chapter nine

She doesn’t call.

I don’t call her.

We don’t cross paths.

After the whole “you’ve got a crush” conversation, I bail on training with Crosbie, Dane and Choo and keep to myself all weekend. It’s amazing how many reading assignments you can complete when you turn off your phone, lock the door, and, well, read. I polish up my Citizen Kane assignment and email it to Ms. Shaw on Tuesday night, the first time I’ve ever submitted an assignment a full twelve hours early. The first time I ever started one that early, possibly. Maybe because this is the only thing I think I’m starting to understand in my life. You just watch the words and actions, all carefully controlled and presented, and you think about what’s being said and what’s intended and what it all means in the end. And none of it really affects you, because it’s on the screen and you’re in real life and you can pause it and rewind it and turn it off altogether if you don’t like it.

I contemplate not going to class on Wednesday, but it’s one I actually want to attend. Plus it’s a huge auditorium with two entrances, so I figure I can wait until a minute before class starts, enter through the opposite side and sit in the back row, ready to bolt the minute the lights come up. In third grade I swore I would never run from Andrea Walsh again, but she always came up with some new terror to send me sprinting away. Now she likely has no idea what she did—not even I can articulate it—but I’m still running.

I put on my Burnham jacket, grab my bag and head out the front door. The autumn morning is chilly but bright and the frozen grass and leaves crunch underfoot.

“Yo.”

I whirl around on the stoop to find Bertrand standing on the sidewalk. After all this time, I don’t know why I don’t simply expect to find him here. I scowl. “What the hell are you doing here? It’s getting weird. Oh, no, wait. It is weird. It’s been weird.”

“I told you. You’re on my route.”

“Change your route!”

“Come on,” he says, ignoring me. “I’ll walk you to class. It’d be even weirder if I just followed you.”

I sigh but fall in step beside him as we start the trek toward campus.

“How’re things?” he asks. “You liking the class?”

“Yeah. It’s not bad.”

“Any assignments yet?”

“Just one. About Citizen Kane.”

“Good movie.”

“I guess.”

“What was the assignment?”

I tell him what I learned about deep focus. I still think the movie’s boring, but once you see how much thought went into every scene, it gets a bit more interesting.

“You came up with all that?” Bertrand asks as we reach the Klein Building.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t plagiarize it?”

“No. What are you doing?”

He’s coming inside, smoothing the sides of his ponytail and looking around like he’s casing the place.

“My office is that way,” he says, nodding toward the far end of the crowded hall. “This is a short cut.”

I stop and stare at him. “You want to see Ms. Shaw.”

“I—”

“You have a crush on her!”

“I’m a little old for that, McVey.”

“You’re super old,” I correct him. “But you’re still here to see her.”

“Go to class.”

“Just ask her out. Tell her you think she’s pretty and ask if she wants to get lunch after the lecture. It’s three hours; she’ll probably be starving.”

“No one asked for your advice.” He stops in front of the first set of double doors and gestures for me to enter.

“I sit on the other side now,” I tell him.

“What? Why?”

“Because I—”

“Okay, fine.” He practically shoves me down the hall and when I regain my footing I see why: Ms. Shaw stands next to the other doors, chatting with a couple of students.

“Ask her,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.

“Mind your own business,” he says out the corner of his. “And if you do anything to embarrass me, I’ll yank you out of this class and enroll you in Women’s Studies.”

“I happen to love women.” 

We near Ms. Shaw. She’s wearing a dark purple wrap dress and flats, her thick glasses giving her a retro flair. “You know,” I say loudly. “I can’t remember the actress’s name either, Bertrand. Why don’t we ask Ms. Shaw?”

He looks ready to murder me.

Ms. Shaw turns as she and everyone in the vicinity hears.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, not sorry at all. “Bertrand—who works here at the school as a course advisor—was just telling me how much he loves Citizen Kane.”

She looks intrigued. “Oh, really?”

“Absolutely. And it’s just killing us that we can’t remember the name of the actress who played Susan. Wasn’t she wonderful?”

