by Rachel Shane
My head tingled and I stomped over floor pillows to cross the room, which gave me the distinct feeling of walking on clouds. Floating. In fact, the glowy stars on the ceiling twinkled like the night sky despite the sun shining through the sliver of basement window. My eyes watered from the gauzy smoke filling the room.
The doorbell rang.
My muscles coiled and I crouched into a pounce, ducking my hands over my head. It’s the police. No, worse, the Greek Org. No, worse, my mother. I darted my eyes around, looking for a place to hide.
“Want me to get it?” Fallon cooed, peering at me with bloodshot eyes.
“It might be Jenny,” Kiera Chan said. “She’s running late.”
I straightened. Right. Not the worst case scenario. Just Occam’s Razor, always there, demanding the simplest answer to every question. “I’ll get it.” After all, as President, it was my job to be on the front lines of any potentially dangerous situation. As I ambled up the stairs, I grinned at my profound philosophical musings.
I wrenched open the door and the smile immediately fell from my face. Harrison Wagner stood on the porch, dark hair bathed in glistening sunlight. For a moment, I just stared at the little dimple curling on one cheek. His eyebrows shot way up on his forehead and before he could open his mouth to speak, I slammed the door in his face.
I leaned against it, my breath ragged. It was the worst case scenario. Not the Greek Org but the guy sucking their dicks. He knew. He knew about the pot and he was here to bust us.
THE DOORBELL RANG AGAIN, followed by a knock. “Bianca, open up.”
I raced into the bathroom and plucked the air deodorizer off the back of the toilet. A trail of manufactured lavender fragrance filled the living room. Little droplets of scented moisture rained onto my arms and the couch. I wrapped my hand around the doorknob, but on second thought turned the aerosol can on myself and sprayed a thick cloud onto my shirt. A wet spot spread on the front, something Bianca Cruz would never be caught dead sporting. Still, with my pulse thumping, I ignored it. Someone’s sunglasses rested on top of the TV so I grabbed those and put them on, squinting against the heavy headache-inducing prescription.
I opened the door and pushed my hair behind my ear. “Hey,” I said, hoping I sounded casual.
Harrison sputtered and coughed, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Did you just bathe in perfume?”
“It’s lavender,” I said, utilizing the art of persuasion. Put the idea in his head before he could form his own identification of the illegal scent. “I think it’s lovely.”
He squinted at me. “Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?”
That didn’t warrant an answer. At least one I wanted to give. “Why are you here?” Translation: how long do we have before the cops get here?
He pulled himself up to his full height, which was considerably taller than me. “I have your first newspaper assignment.”
The tension flew from my shoulders. “Email me.” I started to shut the door before he could smell smoke but he braced his palm against it, blocking me.
“It’s really something we have to discuss now. Right now.” Harrison pushed past me and stepped inside, breezing through the foyer and into the living room. He paused in the center of the room as if he planned to install himself as our new coffee table and sniffed in an exaggerated way. “Is that—?”
“Yes, more lavender.” I jiggled the aerosol can. “I…” …needed an excuse. Now would be a nice time to come up with one, brain. My eyes landed on a greasy pan resting on the couch, yellow clumps still clinging to the surface. “Burnt some eggs. It reeked.”
A chorus of whoas and laughter rose from the basement.
Harrison’s head whipped toward the sound where a cloud of smoke was rising from the crack in the doorjamb. “Do you have people over?”
“No.” I grabbed his hand and tugged him upstairs to my room, his warm palm stuffed inside my clammy one. He raised another brow as I led him inside and shut the door. It was a full ten seconds after we were standing inside my room that I remembered to drop his hand. But he was too busy perusing the posters on my wall to notice, his eyes shifting between the one of the beach at sunset, bathed in oranges, and the one of a lily pad floating on a bed of pale blue ripples.
“Missing summer?” he asked with a raised brow.
“No, these are calming.”
