chapter eleven

I wake up to tiny shafts of light peeking around the edges of a strange curtain, slanting over cinderblock walls, a bar fridge, a desk, a wardrobe, a laundry basket. None of it’s mine. I’ve woken up in strange places before, but something about this feels different. Then I spot the Oakland A’s jersey draped over the desk chair and I remember where I am and how I came to be here.

I can’t see Andi on the bed but I can hear her soft snoring and I lift my head just enough to see the numbers on the alarm clock. 8:05. I lie back down and wait. I don’t actually know what I’m waiting for, I just know that whatever I’m waiting on is less terrible than the consequences of sneaking out again.

I close my eyes and think about my apartment. My landlord promised to have the door replaced first thing this morning, though I’m on my own for dealing with the mess inside. I can straighten up the furniture and buy some new groceries—and a television and dishes and linens—but I’ll have to hire someone to clean up the dried food and the mess in the bedroom.

I reach for my phone, which charged over night, and find a missed call and voice message from an unknown number. I half expect it to be a telemarketer, but it’s not. It’s Ivanka Ling. “Hi, Kellan,” she says, her voice smooth. “I hope you remember me. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on advancing to the audition rounds for the She Shoots, She Scores segment host position. The auditions will be in December, which gives you plenty of time to prepare—not that you’ll need it. You’ll receive an email with more details, but I wanted to be the first to say congrats—I look forward to seeing you then. Talk soon.”

After the message I stare at the ceiling for ten full minutes. Ivanka Ling just called me. I have goose bumps, but the weird kind. The kind that make me wonder why I don’t have the good kind. Why I’m excited to have succeeded at something, but I’m not more excited. It’s kind of like the excess I enjoyed my first two years at Burnham: it’s great, but it feels like something I should want more than something I do want.

Andi groans and rubs a hand over her face, as though my guilt is waking her up. I’m practically crawling out of my skin with the urge to leave, but something makes me stay, something more primitive than fear or obligation or guilt. It’s the same thing that made me come here in the first place. Her.

I hear her stretch and mutter to herself, slowly quieting as she, like me, recalls the events of the previous night. I quickly stuff my phone back in my bag and after a second the bed squeaks and Andi peers over the edge to see me lying innocently on the floor. A swath of blond hair sneaks out of its bun and covers half her face before she pushes it back, and the collar of her old T-shirt droops over her shoulder, revealing skin burnished gold by the morning sun.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she replies, yawning widely. “You’re still here?”

“Yep.”

“How long have you been up?”

“About an hour.”

“Why didn’t you...”

It doesn’t take a genius to know how that sentence ends. “Leave?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t want to.” I’m not about to admit I was afraid.

She rubs a knuckle over her eyes and something in my chest tightens. For so long I’ve avoided awkward morning afters, laughing at my friends’ embarrassing horror stories and doing my utmost to dodge my own. Now here I am, a morning after a night that involves no sex at all, knowing that even with our clothes on and the lights off, we revealed more of ourselves than we ever have. It’s a strange feeling, like we’re somehow closer together and farther apart than when we started. Then I wonder if instead of being introspective like me, Andi’s thinking it was all a big mistake.

“Did you want me to go?” I ask, sitting up. “I can totally—”

“Well, you need to go eventually,” Andi says through another yawn. “But not right this second, I guess.”

“Okay, because I don’t actually have a place to go to right now.”

“You weren’t hallucinating that stuff about vandals? I thought you were drunk.”

“I wish.” I tell her about the whole of last night, the break-in, the stuff with Jazzy, attempting to cover up the list, the campus police, being ditched on the Frat Farm.

“That’s rough,” she says when I finish. “Do you want some cereal?”

I’m expecting a much different response and it takes me a second to form a response. “I guess.”

“Well, that’s all I have,” she says, misreading my hesitation.

“Cereal’s fine, Andi, but I just told you about the worst night of my life, and instead of compassion you offer cereal?”

She’s already pulling two bowls, two spoons and a box of marshmallow cereal out of a desk drawer. The sound of her pouring drowns out my righteousness.

“I can also offer two extra rainbows,” she says, plucking marshmallows out of one bowl and adding them to the other. “Better?”

