chapter fifteen

Waiting for Andi is a novelty. She’s never been one of those girls who said five minutes and meant an hour, who said pick me up at six but wasn’t ready until eight. She takes five-minute showers and wakes up fifteen minutes before she’s due somewhere and is never late. Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever really waited for her before. And I definitely never knew it was possible to look forward to seeing someone you’ve already seen a million times.

About two minutes after the volleyball game ends, the front doors of Burnham’s oldest gym open and all nine fans trickle out, looking predictably dejected. They navigate their way around the puddles that dot the poorly maintained parking lot, and Andi should be right behind them. Because she doesn’t get much playing time she prefers to shower at home instead of changing at the gym, and part of the motivation for my gentlemanly waiting is the desire to see her in her uniform.

Right on cue she emerges in striped knee socks, shorts, jersey, and an unzipped jacket. She carries a bag over one shoulder and squints up at the sky as she steps over a puddle, estimating the chance of rain. She doesn’t notice me and for a second I just enjoy watching her. Then I call out. “Hey.”

My voice registers and she studies the sparsely populated lot until she spots me leaning against a lamp post, ten feet away.

“What are you doing here?” She self-consciously swipes at her jersey.

“You said I couldn’t watch your game, not that I couldn’t loiter in the parking lot.” It’s hard to answer as she comes closer, her lean thighs glinting in the light. I still remember the first summer I noticed she wasn’t just one of the guys. I jerked off to the image of her in knee socks more times than I’m comfortable admitting.

“I like those shorts,” I add.

“They’re just shorts.”

“Paired with those socks, they’re something special. And let’s not forget this headband.” I reach out to touch the orange terry cloth band that’s holding back her hair. I say it like it’s a joke, but I’m pretty serious.

“Oh, shit,” she mutters, pulling it off. “I forgot that was on.”

“This isn’t something I say a lot,” I tell her, “but keep it on.”

She laughs and starts walking, like that’s the end of our reunion. We haven’t seen each other in four days and she’s acting like it’s no big deal. On the bus ride back Crosbie was getting texts from Nora that made him blush, and he’s gotten some pretty explicit texts in the past. My stomach sinks as I walk beside her. I admit I didn’t have elaborate plans for this reunion, but I had plans. Well, I had plan. Sex plan.

“How was the mock meet?” she asks.

“Fine. We did well.” I’m trying not to pout, but dammit, I’m disappointed.

The back of her hand brushes against mine as she reaches up to adjust her bag, and instinctively my fingers clench around the empty air.

I clear my throat. “Want me to carry that?”

“No,” she says.

We walk half a block in silence, then she her hand touches mine again as she reaches up to release her ponytail. The only thing I like more than her legs is Andi’s hair when it’s loose, and I steal a peek as it swings free.

I’ve been semi-hard the whole afternoon, anticipating this reunion. I had zero sex on the trip, zero flirtation, even, and all because of stupid Nate suggesting I don’t “jump” when I want to jump and instead “jump” when the moment is right. Also, I guess I didn’t hook up with anybody because I didn’t want to hurt Andi’s feelings. And because I don’t really want anyone but her, though God knows why when she shows no interest in jumping.

I slow when we reach the turn-off for Andi to go to McKinley and me to carry on home, but Andi just keeps walking straight, in the direction of my apartment. I start to point out the error, then catch a glimpse of her ass twitching in those tiny shorts and decide against it.

The third time her hand brushes against mine it dawns on me that I’m a fucking idiot. Instead of letting her fiddle with her bag or her hair, I take the hint and hold her hand. She doesn’t jerk away in surprise, just keeps looking straight ahead, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

I try to hide my shock. Was she doing that on purpose?

Still, I say nothing. Who needs words when actions obviously speak louder? She’s walking to my place. I’m holding her hand. We’re...something.

I reach down to adjust myself and pick up the pace a bit. Andi misses nothing and says nothing, and neither do I.

My block is dark and quiet, the only sounds our rapid breathing and the quick shuffle of our sneakers on damp pavement. I snatch the keys from my pocket, twist open the front door, and stumble when Andi fairly shoves me inside. I smile and whirl around to pin her to the door with my hips and my hands, though it’s totally unnecessary since she’s already got her fingers in my hair, rising onto her toes to kiss me.