“Ah.” He nodded, taking in my Zen sandbox, my aromatherapy machine, and my closed make-up case that hid the mess of eyeshadows inside that always gave me anxiety from its disorganization. He glossed over the small bookshelf on top of my desk that contained only my school supplies, my real treasure of Manga hidden in a box in the back of my closet and covered with shoes—so no one would accidentally find it. And there, next to my computer, was the pile of dirty plates and utensils I kept forgetting to bring downstairs. Apparently I was the one hoarding the silverware.
There weren’t many options for him to sit, only my neatly made flowered comforter and the desk chair I splurged on instead of buying the shoes I really coveted. Neither of them were items I wanted to ruin with Harrison’s smarm, but I pressed my palms onto his shoulders and forced him into the desk chair.
“Stay here, I’ll be right back.” I backed toward the door.
“Really? You’re leaving me in here alone?” He cocked his head. “Do you actually trust me?”
I choked back a sob. “Consider us even.” But I didn’t want to be even. I wanted to one-up him. I thrust my hand out toward my dresser. “Panties are in the top drawer. I’m guessing you’ve never seen any, so feel free to have a look.”
He rolled his eyes as I slipped out the door, kicking myself for not coming up with a better insult. I ripped the sunglasses off my face and dragged the bookcase from Erin’s room in front of mine to block him in. My pulse spiked in my veins, throbbing in tune to the pounding in my head. I stomped all the way to the basement, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to wave my hand in front of my face against the heavy cloud of smoke. “Everyone out. Right now.”
No one moved. Or glanced up.
I growled as I stepped over lounging people engaging in intense conversations over which actor played Doctor Who best. I crossed to the corner and wrenched Mackenzie from Corey’s mouth. “Harrison Wagner’s upstairs in my room. I need everyone out. Stat.”
They both blinked at me for a moment before rising into action. I relayed the same message to Erin and Fallon, who had been trading hits, and soon my army swooped through the room and coaxed people to leave. The partiers rose on wobbly legs and trudged toward the stairs. High zombies marched out the front door and squinted into the harsh light as if they were emerging from a bunker after the apocalypse. Nate offered to continue the party at his house and soon everyone marched down the block.
Once the house was clear of guests, I spritzed more air freshener on my body, squared my shoulders, and pushed Erin’s bookcase away. I opened the door to my room and went inside with a thrust of my hip and a toss of my hair. Anything to appear like I was still in control.
Harrison fought back a smile. “False imprisonment.” He ticked off his finger. “Kidnapping.” He leaned over and tapped the windowsill. “And do I even need to mention the procession going on outside your window? I know they weren’t here to watch morning cartoons.” He clucked his tongue. “Man, you really love to break the rules, don’t you?”
Panicking, I stalked toward the window, pushed aside my paper origami cranes swinging in the window, and peered out to see a parade of stumbling potheads following the leader. In this case the leader in question was Nate, who held the jiggling Medusa hookah high in the air as if he were reenacting the opening scene of The Lion King.
I tensed. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Harrison held his palms in the air. “I’m not going to say anything.”
“Yeah right.” Stupid words landed on my tongue and I considered swallowing them down, but I said them anyway. I had to know. Besides, it wasn’t lik
e what I was about to say was new information to Harrison. “If you rat us out, then Rho Sigma will never get back on campus and you’ll get to keep our house.”
His face suddenly grew serious. “I know you think I’m a threat, but I’m not.”
My chest puffed in and out. I waited for the caveat, the part where he would re-neg on his promise. At least not now. Or maybe At least not while I need you to complete this random PR assignment I couldn’t just tell you over the phone. “Why not?”
He hesitated for a few moments as if trying to find the right words. “Tattling on you guys a second time won’t do Out House any favors.”
I may not be fully ensconced in the Greek System anymore thanks to our rogue status, but I had ears that worked. And eyes, too. I knew which frats had parties planned with which sororities. Rho Sig wasn’t the only house having trouble convincing the opposite sex we weren’t a one way ticket to trouble. The bad kind, not the sexy kind.
