Chapter Twenty-Four: Friends Don’t Let Friends Make Naked Mistakes
“I aced my routine,” I tell Cami and Sarah while scooping a huge spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I contemplate an extra couple of hours in the gym versus finishing the entire tub and, what the heck, I’ll sweat it out. This is a complete ice cream emergency.
“Then would you mind telling us why you’re putting more sugar inside you than all of Willy Wonka’s factory?” Sarah pushes the bridge of her reading glasses further up her nose and gazes at me with concern written all over her face. She’s aware of the situation with Cole; I’m sure Cami must’ve warned her of the crazy, possibly suicidal roommate, and she’s been on Hurricane Tessa watch all weekend.
“Hmm, that was a nice book,” I muse and reach for my ice cream again. I probably paint a pathetic picture. Ratty old pajamas with more holes than I’d like to count, hair unwashed for what’s probably day three, and surrounded by heaps and heaps of sugar; sugar is good.
Sugar doesn’t drop a Texas-sized bomb on you via the Internet.
Sugar doesn’t avoid you and start screening your calls.
Sugar sure as heck doesn’t take three days just to send an “I’m busy” text.
So, of course, I’d love to be left alone with sugar, but somehow, I’ve managed to find people who care about me and refused to let me streak around the campus naked on a sugar high.
Friends don’t let friends make naked mistakes.
I’m pretty sure they’ve barricaded my door and are now trying some form of counseling; little do they know, my issues may not have only outsold Vogue, let’s just say all of Condé Nast would have a tough time competing with my numbers.
“So, Lindsey actually said you have a shot at being on the team?”
I shrug, the audition and everything that followed is a little bit hazy. Cami did go with me for moral support, but I received the judgement in private. They didn’t think that I sucked, and I sure as heck wasn’t as flaky or prone to post-hangover tantrums like the rest of their freshman girls, so things were looking good for me. I’d receive an e-mail from them sometime this week, but some of the girls from the squad had already starting smiling at me, waving like they’d finally acknowledged me as one of their “people.” I’d say it’s a good start.
“I probably do, but then again, the rumor might just ruin everything.”
It’s funny, because back when people first found out that Cole and I were together, the frat and sorority crowd treated me like dirt, and now that they’ve started thinking that we’re no longer together, the reaction’s even worse.
How do I deal with these people?
Oddly enough, it’s not the relationship I’m worried about, in my heart I know and am convinced that Cole would never break my heart like that, that he’d sooner kill himself than put me through that kind of pain.
Knowing all of this doesn’t stop me from getting mad. I have an idea of what he’s doing, and it makes me want to go all the way up to New York and practice my nonexistent ninja skills on Nicole because she’s the one who started all of this. So much for trying to be a good person; it just came back to bite me in the butt.
Cami waves her hand, dismissing my worries. “Please, you’d be surprised by the kind of popularity you’re getting right now. You’re the mysterious girl that they know the freshman QB is absolutely batshit crazy about, but now they’re all wondering why he’s denying your relationship. The latest rumor is that you broke his heart, and now every guy on campus wants to hook up with you.”
I think I might just throw up. The idea of rumors and speculations finally manages to kill my appetite and I pack the stuff up. The ice cream goes back into the minifridge and I take a moment to get a grip.
“This is just like high school, only worse, because at least then I had a hope of escaping anywhere, well, basically here, but now what? Do I think about the next big thing? Grad school? Do grad students like to gossip, too?”
“Honey, it’s a good thing it’s college; the semester is going to start kicking all our asses pretty soon, and no one’s going to have time to be anything but the single reason why Starbucks stays in business.”
Sarah snorts. “She’s got a point. How do people even have the spare time to think about these things when I’m struggling to breathe under all these books?” She gestures to the hundreds of dollars’ worth of textbooks strewn over our room, and she’s right. Between going regularly to classes, working part time, and studying late into the night, it’s not really convenient to be dissecting someone else’s life.