My cock grows impossibly harder.

This might have been worth the wait.

We fumble with our clothes, breaking apart only to yank our shirts off. Andi tastes like peppermint and heat and I can’t get enough. She’s digging her nails into my scalp so I twist her nipples a little more roughly than I have before. She responds with a whimper that’s so un-Andi-like that I feel it through to my toes. For far too long I’ve lived with the unspoken fear that settling for the known would mean I would be left to wonder about all the things I was missing out on, but now it’s starting to dawn on me that it’s not settling at all. It’s digging deeper, discovering more, venturing past the shallow connections I’ve survived on for too long and finding that this is the thing I’ve been missing.

Andi pushes me back until my feet hit the bottom step, then she pushes again. I raise my brows to confirm her meaning and she nods, and I promptly sit my bare ass on the third stair. The wood is chilly but I can barely feel it, the sight of Andi’s lean, naked body suffusing me with heat. When she bends to retrieve a condom from her bag and toss it onto the steps beside me, I get dizzy. And when she stands and spreads her legs to straddle my thighs, I nearly pass out.

Her pussy is at mouth height and as she starts to lower herself I grip her ass and yank her in, letting instinct guide me. I hear her groan as I start to lick, one of her hands holding the rail for balance, the other resting on my shoulder. Feeling and tasting her wetness confirms she’s as ready for this as I am, and that ego-boosting bit of knowledge makes something inside me tighten, something that has nothing at all to do with sex or heartburn.

Before I can dwell on it Andi tangles her fingers in my hair and tugs me back, gazing down, lips parted. If I ever woke up in a jungle, this is exactly the woman I imagine would find me. I grope around for the condom, my clumsy fingers eventually finding and rolling it on. I hold my cock in one hand and her ass in the other, guiding her as she lowers herself into my lap. The strong muscles in her thighs quiver as she hovers over me, the too-sensitive head of my cock stroking over her entrance. She bites her bottom lip, hair tangled around her shoulders, and the visual sears itself into my brain.

After a few prolonged seconds, I realize she’s hesitating. And after a few more seconds, I figure out why. She’s never done it like this before.

“Hey,” I say softly. 

Her gaze flickers to mine and even though I desperately want to be inside her, I let go of my cock and cup the back of her neck instead, drawing her in to kiss her, reassure her. We can do whatever she wants. Not do whatever she doesn’t want.

She kisses me back almost desperately, like she’s working up her nerve. I let go of her ass and slide that hand around to cover her pussy. She sighs into my mouth as I ease one, then two fingers inside, then she breaks the kiss and drops her forehead onto my shoulder, her skin damp.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I suggest. “To my room.”

She shakes her head, her hair tickling my bare skin. “Right here.”

“We can change position—” I begin, but she interrupts with another head shake.

“Like this,” she says.

“Why?”

Instead of answering she lifts up, dislodging my fingers from between her legs, and slowly, carefully works herself onto my cock. I grip the base and lean back against the steps, watching as she takes me in, sexy and determined.

The smooth skin on her chest is flushed, her muscles are trembling, and when she’s fully seated she rests her knees on the stairs and exhales as though she’s just finished a workout.

“Why?” I repeat, brushing the edge of my thumb over her clit.

She shudders and struggles to keep her eyes open as she rises up, then slides back down, finding her comfort zone, finding her rhythm. For a minute I forget the question, the raw visual of Andi Walsh fucking me chasing all other coherent thoughts from my brain. She’s good at everything she puts her mind to, and in no time at all she’s got this down, riding me fast and hard and deep and slow and everything in between, figuring out what feels best for her and trying to kill me in the process.

I keep one hand between us to stroke her clit and use the other to squeeze her ass in an unsuccessful attempt to guide her movements.

Andrea Walsh is fucking me.

This is the best moment of my whole life.

“Kell,” she gasps.

“What?” I gasp back.