Harrison leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. “Hate to break it to you but right now you need me as much as I need you. Sure, Beta Chi joined you for a morning drug fest but did they even offer a night mixer?” He raised a brow. “Has anyone other than Out House?”
I opened my mouth but then clamped it shut.
“Didn’t think so.”
We stared at each other in challenge. It was an impasse. An ultimatum. A bridge we both needed to cross. He was right, for Out House to be folded into the fray in the Greek System, they had to appear trustworthy, and for Rho Sig to have even an iota of a chance of getting reinstated, we had to appear safe. Our houses could help each other.
Echoing my thoughts, he said, “We could be allies, Bianca. Maybe even friends.”
I lifted my chin. I wasn’t ready to wave the white flag just yet. “What’s the assignment?”
He stared at me for one more second before drumming his fingers on my desk. “Clever Trevor’s playing downtown tonight.”
I blinked at him, trying to make sense of his words. A concert? For the hottest male artist around? “I know.” I bit my lip. Erin and I had tried to score tickets over the summer for tonight’s show but they sold out in three seconds flat. I loved Clever Trevor but Erin wanted to have his babies and surgically implant headphones constantly playing his songs over her ears. “Your point?”
“Let’s go.”
I waited for the punchline. Let’s go…far away from each other. But he didn’t add anything else. “Together?” I scoffed.
He chuckled. “Yes, together. But not together. Let the record show you were the one who jumped to that conclusion.”
“No.” The word was so emphatic, it could have ended a world war.
“I need to get backstage. Which means I need you to work your PR magic and score us access. Oh, and an exclusive interview too.”
My pulse thumped under my skin. It really was a PR task. Not some sick date. “A little short notice there, buddy.” My eyes flew to the clock. The concert started in nine hours. And he wanted an exclusive interview with the belligerent male diva who famously never even granted his own agent time to talk.
Harrison stood up. “Then you better get cracking. I’ll pick you up at seven? Wait, don’t answer, I already know what you’re going to say.”
It wasn’t a question but a threat.
I showed him out the door and as soon as it slammed behind him, I punched the wood. Fucking Harrison. I let myself stew, my nostrils flaring, for exactly three-seconds before I squared my shoulders and pulled myself together. I considered it a victory even though I’d already failed in controlling my rage.
My eyes flew opened. And my stomach dropped.
Muddy footprints marred the tile floor. Used plastic utensils littered the room, leaving pools of grease in their wake. Dirty pans towered so high in the sink, it was impossible to even wash any. On wobbly legs, I descended to the basement. Erin, Mackenzie, Fallon, and Corey lounged on the purple couch, crumbs dotting around them like decorations. All the pretty cushions Fallon had made boasted tears. They all turned to me with bloodshot eyes and giggly expressions. Corey and Mackenzie hadn’t taken any hits, but it seemed the residual side effects of smoke clouds had still affected them.
“What did Harrison want?” Mackenzie asked.
“To be an asshole.” I crossed my arms. “We need to clean up.”
Corey shook his head. “No, we need pledges to clean up for us.”
“Well, we don’t have any pledges and won’t until next semester, so…” I scooped potato chip crumbs into a bowl.
“Wait, why do we have to wait until next semester to get pledges? We can get some right now.” Mackenzie tapped her lip. “Well, maybe tomorrow.”
Corey’s head perked up. “Good point, babe. And also, we’re underground. We don’t only need to get girl pledges.”
GETTING THE NAME OF Clever Trevor’s publicist wasn’t the hard part thanks to a PR whiz secret Facebook group one of the CNN publicist’s invited me to. A quick post and ten-seconds later an answer with a phone number. I stabbed the number into my phone and while it rang, I dipped a sponge in a bucket of water and attacked the last of the silver pans, now gleaming with cleanliness instead of mottled oil. Multitasking for the win.
“Diana Rinaldi,” the publicist said in lieu of a greeting.
I straightened even though she couldn’t see me. “Hi, this is Bianca Cruz, publicist for The Daily Snowflake, Throckmorton University’s lead newspaper. I’m—”
“No interviews,” the bitch snapped.