“They aren’t the real problem, Tessa; have you tried calling Cole again?”
I snuggle inside my blankets and pull them tighter around me because suddenly I’m shivering.
“He’s not answering my calls or texts. I know he’s on some kind of a heroic mission to protect me, but this is just…”
“Stupid?” Sarah offers.
“Absolutely moronic?” Cami chimes in.
“A dick move,” I end, and then for some reason, the three of us start laughing. Laughing feels good, I haven’t laughed in a while now, and somehow now, with these two around me, I’m able to forget about my idiot boyfriend’s idiotic plans for just a second.
***
On day six post Cole’s breakthrough interview on the ESPN website, I’m still fielding calls from my friends and family. Of course, Beth, Megan, and my brother are fuming. They’ve seen zombie Tessa at her best, so it freaks them out that I might possibly revert to that, but I assure them that everything’s fine. They know that Nicole’s words could’ve had a domino effect because Cole’s like a DIY addict when it comes to his perceptions of my safety; he always wants to find ways to make me feel more protected, safer, comfortable.
I think in the end he forgets that he’s not supposed to be a winter coat, he’s supposed to be my boyfriend, my more.
But it’s exasperating to see how stubborn he is, and I’m not going to try forcing his hand when he’s so far away. I push myself into focusing on my classes, taking copious notes that are far more detailed than necessary, and then knocking a good few hours in the library. I’m still waiting to hear from Lindsey, but she said they needed at least a week to sort all the details and decide which freshman girl’s dreams to rip away from her.
With such pleasant thoughts, I make my way to Professor Flynn’s office to collect a paper for my British Lit class. The usual butterflies-in-my-stomach feeling is absent because I know I worked my butt off for this paper and am really proud of what I submitted. Professor Flynn’s class is one that I actually enjoy and don’t need multiple cups of coffee to survive. Her lectures are interesting and make you want to participate; it’s the only class where I speak up without the fear of being ridiculed or snickered at.
So, it comes as a definitely burning, hot steel rod in the chest when she places my paper in front of me and I see the letter “D-” encircled on the front.
For a couple of minutes, I think I refuse to blink or breathe. The other letters on the piece of paper in front of me start to jumble up, but that one letter glares at me, and I just can’t seem to stop looking at it.
Wow, have I ever gotten a grade this low?
And did I really have to get it now, in my first semester of college, when my self-confidence is already plummeting faster than Juicy Couture’s sales?
“B-but surely there must have been a mistake,” I stutter as I push the paper back toward Professor Flynn, who’s staring at me sympathetically. She knows how much work I’ve put into this, how many times I’ve been the only person coming to her during office hours to discuss it. I feel tears beginning to prick the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to be the wimp that cries in front of her teacher.
God, even I’m not that pathetic.
She sighs, “I’m afraid not, Tessa. I tried to point out what you were doing wrong all the times you came to see me, but you haven’t seemed to pick up on it. I was really disappointed with your work, but only because I expect so much more from you.”
And it just keeps getting worse.
My hands shake slightly as I skim through the paper that has more red ink on it than the printed black script. All those hours’ worth of research and going over the material again and again, how the hell did I end up getting a D-?
This could potentially screw up my entire GPA; the dance team and the student newspaper begin to look like pipe dreams. Does anyone even get anything below an A in this place?
“Could you tell me specifically what I did wrong? Because, honestly? I did everything I possibly could for your paper.”
Again, she looks at me pitifully. “You went about it the wrong way. As an introductory-level course, I wasn’t looking for groundbreaking research on Austen; however, I will commend you for your effort. Not even my senior students put that amount of work into their resources, but what you missed was the point of the paper. I didn’t want research, Tessa, I wanted spirit and originality. I wanted you to get your voice through to me in the paper, and all I received was you quoting and reiterating all that’s been said and done before. Your paper lacked creativity.”
Huh, good thing I’m choosing to becoming an English major. My noncreative self and I will surely flourish in the field.