“I... She struggles to inhale. “I don’t have...” Another breath. “A journal...” Her eyes sink shut as she starts to come. “But if I did...” She shudders. “This would be page one.”

I didn’t really think Andi kept a journal of sex acts she wanted to try, but learning that she has a mental list and I’m on it is an enormous turn-on. I’ve acted out a lot of fantasies with a lot of people, but I don’t think I’ve ever been the star of any of theirs. Not the real me, anyway. Maybe the idea of me, the guy on the wall, the guy with the letter jacket and the reputation, but not this me.

The same tightness that always seems to show up when I’m with Andi returns, and this time it’s accompanied by an orgasm that I’m pretty sure knocks me unconscious for a few seconds. I feel it rocketing up and down my spine, my toes and my calves and my thighs. I’m vaguely aware of my hands gripping Andi’s hips too hard, holding her still while I come inside her.

When we’re both exhausted she slumps forward and I weakly slide my arms around her back, the only form of cuddling I’ve ever done. That we’ve ever done. Eventually the chill in the air cools the sweat on our bodies and Andi peels herself off and stands on shaky legs, collecting her things.

“Stay,” I say. I’m not under the impression she’s about to walk out the door naked, but just in case.

She glances at me, uncharacteristically shy. “Okay.”

She climbs up the stairs and I’m too drained to even watch her ass as she goes. I hear the bathroom door close and after a minute I gather up my clothes and make my way into my bedroom to tidy up.

By the time she comes out of the bathroom I’m in the kitchen with a frozen pizza in one hand and a box of mac and cheese in the other. “Hungry?”

She points to the pizza. “Starving.”

I stick it in the oven and set the timer for twenty minutes, then pour us both a glass of water. We take the drinks to the couch and sit side-by-side, staring at the dark television. We’ve done this a million times before too, but now everything feels different. Like there’s an unspoken understanding, like we’re official.

I reach down and take her hand, watching our fingers twine together.

I think about what Crosbie said, how Andi and I are not just friends anymore and it’s nobody’s business anyway.

“Hey,” I say.

She looks at me. “What?”

“Want to come to Crosbie’s magic show on December eleventh?”

She blinks. “I...What?”

“It’s at Beans again. The coffee shop in town?”

It takes her a second to answer. “I know it.”

“Do you want to come with me? As my date?”

She looks a little shell-shocked when she turns to face forward, staring at the blank screen. “Sure,” she says.

* * *

I spend the next day preparing for next Wednesday’s film class. I pick up the text and my laptop and start getting my thoughts in order.

What did you learn from any or all of these films?

I skim the list of titles, movies I never would have watched had Bertrand not marched me to class each day. 8 ½. Citizen Kane. Battleship Potemkin. Umberto D. Chinatown. Network. The Graduate.

If you’d asked me before this class, I’d have said the only good movies were new movies. Special effects and big scares and bigger laughs. Never in my life would I have chosen any of the ones we watched, totally failing to understand and appreciate that there’s a reason something endures.

Some of the movies were the first of their kind, some are simply the best. But in every instance they were true to themselves. They weren’t pandering to what was popular or people thought they were supposed to be, they were real. Original.

When I finally stop typing and squint at the monitor, I’m surprised to see just how much I’ve written. Normally an essay is a tedious thing for me, but this one feels right. I work on the outline for the rest of the day, committing it to memory as best I can since we’re not allowed to bring anything more than a pen into the class. But I don’t care. I’m ready. I’m not even annoyed when I step out the front door on Wednesday to find Bertrand on the sidewalk nursing a protein shake.

“Ready for this?” he asks as we start toward campus.

“Yep.”

He looks at me, surprised. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“Probably in the auditorium.”

“You break up already?”

“No. Did you ask Ms. Shaw to the film festival?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“She said no, didn’t she?”

“She said yes, you ass.”

“Did you compliment the feather thing?”

“It’s called a fascinator. I learned about fascinators for fifteen minutes after I mentioned it.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m not thanking you. And I officially declared your major.”

“As sociology or something you made up?”

“Sociology. Who knows where you’ll go with it, but if these past months have shown me anything, it’s that you’re not terrible when you commit yourself to an idea.”

