.
Drifting into our orbit, Emmalee pretended she didn’t see Simon. Instead, she crouched next to me. “Hey, can I bug you?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“We’re doing a senior blast to raise funds for all the girls’ athletics,” she said. “We were thinking about hiring your band, are you still doing that?”
With a smile, I nodded. “Absolutely, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Shrugging, Emmalee said, “You know, just with the whole Will thing, I mean . . . everybody knows . . .”
“That you should lock up your boyfriends around Sarah?”
We both jerked our heads up at the same time. Kara Coleman stood a few feet away. She was one of the beautiful people—and Nedda’s little sister. Apparently, she was carrying Nedda’s grudge into the next generation at ERHS.
The weird part, though, was how she said it so matter-of-factly. She didn’t sound malicious. It was like she thought she was joking. Like it was an accepted facet of my personality: Sarah Westlake, boyfriend poacher.
Emmalee shooed Kara along. “Move along, lady. If you wanted Dasa for the ritual Key Club initiation, you should have gotten here first.”
“Or I could just wait until your back is turned and make a better offer.”
It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to say anything. I didn’t even have time to blush. I was mortified, but the moment passed before I had to confront it. Who was Kara to incidentally slut-shame me with a smile?
Squirming in my own skin, I smiled uncomfortably. Rationally, I knew that everybody was too excited about the first day of senior year to notice my mini-drama. It still felt like all eyes were on me. Worse, I had the impression that the flow of gossip all summer had diverted around me . . . because it was about me.
Ja
ne leaned over, smooshing my cheeks between her hands. “S’up, buttercup?”
“I was just telling Emmalee how she owns me now. I’m going to be her guitar-monkey.”
“Oh, excellent choice,” Jane told Emmalee. “This is a high-quality, hand-crafted, Etsy-grade guitar-monkey. She’s guaranteed to bring you many hours of pleasure and delight.”
With a laugh, Emmalee stood up. “You guys are so weird.”
“Thank you!” Jane tossed her head back, basking.
To me, Emmalee said, “I’ll e-mail you later with the details, okay?”
“Sounds great,” I told her.
And though I smiled, and laughed, and fell into conversation with my friends, Kara’s words lingered.
~
Dany Kilpatrick was an incredibly adorable sophomore art geek.
With fire-engine-red hair and way oversize black glasses, she seemed like she was still in the process of growing into herself.
Some days, she wore Birkenstocks, and some days, combat boots. She had the potential to be a smoking hot pottery goddess at East River—for the time being, she was still constrained by cute.
Literally bouncing down the hall, she caught me before I veered into the senior cafeteria. A thick stack of metal bangles jingled on her arms. A gentle cloud of patchouli wafted from her skin, somehow sweeter on her than it was on the stoners and burnies.
“Hey,” she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Hi, hi. I’m Dany, you don’t know me . . .”
With a smile, I said, “I do, actually. You did the red lacquered head at the art show last year. That thing was awesome; it gave me nightmares.”
Suffused with color, Dany clasped her hands together. “You are so sweet, thank you!”
“Yeah, no, it was great. I really liked it.” It was stupid, but I felt so magnanimous. Like I was doing the supportive senior thing right. Or something.
“Okay, then, well,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “This is kind of a weird question, so . . . you know, slap me if I’m completely out of line.”
“Go ahead,” I said indulgently.
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