Ms. Shaw smiles at Bertrand. “It’s understandable you’d have trouble remembering as she actually went by a couple of names...”

I give Bertrand a wink—he gives me a fulminous glare—and ease around the door to peer into the auditorium. There are still five minutes before class, but because Bertrand’s likely to kill me if I go back outside, I can’t risk stalling in the hallway until the lights go down.

I check the seats Andi and I occupied the past two weeks, but I don’t see her as I slide into a chair in the back row and pull out my book.

“Kellan McVey!” comes an extraordinarily loud whisper. Everyone turns to see Marcela picking her way over people’s knees as she clambers down the row toward me. I look around, paranoid, and there, halfway down this side of the auditorium, is a messy blond bun atop a familiar face. Andi. There are a lot of awful components to this scenario, but the worst one is realizing that the Andi I know—the Andi I knew—would have hurled something at me, or at least stormed up here and cursed me out. This Andi has no reaction whatsoever, she just calmly turns around to face the front.

“What are you doing all the way over here?” Marcela grunts, dropping into the seat beside me. “And where’s your childhood—”

She follows my gaze to where Andi sits, then immediately whirls to glare at me. “What did you do?” she demands.

“Wha—I—Nothing!”

“You definitely did something. Why else would she change seats?”

“I don’t know. Better sightlines?”

“You’re an asshole and you did something, but I don’t have time to dwell on that right now. I need you to invite me to the Alpha Sigma Phi Halloween party.”

“You got banned from that.”

“It wasn’t a ban, per se—”

“I’m pretty sure I heard Dane say, ‘You are banned from here, Marcela Lopes.’”

“That was just a formality. I need an invite.”

“They haven’t even been sent out yet. And if I invite you, will you leave me alone forever?”

“No. Nate’s going to be there, so I’ll need you to be my date, too.”

“I will not be your—Wait. How is Nate getting in?”

Her expression clouds. “He said he’s going with one of the volleyball players.”

I think about Andi. “How does Nate get all these hot girls?”

“Beats the fuck out of me. Anyway, invitation?”

A tittering laugh interrupts the conversation and we turn to see Ms. Shaw leaving Bertrand as she comes inside to start the class. Bertrand studies his feet for a second, then walks away, a tiny smile on his face.

“If you want Nate so bad, you should just ask him out,” I tell Marcela, deciding I’m on a roll with the love advice this morning.

“I don’t want him,” she protests. “And besides—I did ask him.”

“What? When?”

“Last semester.” She crosses her arms and legs and huffs, and with her pigtails and knee socks, she does a pretty solid moping schoolgirl impression. “We had this big unspoken thing going on, and finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I mean, it was like four months of foreplay. Nora was spending the night at Crosbie’s so I prepared a whole seduction for Nate, and when he showed up at the apartment he just...cringed.”

“Cringed?”

“Yeah. Like, big time. It was mortifying. And if you tell anyone this, I’ll deny it. And kill you.”

“Get in line. Plus who would believe a nerd like that would reject you?”

She studies her fingernails. “Well, he did. Then school wrapped up and I went away for the summer and we’ve hardly spoken since.”

“Listen,” I say, as Ms. Shaw fiddles with the mic. “Speaking from personal experience, the guy dodged a bullet because you’re a fucking psycho. But speaking as someone who reluctantly speaks to you...” I risk a glance at Andi. “Maybe you’re more than he’s ready for.”

“If you’re talking about commitment or whatever, Nate’s been ready for marriage since he was like, five. He already knows what tux he’s wearing.”

“Dear God. What do you see in this guy?”

“Good morning, everyone,” Ms. Shaw says. If I’m not mistaken, she looks a littler perkier than normal. I didn’t really think I-wear-shorts-year-round-and-stalk-students-Bertrand stood a chance with her, but I suppose crazier things have happened.

I shush Marcela as Ms. Shaw talks about the morning’s movie, another black and white film. I sigh when she says it’s a silent film, then perk up when she says it’s called Battleship Potemkin. Battleships are cool in any color. There’s another assignment due next week, similar to the last.