“Obviously.”

He rolls his eyes. “Good luck today.”

“Good luck to you on Friday.”

“I don’t need luck.”

I enter the auditorium, passing through a check point where they scan us for electronic devices. I surrender my phone and get a pick-up card for later, distracted by the fact that I can’t see Andi in our usual spot. I find her on the opposite side of the stairs and stop next to her seat. “Hey.”

She looks up from where she’s been twiddling her pen. “Hey.”

“What are you doing over here?” The last time she chose to sit somewhere else was because I’d fucked up again. I haven’t seen her since our reunion on the stairs, so I’m praying I haven’t managed to somehow fuck up in absentia.

“Concentrating.”

“Why don’t you sit where we usually sit?”

“Because I can’t concentrate with you next to me.”

“Because I’m so dreamy?”

“Because you mumble while you’re thinking.”

“I do not.”

“And you drool,” says a dread-inducing voice from over my shoulder.

I no longer lurch in surprise. I have come to expect Marcela’s sneak attacks. “What are you doing here, Marcela?”

“It’s an in-class essay. I have to be here.”

“You barely showed up for the classes.”

She gives me a broad wink. “I have an excellent tutor.”

I mock gag at the thought of Nate “tutoring” somebody. “Stop being disgusting.”

Ms. Shaw clears her throat and taps the microphone. I wish Andi good luck, ignore Marcela, and take my seat on the other side of the stairs.

We listen to the standard lecture about cheating and its very severe consequences, then Ms. Shaw posts the question on the screen at the front, sets the timer, and tells us to start writing.

When I apply myself, I do well enough in my classes. I figured I’d do well with this one, but not only do I do well, I do great. I can’t remember the last time I wrote this much, and I write until my hand hurts and my wrist aches, but I don’t stop until I have the essay I rehearsed. I’m vaguely aware of a couple of students handing in their pages and passing me on their way up the stairs, but it’s only when I turn in my paper and start to leave that I realize the auditorium is almost as full as it was when I started. I check my watch: still fifty minutes to go.

Andi looks up when I pass, the question clear on her face: Are you okay? I give her a covert thumbs up then collect my phone and leave the room. I’ve taken two steps outside when the texts start rolling in: Choo, Dane, Crosbie, and half a dozen others talking about the upcoming auditions for She Shoots, She Scores. They sent out another email with more instructions for the audition process, and now it’s all anyone can talk about.

I message the guys to tell them I’m finished with the class and they write back immediately to say they’re having lunch at The Sling. They invite me to join them and I invite them to get their burgers to go—there’s no way I’m setting foot inside that place. They don’t ask why; they know me well enough. Half an hour, three burgers, and one chicken wrap later, we’re polishing off lunch in one of the campus food courts and analyzing the audition instructions. Be yourself, but be awesome. Talk sports—but not too much. Be charming, but not more so than Ivanka. Have a gimmick—but don’t be gimmicky. Y’know. Easy.

And yet somehow, these guys already know exactly what they’re going to say. Crosbie’s planning a one-minute monologue where he rants about any given sports topic while lifting weights—he plans to call the segment Weight For It. Dane, who pitches, wants to do a bit he calls Pitch Face, where they capture stills of pitchers’ faces mid-pitch and make fun of them. Choo wants to do a piece called Light It Up that features spectacular moments in sports that got the audience on their feet. Naturally, it involves holding a tiki torch.

“What about you?” Crosbie asks, eating his last four fries in one bite. “Got any ideas?”

“Not yet,” I hedge, unwilling to admit I haven’t even thought about it. “I’m considering a few things.”

“Shirts Off with Kellan McVey,” Dane intones. “A feature where Kellan McVey talks about things—doesn’t matter what—with his shirt off.”

The guys laugh.

“Very funny,” I say. “I can talk about stuff.”

“Stuff with Kellan McVey,” Choo says in his best announcer voice. “A show about stuff hosted by a guy with dimples and no shirt!”

“I can also wear shirts.”

“Shirts with Kellan McVey,” Crosbie says, speaking into his water bottle like it’s a microphone. “The lowest rated program on television. Take off your shirt!”