“Give me a horseshoe, too.”

“Fine, but that’s it. Get the milk.”

I have to lever up a corner of the mattress to make enough room for the fridge door to open, but eventually I retrieve the carton and hand it to Andi. She tops up the bowls then passes me one, sitting cross-legged on her bed while we eat. It feels like we’re kids again, when sleepovers held no more weight or meaning than the name implied, when you got dressed and ate breakfast and went home and hung out again after lunch.

I miss that. I miss the ease of it, the reliability. The unacknowledged comfort of having someone who was going to be there whenever you needed them because that was just what they did. And now that I’m sitting here feeling it again, I finally understand what it is that Crosbie feels for Nora. Why he changed for her, why he gave up so much. Because what he gave up was nothing compared to what he got in return.

“What?” Andi asks, brows narrowed suspiciously.

“What?”

“You like you’re thinking about something.”

“Well, I’m a thoughtful person.”

“Liar.” She chomps on the last of her cereal then drinks the milk out of the bowl while typing on her laptop with her free hand. I recognize the login screen for Burnham’s email system and after a second Andi gasps.

“What?” I ask, sitting up a little straighter.

“I get to audition for She Shoots, She Scores,” she says, sounding stunned. “They liked my application. They called it unpretentious and ‘almost alarmingly well-informed.’”

“That’s great!” I exclaim, feeling far happier for her than I did for myself. “They made the right choice.”

She glances at me. “What about you? You must have gotten an email too. Want to check?”

“Ah...” I know if I check on her laptop she’ll read over my shoulder and I don’t want her to see any personalized messages from Ivanka Ling. “I’ll look on my phone,” I say, pulling it back out of my bag. My heart pounds guiltily as I call up my email, scroll past missed messages from Bertrand, and find one from She Shoots Productions. I relax a bit when I see the same form letter they must have sent to everyone who advanced, no special notes from Ivanka.

“Well?” Andi prompts.

“I get to audition,” I tell her, trying to sound shocked and enthused.

She rolls her eyes and stands. “Well, no kidding. It’s you. The only surprise is that they’re letting anyone else try out.”

I stand instead of replying, instead of admitting that Ivanka has visited, emailed, and called me. I know people think things come too easily to me. I don’t know if they come easy, but I know I’ve taken too many of them for granted and I’m going to make better use of my opportunities going forward.

I help Andi put the bed back together and when there’s nothing else to do, we stand there. I see her eying her shower kit, a little basket with shampoo and toothpaste and soap. I recognize the familiar red and green lettering on the toothpaste.

“Remember when we used to trade toothpaste?” we say at the same time. There’s a moment’s pause before we both smile. Growing up we hated the toothpaste our moms bought but liked the kind we had at each other’s house, so at bedtime we used to swap toothbrushes through the window, load them with toothpaste, then pass them back.

Andi fiddles with the tube, watching her unpainted nails twist the cap without actually trying to loosen it. It somehow feels like so much hangs in this one strange moment and though Andi is probably the person I’ve spoken to most in my life, finding the right words feels like the hardest thing in the world.

“Well,” she says. “Let’s go brush our teeth.” She scoops up the shower kit and a towel and I follow her down the hall to the co-ed bathroom. At nine a.m. on a Saturday there’s only one shower running and no one at the row of sinks and mirrors. It’s a basic public bathroom with an unappealing cream and orange color scheme and every surface that’s not covered in mirror covered in tile.

Andi sets the basket on the counter between us, refastens her hair, and quickly washes her face. I do the same then watch as she puts toothpaste on her toothbrush and gets to work. I squeeze some onto my finger and do the best I can.

“I floss and floss every day,” she says, the words muffled by the toothpaste. “To help avoid tooth decay.”

I laugh and spit into the sink, recalling the Avilla dentist singing during each cleaning. “I brush them slow, not too fast, because I want my teeth to last.”

Andi laughs. “Dr. Reyes wasn’t much of a poet, but—”

She breaks off as the bathroom door swings open and Jazzy steps in. She’s wearing a bright pink housecoat, matching plastic sandals, and carries a shower basket twice the size of Andi’s. She comes to a stop as she spots us, but doesn’t look terribly surprised or dismayed. Instead she arches a brow at Andi and offers a curt “Good luck” before disappearing into the shower area.