“Invite me to the party and I’ll help you with your homework,” Marcela whispers.

“I’ll invite you to the party if you leave,” I lie.

She socks me in the shoulder. “Deal.”

Battleship Potemkin turns out to be pretty awesome. Before it begins Ms. Shaw tells us about how revolutionary it was and explains why, so I pay attention to these details while I’m watching and ignore the fact that there’s no dialogue.

Another person who needs no words is Andi. It seems we’re on the very same page today, because the second the lights come on she’s out of her seat and out the doors before I’ve even put my book in my bag. She doesn’t spare me a look or pause to flip me off.

I sigh and rub my temples. I feel a major headache coming on, and it might have more to do with guilt than muscle tension. I walk outside, wincing in the bright sunlight, and sigh when I hear my name. I turn in a circle when I hear it again, eventually spotting Dane, Choo and Crosbie at the edge of the walkway.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Crosbie answers. “Marcela told Nora you were here, and we wanted to work out, so we came over.”

I’m torn between wanting to blow them off and the growing ache that threatens to split my head in two. A dozen wind sprints would help enormously. More of their teasing would not. Not when the guilt I’ve been trying to keep at bay has bashed its way through my defenses and is now whaling away at the inside of my skull.

“I don’t have my—”

“I brought you a change of clothes,” Dane says, hoisting up his bag as we start walking toward the track. “And you’re already wearing your sneakers.”

“Is the track—”

“Free,” Choo answers. “I checked.”

“Well then. Super.”

Crosbie shoots me a weird look and falls back as Choo and Dane walk on, Dane explaining to Choo why lining the perimeter of the frat house with tiki torches for the Halloween party would be considered a fire hazard.

“What’s going on?” Crosbie asks.

“Nothing. Why?”

“Marcela said something happened.”

“I hate Marcela.”

“Has she been trying to get you to invite her to the Halloween party?”

“Yeah.”

“Be careful. I saw her looking at couples costumes on her phone.”

“Duly noted.”

“Seriously,” he says, nudging my arm. “What’s going on?”

I hesitate, then chicken out. “Nothing, dude. Just a headache.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

We reach the gym and go inside. The familiar smells of sweat and chlorine instantly begin to ease the tension in my neck and shoulders and I know I’ve made the right decision coming here. I can hear the showers running at the back of the room, but it’s otherwise empty as we claim a bench and toss our stuff into lockers. I strip off my clothes and reach for the T-shirt Dane’s extending, glaring at Choo when he snatches it away.

“What the hell?”

“What’s wrong with you, bro?”

I point. “You stole my shirt.”

“Like, ten girls said hi to you on the way here, and you didn’t notice a single one.”

“I—”

“And like, eight of them were hot,” he adds accusingly.

“I have a headache,” I snap. “I wasn’t paying attention.” I snag the T-shirt from his hand and yank it on.

“We know you didn’t hook up with Jackie after Open Mic,” Dane pipes up. “She texted her friend when we were at the bar and said she was alone.”

“So? I—”

“Had a headache?” Crosbie looks so genuinely concerned I almost tell him. Then the showers shut off and I shut up.

“It’s nothing. Let’s go.”

The track is deserted, and the contrast of the red clay, green grass and waves of silver bleachers helps ease the tension just a little bit more. We jog a slow lap to get the blood flowing, then sit on the grass to stretch. I’ve almost convinced myself my headache worries are a thing of the past when I notice the guys exchanging what are supposed to be covert looks.

“What?” I demand. “What awful thing are you planning?”

Crosbie clears his throat. “We need to talk about your feelings.”

“What?”

It’s Choo’s turn. “I know you think we’re just a bunch of really handsome, funny, smart jocks, but we’re also very, very insightful.”

“Wrong on all counts.”

“And now that we know Walsh is your first love...” Dane begins.

“I don’t love her!”

“...and we know Crick came to the bar alone after Open Mic because Walsh said she had a headache...”