I toss a crumpled up napkin at him. “You’re all assholes.”

“You know we’re teasing,” Dane says. “If you show up for that audition, we’re all second place losers.”

“That’s not true,” I say, ignoring the nagging feeling that Andi had said very much the same thing.

“We’ll need you to wear multiple shirts.”

“That’s not going to hide the dimples.”

“And a plastic bag over your head.”

“Andi’s auditioning, right?” Crosbie asks. “I heard she got a spot.”

“Ah, yeah. I think she’s doing something about runners up. People and teams who came in second. It’s about losers but it’s meant to be inspiring.”

They all look perplexed.

“Hey, Kellan,” a couple of girls call as they pass by.

“Hey.” I smile politely, but I don’t get that same rush of pride I used to get when strangers knew my name. When hot stranger girls knew my name. For so long all I wanted was to get out of Avilla and its stifling smallness, and for two years Burnham felt like the answer. Now I’m not so sure that’s true. The life I constructed at Burnham is not the life I want anymore.

“The list has to go,” I announce.

The guys stare at me. “What are we talking about?” Choo asks.

“In the Student Union building. My list. I need to paint over it.”

Dane looks confused. “This feels like it’s coming out of left field.”

Crosbie frowns. “Didn’t you try that and get arrested?”

“Technically I was escorted out and banned from ever returning. What’d you use last year when you painted your list?”

“We had some paint in the basement at the frat house.”

“Do you still have it?”

Dane looks very reluctant. “Yeah, but dude—you can’t go back to the Student Union Building. They know you.”

“No,” I say firmly. “They don’t. That’s the point. They think they know me, but they don’t.”

Choo looks perplexed. “The security guards?”

“The whole campus. They just see that sex list. The gonnorhea thing. The dimples. The no shirt thing—which, for the record, was just something I tried for one week and no one will let me forget.”

“It was the longest week ever.”

“Also, it was more like three weeks.”

“Anyway,” I interrupt. “I came to Burnham looking for a fresh start. And now I want another one. And that list is holding me back.”

The guys look extremely doubtful. “What’s motivating this?” Crosbie asks.

“Andi,” I answer before I know I’m going to. “She—I—”

“She told you to paint it?”

“No. She just... Being with her made me see that maybe I didn’t need a new life, I just needed to look at the life I had a little bit differently.”

“That’s actually kind of nice,” Choo says. “I thought for sure the reason would be stupid or shallow.”

I finish my drink. “Let’s just get this paint.”

“There’s no ‘us’ in this situation,” Dane says adamantly. “Your dad’s in California. My dad’s in Poly Sci building. He can still murder me.”

“The Poly Sci building is like three miles from here.”

He points over my shoulder. “It’s right there. You really don’t know anything.”

I stand and check covertly behind me. The Poly Sci building is thirty feet away. Well. Anyway. “We’re doing this. Let’s go.” And then, since it’s for her benefit, I text Andi and tell her to meet me at the bathrooms when she finishes her essay.

The guys complain the whole way to the Frat Farm, and even louder when we get locked in the basement and have to crawl out the window.

“It could be worse,” I say as I pull Choo through. “Nate could be here.”

“Who?”

I scoop up a can of paint from the cold grass and we trudge back around to the front of the house. Neither Dane nor Choo has a car, and Crosbie and I both walked, so we retrace our steps to the campus. Everyone has a paintbrush in their pocket except Dane, who insisted I carry his so he doesn’t get caught with it if we bump into his dad and he decides to search our pockets.

Early afternoon on a Wednesday means the Student Union Building is packed and we stand out no more than any other people aiming for the elevators. The tiny flaw in our plan presents itself when we reach the fourth floor and see actual students in the bathrooms.

“Right,” Crosbie says. “We came so late last year that they were empty.”

Dane claps his hands. “I guess we should just go!”

I ignore him. “Someone give me a piece of paper and a pen. Choo, go back down to the lobby and get one of those Wet Floor signs that are everywhere.”