I scoop water into my hand and rinse my mouth. “Guess she’s still mad.”

* * *

I get the official Alpha Sigma Phi Halloween Party invite email a few days after my night with Andi. I haven’t seen her since, both of us needing some time to let our newly mended fences settle a little.

The last two years I went to the party alone so I wouldn’t be limited in my choice of hookups afterward. It might not be honorable, but at least it’s honest. So it’s kind of jarring to realize that the first person I think of when I read the invitation now is Andi.

This year’s party theme is “Puntastic” and I have absolutely no idea what that might mean. I figure I can ask Andi when I see her, and because I know she has practice on Tuesdays, I time my run so I’m jogging past the gym when she steps out the front doors. Or rather, I’m running my ninth circle around the parking lot when she steps out.

It’s a drizzly October afternoon, the sky gray and low, the ground pockmarked with puddles. Andi’s wearing sweatpants and a jacket, the hood up to shield against the light rain, and it takes her a second to spot me looking faux-surprised to bump into her.

“Hey,” she says, zipping her jacket up to her chin to ward against the cold.

I’m sweating from the run, the only honest part of this encounter, and I’m too warm in my shorts and sweatshirt. “Hey,” I reply. “Where are you coming from?”

“Practice,” she answers. “Every Tuesday.”

I try to look like I’m just remembering this. “Oh, right.”

I haven’t been on a lot of proper dates. Maybe none, now that I think about it. Making plans generally consisted of casual texts asking “What’s up?” and “Want to hang out?” all of which was not-so-subtext for “Let’s get something to eat then fool around.” Now that I’m face to face with Andi, the party invitation saved on my phone so I can ask her to define “puntastic,” I can’t think of a single thing to say.

“I’m starving,” she announces when we’ve stood in the parking lot for too long. Maybe we said everything we could say last time we saw each other and there’s nothing left. “I’m going to get a burger or something.”

“Sure,” I say, though she didn’t ask me. “I’ll come.”

“Oh,” she says. “Please do.”

I have my earbuds in, the music turned off, and now I take them out and tuck them in my pocket. I use a sleeve to wipe my face as best I can, feeling water condense on the end of my chin.

The volleyball team practices in Burnham’s third gym, the one reserved for the teams that aren’t doing well and don’t merit space in the newer and more centrally located gyms. It’s a ten-minute walk to the heart of campus, plenty of time to work my way around to inviting Andi to the party.

“Do you know where you want to eat?” I say instead.

“Hmm...” She absently rubs her stomach. “The Sling.”

I can’t hide a grimace. Last year I’d had to track down a sex partner known as Smells Like French Fries and suggest she get tested for gonorrhea. She’d suggested I go fuck myself and thrown a half-eaten stack of pancakes at my head.

“How about sushi?” I try.

“Nah. I want something hot.”

“What about the Mexican place? They have spicy food.”

“I’m really in the mood for a burger.”

“We could go off campus.”

Andi stops and stares at me. “What are you doing?”

I try to look innocent. “What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you want to go to The Sling?”

“Um...” I study the skyline. “I just...” Andi and I may not be the best at vocalizing our feelings, but we don’t lie to each other, either, and since every bad thing I do has a tendency to come back and bite me in the ass, covering up my Sling horror story is bound to backfire in spectacular fashion.

“Just spit it out, Kellan.”

“Remember how I told you that last year I had to track down the girls I’d had sex with and tell them to get tested? Well, I didn’t exactly know everybody’s name and one of the girls worked at The Sling and when I spoke to her she realized I couldn’t remember her and she got pretty mad and threw pancakes at me.” I say the words as fast as I can, but Andi still manages to catch them.

Now she’s trying not to laugh.

“It’s not funny,” I snap. “It was very upsetting.”

“For who?”

“For...” I falter. Probably for both of us, but only one person ended up having to wash maple syrup out of their hair. “Anyway, that’s why.”

“If you’re trying to leave the past in the past, you might want to get over your fear of pancakes and step foot back inside that restaurant.”