I close my eyes.

“And you’ve been avoiding us ever since...”

“And Marcela said Walsh was avoiding you...”

“That means you’re either secretly gay or pining over your first love. Both of which are fine.”

“Do you guys ever talk about anyone who’s not me?”

They look at each other doubtfully. “No. Not really.”

I sigh. “I’m not gay and I don’t love Andi.”

“Uh-huh,” they prompt. “But?”

“There is no ‘but!’ Growing up she was my best friend and my worst enemy, all in one. I never really hooked up with a lot of girls in high school and I didn’t want to come to Burnham a virgin, so the summer before I left, she...helped me out. A bunch of times.”

“Sexually?” Dane confirms.

“Yes. Obviously.”

“And now?” he presses.

“Now what?”

“Is she ‘helping you’ again?”

“No. I—She—”

Their expressions can only be described as pitying. They feel bad for me. I bailed on Andi without explanation and I’m the one they feel sorry for.

“We hooked up after Open Mic Night,” I blurt out. “It wasn’t planned, it just happened.”

They don’t look terribly surprised by the news.

“Was it bad?”

“No, it was fucking awesome. It was... I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like how people must feel when they look at the Mona Lisa and suddenly understand why it’s so famous. It’s like a secret only some people get let in on. I don’t... I don’t know.”

Dane and Choo look confused, but Crosbie nods wisely. “I do,” he says. “It’s having sex with somebody you care about. When it’s not just about getting off and going home. It’s more.”

I scrub my hands over my face as though I can wipe away the shame. “I left,” I mumble through my fingers.

Dane reaches over and pulls down my hands. “You what?”

“I left her,” I repeat, studying my sneakers. “After. When she was sleeping. I just left.”

“You left her a note?” Choo asks hopefully.

“You left to get flowers and came right back?” Dane tries. Their naïve optimism makes me feel even worse. Throws into even starker relief the extent of my selfishness.

“Did you apologize?” Crosbie asks.

I exhale. “I haven’t called. I haven’t texted. No flowers. No note.”

Choo and Dane look horrified, but Crosbie, who knows me better than anyone, just looks sad.   “Last year,” he says, “when you went through that whole sex list, contacted all of those girls and asked them to get tested, you apologized. I heard you.”

“Well, I had to say something.”

“You apologized because you were sorry,” he says. “And because you didn’t really care if they forgave you. And now you’re avoiding Walsh because you’re afraid she won’t.”

“When did you become so insightful?”

“I told you,” Choo says. “We’re not just handsome, funny, handsome jocks.”

I try not to laugh. “Before I left,” I begin. “That last summer at home with Andi, something happened. I don’t know what it was. We went to this baseball game and on the way back she froze me out. It was like she just changed her mind about me. The flip of a switch. Best friends. Sex friends. No friends. I got here and I just wanted to forget it. To get over it.”

“And you got gonnorhea instead.”

“Why does everyone insist on bringing that up?”

“Because it’s sick but funny, since it’s curable.”

“I’m afraid to talk to her. I’m afraid I’m still that guy in the front seat, watching her in the back, trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong.”

“You know what you did wrong,” Crosbie says. “What you don’t know how to do is apologize.”

“I can totally apologize.”

“Really?” Dane says, scratching his temple. “Because last year you walked into the dining room naked when I was having dinner with Bailey, and you didn’t apologize then.”

“It was a joke!”

“She finished that meatloaf and went straight home.”

“That might be because you made her meatloaf.”

“I bought that meatloaf.”

“We’re getting off track,” Choo interjects. “What about that time you said you would buy eight thousand tiki torches from my uncle, but then you didn’t?”

“That never happened, buddy.”

“But it still could.”

“You apologized to me,” Crosbie points out. “After Chrisgiving. You sent no fewer than three hundred and twenty-two texts.”

Choo and Dane look at me askance. “What?”

“I was very sorry,” I mutter. “And it was more like eighty.”

“So you know what to do,” Crosbie says matter-of-factly. “It’s just a matter of doing it.”