Choo returns to the elevator and Crosbie hands me paper and a black marker. Closed for maintenance, I scrawl in capital letters. I fish a package of gum out of my pocket, chew a piece, and use it to stick the sign on the door to the men’s bathroom.

We’re still waiting for Choo when two football players come out of the room.

“McVey,” they say in unison, nodding at me like we’re brothers in arms and brothers in bathroom sex lists.

“Hey,” I say, hopefully for the last time.

The elevator arrives and Choo steps out as they step in. I enter the bathroom to make sure it’s empty, then we prop the Wet Floor sign in front of the door and shuffle inside. Even though I was in here not too long ago with Jazzy, it’s still a little bit shocking to see the lists again, the walls of each stall filled with names and numbers, each meaning something different to everyone involved, directly or otherwise.

“Remind me why we’re doing this?” Dane mumbles, visibly stressed.

“So I can show Andi she’s different and that I care about her,” I reply.

“Why don’t you just tell her?”

“Because showing is better than telling.” I learned that in film class.

Choo’s frowning. “In my experience, you should do both. Tell her you like her. Tell her you love her, if that’s true.”

“You have, like, zero experience.”

“I do,” Crosbie says before Choo can retort. “And Choo’s right. Even though it may seem like it sometimes, women aren’t mind readers. If you like her, you have to tell her. If you want her to be your girlfriend, ask her. Did you invite her to the Sports Banquet?”

I’m halfway distracted by trying to lever the lid off the paint can. “No,” I grunt. With everything else that’s been going on, I’d totally forgotten about it. “But I did invite her to your magic show, so you’re welcome.”

The guys wince and I frown. “What?”

“The banquet’s in three weeks! Everyone has dates. Everyone knows what they’re wearing. Except you, apparently.”

“It’ll be fine,” I mutter. “You’ll see.”

I get the lid off the paint can, pull out the paintbrushes, then shove open the door to the third stall where my list resides. It’s there, just as I remember. But unlike the last time, there’s a new addition to the top of the list, and it’s the only entry in the entire stall that’s written in red.

ANDREA WALSH IS A WHORE!!!

My heart stops, my mouth goes dry, my fingers slack as the paintbrush falls to the floor.

Maybe it won’t be fine.

Despite the fact that the majority of the names in here are women’s names, it’s never really been about the women, it’s been about the guys. The names are just the equivalent of a slash of ink in a tally, a way of keeping count. But this is an entirely different type of slash. Something sickening and glaring and awful that throws everything out of whack and into sharp contrast at the same time.

“Kellan?” comes a loud whisper.

My eyes widen in horror at the sound of Andi’s voice.

“Hey, Crosbie,” I hear her say as she spots him. There’s the faint creak of the door swinging shut behind her, then her footsteps approaching.

“Stop her!” I hiss at Dane, shoving him out of the stall and crouching to grab my paintbrush and plunge it into the paint, desperate to get the slur covered before Andi sees it. She’ll know I didn’t write it, but she’ll also know that if not for me, it never would have happened.

I hear raised voices as Choo tries to offer her free torches, but Andi’s not an idiot. Before I can get any paint on the wall the door bounces open and she’s stepping through asking “What’s going—” before breaking off abruptly, her mouth a perfect O of surprise as she reads the writing on the wall.

The next moments are the longest ones in history. No one breathes. No one moves. No one speaks. She stares at the writing and I stare at her and over her shoulder Crosbie, Dane and Choo stare too.

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. “I didn’t...”

“I know you didn’t,” she says eventually.

I clear my throat. “I mean, I wanted to come here and paint the list to show you that all that stuff was in the past and you’re in the present. I didn’t know this had been added.”

She rolls her lips together, then meets my eye. I’m expecting her to look angry or devastated or embarrassed, but she looks calm. “I knew,” she says.

I blink. “What?”

“I heard about it a week ago.”

My mouth moves but it takes a second for the words to come out. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“Like what? Like, I’m not a whore?”

“Like—”

“Like, these lists are a stupid and outdated tradition and only idiots put any stock in them?”

“Well—”

“Like I don’t need some list to tell me if I’m good enough or not? To tell me if I’m a whore or a stud or a bitch or an asshole?”