“Who said I’m trying to leave the past in the past?”

“Kellan 2.0?”

“Oh. Right.”

“And maybe if your waitress hookup sees you acting like a mature, normal guy she’ll forget how much she hates you.”

When we reach The Sling ten minutes later, it’s clear that Savannah—Smells Like French Fries—not only remembers me, but still hates me. We follow the swish of her long dark braids to a corner table, and Andi raises a brow when Savannah fairly slams the menus on the table before stalking away.

“Thank you,” I call, maturely and normally.

“Don’t make it worse,” Andi whispers.

A few guys in Burnham jackets call out greetings from a nearby table and I wave back before sitting opposite Andi, ready to get back to the point of today’s encounter: the party.

“Fancy seeing you two here,” says a gratingly familiar voice.

“It’s worse,” I mumble, closing my eyes.

Marcela pulls up a seat, straddles it backwards, and smiles at us. “Did you two kiss and make up? Or not kiss and make up? What’s going on here, exactly?”

“We’re friends,” Andi answers, picking up her menu.

“Now you know so you can leave,” I say, ignoring the way the word “friend” stings. I mean, it’s a nice word. I’ve been friends with Andi my whole life. But recent events have taken things to a whole new level of complicated and “friend” just doesn’t seem to cut it. Especially not when I’m trying to determine the best way to ask her to be my date.

Marcela takes my menu. “Have you ordered yet?”

“You stalked us here,” I say, taking back the menu. “You know we haven’t.”

“I’m getting a cheeseburger and a vanilla milkshake,” Andi announces. “What are you having?”

“Does it matter?” I ask. “It’s going to be poisoned anyway.”

“In that case, you’d better order the onion rings,” Marcela says to Andi. “I don’t want his.”

Savannah drops by to take our orders with the bare minimum of civility, then stomps away dramatically.

“One of your sex friends?” Marcela guesses.

“I wouldn’t call her a friend, exactly. But speaking of friends...” I pull out my phone for an unconvincing segue way. “Do either of you know what ‘puntastic’ means? I got the Halloween Party invite and I have no idea what type of costume I’m supposed to wear.”

“It means your costume should be a pun,” Andi says. “Like, cereal killer, for example. Where you dress up like someone who kills boxes of cereal. Or pig in a blanket, where you’re dressed like a pig wrapped up in a blanket.”

“Or a social butterfly,” Marcela chimes in. “A butterfly covered in social media icons.”

“Oh,” I say, like I get it. “Cool.” To Andi I add, “Are you...”

“What’s Julian going as?” Marcela interrupts.

I freeze mid-sentence and look between my two lunch dates.

“I’m not sure,” Andi answers, leaning back as Savannah carefully places her milkshake on the table, then nearly douses me with my glass of water as she sets it down.

“Thank you,” I call.

Andi sips her milkshake. “He’s talking about coordinating outfits, like deviled eggs or something. I think he wants me to be the egg.”

I try to sip the not-spilled portion of my water. “You’re going with Crick?” I manage.

The table jolts, and I don’t know if it’s my twist of surprise or someone trying to kick me and missing.

“Yeah,” Marcela says. “Obviously. What should you and I go as?”

My standard response to Marcela’s self-invitations has always been a firm no, but the news that Andi already has a date—and that date is Julian Crick—has sent today’s already tentative plan into a tailspin. I didn’t have a date in previous years because there was no one I wanted to go with—or go home with. But this year is different. And this girl is taken.

“We’ll think of something,” I say.

Both Marcela and Andi look gratifyingly stunned by my non-rejection.

Unsurprisingly, Marcela is first to speak. “Awesome! I’ll text you some ideas.”

“Awesome,” I echo. “Can’t wait.”

Savannah returns with our food, a burger each for me and Andi, a plate of onion rings for Marcela.

“Enjoy,” she says in a tone that clearly means “Choke to death.”

I wince and peel back the buns, then the bacon, then the beef, but I don’t see any dead mice or ghost peppers hidden inside.

“Many poisons are tasteless and odorless,” Andi says helpfully.

I give her a dark look as Marcela snickers. “Thank you.”

She smirks and holds my stare. “That’s what friends are for.”