I sigh and pick at a piece of grass. “What do I say?”

* * *

When I think of apologies, I think of long, rambling speeches full of tears, promises and excuses. I don’t think Andi would believe any of that, so in the end, I keep it simple. I’m sorry, I type. I stare at my phone, wondering what else to add. An emoticon? Probably not. More words? I flick my thumbs over the keypad. I panicked. It’s me, not you. I hate me too. Did you like Battleship Potemkin? I did.

Delete, delete, delete.

I’m sorry stares back at me like it’s daring me to press send. I take a deep breath, add a period so it’s a complete sentence, and take the dare.

I instantly want to take it back. I want to reach into whatever invisible network will relay my message to Andi and un-say it all. But I can’t.

Not that it matters, in the end, because Andi doesn’t reply. By the time Friday night rolls around, she hasn’t answered, not even to tell me to fuck off. The cold shoulder is her patented move, as we know. The only difference between then and now is that I know exactly what I did wrong.

I work on my Film Theory assignment, which is to discuss the Kuleshov Effect, an editing technique used in Battleship Potemkin and created by its director. It seems obvious now, but back when the movie was made, I guess no one else had come up with the idea. The basic premise is that when people see two or more images in sequence, they derive additional meaning from them. For example, if they see a man’s face then see a hamburger, they reason that the man is hungry. That same man’s face and a crying baby suggests that the man feels empathy. The same face followed by a picture of a monster implies the man is scared.

I think of Andi seeing my apology text. What’s she feeling? Rage, probably.

I finish typing the essay, press save, then lean back in my chair and look around the empty apartment. I’m bored. I’m lonely. Crosbie and Nora are gone on a romantic weekend he’s been secretly planning for a month, Choo and Dane have away games, and I’m...here.

I find a backpack, toss in a pair of swim trunks and a towel, and jog over to the gym. It’s eight o’clock and though they’re open for another two hours, the pool is empty when I dive into the deep end. I guess people have better things to do with their Friday nights.

I swim along the bottom as far as I can, surfacing for air at the halfway mark. After ten laps my lungs and shoulders are burning, but I pick up the pace. Ten laps, then ten more. When I’m ready to drown I brace my forearms on the edge of the pool and attempt to recover. I finish up with five laps of back stroke, then stagger out and take a shower, rinsing away the potent chlorine smell before getting dressed and starting the short walk home.

I feel exhausted and better. Better mostly because I’m so physically drained I can’t think about how guilty I feel about the whole Andi situation, and—

I come to an abrupt halt in front of my apartment. I have one foot on the bottom step but my brain orders me to freeze. The door is open. Just a crack, but still. It’s open when it should be closed. And locked. Now a thin shaft of light beams onto the steps from the lamp I left on in the living room.

I rack my brain, trying to convince myself I must have forgotten to lock up in my haste to leave, but I know I didn’t. I remember turning key, hearing it click, tossing the keys in my bag. My recently-calmed heart starts jack hammering in my chest. I pull out my phone and inch up the steps, giving the door a tentative judge. It swings open and there’s no more kidding myself.

From here it’s easy to see that the door jamb is damaged, the wood pried open by a crowbar or some crude tool. My neatly ordered shoes are messed up in the foyer and are now joined by the dining table, one chair and a couch cushion. At the top of the stairs is the upended couch, which blocks the rest of the room from view.

My hand is shaking as I back down the steps and retreat to the curb, looking at the parked, silent cars lining the street on either side. I don’t see anyone watching me, no one waiting to make a getaway. They’re either hiding upstairs or long gone. I dial 9-1-1.