“Does it say that somewhere?”

“It says that everywhere, Kellan. I didn’t tell you about this because you’d care more than me. You care too much about these walls as it is, and I didn’t want to give them anymore credit than they deserved.”

“But it’s not true. You’re not—” I can’t finish the sentence.

“I already know that. The difference between you and me is I don’t care who knows and who doesn’t. I know, and that’s what matters.”

I finally manage to take a full breath. “I’m still going to paint it.”

She shrugs. “By all means.”

No one speaks as I methodically paint over the whole list, leaving a large pale blue gap on the wall.

“There,” I say, stepping back to admire the view. “That’s better.”

Dane sighs. “Move, then. I guess I have to paint mine.”

“Yours has like, two names on it,” Choo points out.

“That’s twice as many as you. And you made that one up.”

“Did not.”

We swap places, listening to them bicker as they paint over their own lists.

When they’re done we stare at our handiwork, which mostly looks like someone did a poor job patching up the walls. But Andi’s right—it’s not about what anyone else thinks. It’s about what I think. And I think this is a big improvement.

“All right,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Fresh start.”

“What about the other bathroom?” Choo asks. Even from here we can hear the voices outside and there’s no way the four of us are going to convince anyone we’re maintenance.

“I’ll do it,” Andi says. She takes a brush, dips it in the paint, and leaves.

“Dude,” Crosbie whispers when she’s gone. “Is this for real or is she going to kill you later?”

“Fifty-fifty,” I admit.

“Whatever happens,” Dane says. “This was a good idea.”

I look at him in surprise. “What about your dad?”

“It’s not like he’s a fan of the lists,” he replies. “But Andi made a good point. It’s not about what anyone else thinks. I like it better this way. It’s not like I could get a job at this school if I had a sex list.”

“You want to work here? I thought you wanted to play ball.”

“Nah. I love playing, but I want to be a professor one day.”

“I had no idea,” Choo says, looking dumbfounded.

“What about you?” Crosbie asks him. “Do you want to play basketball?”

“Of course. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“That’s smart,” Dane says. “You’re not good at anything else.”

Choo ignores him. “Although, if we’re confessing things...”

We look at him expectantly.

“My name’s not really Choo. I was just really into trains when I was little. I said choo-choo a lot, picked up the nickname, and it stuck. People bought into it, because, well, I’m tall.”

Dane gapes at him. “So what’s your name?”

“Gary.”

“What?”

“Now you know, professor.”

I look at Crosbie. “Is your name really Crosbie?”

The door swings open and Andi steps through. “It’s done,” she says. “Or undone, depending on how you look at it.”

She rinses the brush in the sink and we pack up our materials, peek into the hallway, and file back out to the elevator.

Crosbie’s phone buzzes on the ride down. Before he says it’s Nora, I know it is. And for once I don’t feel jealous or resentful. I get it.

“She just got out of class,” he tells us as we reach the main floor. “I’m going to go meet her.”

“Sure, see you.”

“I’ve got an early practice,” Choo says. “I should get going, too.”

“I’ll walk back with you,” Dane replies. “Gary.”

They leave and then it’s just the two of us.

“Why did I always think his name was Choo?” Andi whispers, looking mortified.

“It is Choo. And I’m sorry about that stuff, Andi.” We’re halfway through the strong of students on our way to the doors, but I stop anyway. “I know you said you didn’t care, but I do. If people didn’t know about us then none of this—”

She interrupts my rambling by grabbing the back of my neck and pulling me down to kiss her. Or rather, be kissed by her. I’m too surprised to do much more than stand here and let her, but I’m not complaining. And I’m not thinking about the hundreds of students milling around, seeing this, seeing us. I’m not thinking about that list or what anyone might think about it or me or Andi. She didn’t tell me she was coming to Burnham because she didn’t want her experience to be defined by mine. Now she’s choosing this. Choosing me.

When we finally break apart, Andi’s lips are pink and soft and all I want is more. And not the generalized “more” of my first year at Burnham, where I wanted everything all the time just because I could have it. I want this very specific thing, and I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.