I scrubbed vigorously at the pot and huffed. Thwarted even before finishing. I made my voice sound authoritative. Confidence might sway her. It had to. “Of course not. We’re interested in doing a review feature.”
She laughed. Actually laughed. Or maybe it was a scoff. “For a college newspaper? No thanks.”
And there it was. The sharp bleating sound of the dial tone ringing against my beating heart.
I threw the sponge into the sink, and a spray of water leaped up, hitting me in my face. The scream lodged in my throat erupted. Squeezing the phone in my tight fist, I abandoned the mess and gulped deep breaths until my pulse returned to decent levels. There was one thing I hated more than Harrison: losing. Plus, I suspected he’d given me this task because he deemed it impossible, so the best way to trump him was to succeed. Diana’s outright refusal to listen gave me a challenge. If I wanted to succeed in PR, I had to be good at it. I had to stop relying on my looks to get me placed. If I succeeded in this, maybe I wasn’t just fooling myself into thinking I could do something besides be a beauty queen.
I flopped onto my bed and turned on the campus radio station to calm my raging pulse. A bitter laugh escaped at the Clever Trevor song flowing through my speakers. The folksy-pop fusion tune was instantly catchy, a mixture of acoustic guitar and autotune, hard work and electronic alteration. But it wasn’t Clever Trevor’s musical juxtaposition that made waves. It was his personality. He was every girl’s pretty boy fantasy with epic blue eyes and abs that could only come from intense training. He opted for flamboyant mis-matched patterned outfits—chevron pants mixed with a floral shirt—the very things that landed him on Worst Dressed Lists and also the front row at Fashion Week where mags snapped pics of him instead of the clothes on display.
Sometimes he went full on Lady Gaga with theatrical masks, strategically placed to cover his junk instead of his face, or gimmicky outfits that screamed trying too hard. Rumors flew that his official diva status had reached rocket-launch levels. His concerts were filled with everything you never knew you wanted: kitsch, soulful singing to make the girlies swoon, head bopping numbers that stuck in your head for years, dramatic set pieces teeming with special effects, and breath-holding unexpectedness. You never knew what he might do next: strip naked on stage, storm off and never come back, or maybe something weirder like that one time he fought a live alligator for stage prominence. He was like a bad boy, a heartthrob, and a circus act all rolled into one.
I regrouped for attempt number two on my long list of two items: the concert venue itself. They had a whole department of publicists but calling the generic number would get me nowhere. I found the list of employee names and extensions, then cross referenced those names with social media. The outlandish feminist who ranted about health care reform on Twitter? No, she’d block me with her own agenda. The anti-feminist who posted constant selfies caked in make-up? In another life and another gig, maybe. The young eager go-getter guy with the leftover acne? Jackpot.
I cringed, knowing I’d need to resort to looks again if I had any shot of doing this. Next time I’d do it all based on skills only. Next time.
He answered on the second ring. “Publicity department, this is Matt.”
I launched into my pitch, dropping my voice to sultry levels and making sure to exacerbate the breathy pauses. “I chose you specifically to call after finding your Twitter account,” I said after my introduction. “I just followed you.” I pressed send on my follow request and heard the notification blip through the phone on his end. I’d changed my profile picture a moment ago to one of me with a lot of cleavage and studious nerd glasses guys always found hot. Sure, the pic was from last Halloween and the glasses were fake, but he didn’t need to know that.
The sharp intake of breath through the phone indicated my guestimation of his priorities (boobs) proved correct. The song on the radio switched to a mellow croon about chemistry and fate. Sure, that worked.
“Wha—what can I help you with?”
“The Daily Snowflake wants to run an exclusive feature review on the concert.” I nixed mentioning the interview part after Diana had used it as a trigger word to dismiss me entirely. “It would be great publicity for both Clever Trevor and the venue.” I paused to let that sink in while also giving Matt a hint of a giggle, something for him to latch onto and grip with both hands. “Would it be possible to grant the two of us some press passes? I can email you my credentials. And my phone number.”