* * *

The police arrive in less than ten minutes. I’m still on the sidewalk chatting with Naomi, the operator, who seems happy to have someone to talk to. We say goodbye as the patrol car pulls up and two officers, one male and one female, climb out. They introduce themselves Officers Wong and Fisher and instruct me to wait at the curb as they approach the front door. They don’t look nearly as scared as I feel and now that Naomi is gone, I also feel very alone. I start to call Crosbie, then stop. He’s at some B&B in Cannon Beach, probably sprinkling rose petals on the bed or feeding Nora grapes; he doesn’t want to hear from me. It’s ten o’clock, so Choo and Dane are probably watching tape after their games or traveling back to the hotel. I send them both a text asking them to call, but don’t expect a response and don’t get one.

I shiver, adrenaline wearing off and leaving me in a damp sweatshirt with wet hair and a briskly cold October night, the temperature in the forties. The front door swings open and the Officer Wong gestures for me to come in.

“Place is empty,” he says. “Ransacked, unless you decorated like this?”

I smile weakly at the lame attempt at levity, and he steps back as I enter. I try to close the door but the jamb is ruined and the lock won’t catch.

“You live with anybody?”

“No.”

“All right. Don’t touch anything, but take a quick look around, tell me if you notice anything missing. Did you keep any cash in here? Valuables? Anything somebody would want to steal?”

“No. I don’t think so.” I climb the stairs and ease around the upended couch. The television is still on the console, its screen smashed in, most likely with a baseball bat or the same crowbar they used on the front door. My game system is gone but my laptop is sitting on its side on the floor, most likely dumped off the dining table before they hurled it down the stairs.

What little food was in the refrigerator is now all over the place, a handful of eggs tossed at the wall, their whites and yolks drying in streaky smears, a carton of milk oozing over the counter. In the bathroom the mirror is shattered, reflecting my pale, fragmented face from the sink.

My bedroom wasn’t spared. The bed has been tossed, the closet emptied, and it smells distinctly, disgustingly, of urine. I return to the living room, keeping my back to the police officers as I struggle to stay calm.

“Just the game...” I manage, pointing toward its empty space on the console. “Just the game system is missing, as far as I can tell. I had my wallet and my phone on me, my laptop is still here, just...” I swipe a hand over my eyes. I cannot be crying over a break-in. It’s just the stress of third year and Bertrand and Andi and all the swimming. My eyes are watering because of the chlorine. That’s it.

“You have somewhere you can stay for the night?” Officer Fisher asks.

I think about Crosbie’s room, but he’s gone and I don’t have a key. I think about the frat house, but I’m really not in the mood for that place on a Friday night. Marcela’s got a couch, but Marcela will probably take a picture of me sleeping and send it to Nate, so that’s out.

“A friend?” she prompts. “A girlfriend?”

“Yes,” I say abruptly, as it dawns on me. The one person I know who’s eternally upbeat and hopefully home. “Jackie.”

“Sure,” she says. “Why don’t you give her a call?”

“I will.”

They get on their radios and ignore me as I find Jackie’s number in the call log—I should really add her to my contacts—and press Call. She answers on the second ring.

“Kellan?” she says.

“Jackie,” I say. “Hey.”

“Hey. How are you?” She sounds curious, but not unhappy.

“Ah, not that great, to be honest. Are you home by any chance?”

“Yeah, I just got home from practice.”

I hesitate. “Oh.”

“Why?” she asks quickly. “Where are you?”

“Um...” I look around the apartment. If not for the invasive, violating smell of urine, I could probably convince myself to stay here, piling furniture in front of the broken door and sleeping with a knife under my pillow. But I can’t. “I got robbed,” I hear myself say. “I’m at home and the police are here.”

Jackie’s horrified gasp is gratifying. “Oh my goodness!”

“Yeah. It’s pretty bad.”

“You should come over,” she says promptly. “I’ll be pretty boring company—and I’m going to smell like camphor—but you can totally stay here.”

“Really? You don’t mind?” I picture the tiny bedroom; the tiny bed.

“Of course not,” she replies. “Do you want me to come meet you first?”

I look around at the disarray. “No,” I tell her. “Thanks, though. I’ll just wrap up here and come over when we’re through.”

“All right,” she says. “I’ll see you soon. There’s probably some vodka floating around. Maybe that will help.”

I nod to myself. “Let’s find out.”