I feel like the walls of her office are closing in on me. I want to argue more; actually, I want to throw a fit and call her out on her bullshit. Why did she not say these things when I was running draft after draft with her? Did she want to fail me and then shove all my hard work in my face, telling me that even my best isn’t good enough?
With quivering legs, I grab my paper and make a beeline for the door. I’m sure when I’m in a better state, I’ll reach out to her again and talk about a potential makeup paper, a redo or something I can do for extra credit, but right now, it’s either leaving her office or dunking her head in her fishbowl.
I make the better decision to leave.
***
To say I’ve had a rough couple of days would be a really bad idea because I might shoot the next person who looks at me like my dog’s recently been ran over. Sarah steers clear of me as I barrel through the door and begin changing into my workout clothes. I may have promised Bentley to not let my anger control me while working out, but it’s either go running or lock myself in the room and cry for days. The thought of my first-ever failing grade and Cole’s distance looms over me as I change and head out the door. I don’t even know where to go since Bentley’s probably training someone right now and will probably kick me out the door, judging by my mood.
In the end, I just decide to drive around for a bit; who cares if it’s Cole’s car that I’m driving and that every moment I’m assaulted with his smell and the memories we have in this car. Switching my phone off, I throw it in the back seat and select a random playlist on my iPod just to keep my thoughts busy. Practically, I know that one bad grade isn’t the end of the world, but someone should also have said that your first bad grade does seem like the end of your world.
I just failed my favorite class; do I even want to know how I’ve done in the others?
My grades were the one thing I thought I could rely on, that studying was something I totally had a handle on, and now even that security blanket’s been taken away from me—I just feel lost.
Because it’s November and we’re just starting to get our first inch of snow, it’s colder than I’d anticipated or dressed for. Cranking up the heating, I contemplate briefly about where my life’s heading at this point, but when that proves to be more depressing than anything else, I turn up the volume of the music and sing at the top of my lungs.
It helps just a little.
I go through multiple playlists as I drive in circles, to nowhere and anywhere. There’s a kind of peace associated with the freedom to lose yourself. I mean, if I’ve already hit rock bottom, I might as well enjoy it while I can. Tomorrow I go back to being good old Tessa, just going through the motions.
It’s a little after midnight by the time I get back to my residence hall. I’m damn near freezing because I had to find a parking space for this damn car; Cole left it here for me so that I could use it and wouldn’t have to walk all the way to his apartment for it. It’s little things like that that tell me not to believe the things that are being said about us.
But it’s still fudging infuriating that he won’t talk to me.
My anger has thawed a little, and my meltdown over the bad grade has gotten a little better. I’ll have to talk to Professor Flynn, beg her to give me another shot.
I’m lost in these thoughts, so when I step onto the stairs of my dorm, I miss the figure hunched down on the steps. But the sound of my footsteps alerts him, and there he is, standing right before me after straight-up ignoring me for a week.
“Thank Christ,” he breathes before nearly racing down the stairs toward me and enveloping me in his arms. I’m absolutely still, the shock is definitely the most potent of my feelings right now. Cole’s here and I’m in his arms, god, he’s here.
His voice is muffled as he’s buried his head into my shoulder. “Where were you? We’ve been trying to find you for ages. You took my car…I had no idea, Tessie…where’d you go?”
His breathing is heavy, and I can tell that he’s really upset at the thought of my getting lost, but even as I put my arms around him, I’m hit with a surge of anger and utter exhaustion.
“I’ve had a shitty day,” I mumble into his chest.
His pulls me farther into his chest and holds me like he’s never going to let go.
“I know, Shortcake, come on, let me take care of you.”
I don’t even have the energy to protest at this point. Like a ragdoll, I let him drag me back to his car, and this time, he gets into the driver’s seat.
What do I say to him?
“I can explain…” he begins, noticing how I’m more interested in staring out the window than catching up with him about his week-long disappearance.
“That’s such a clichéd beginning, don’t you think? I’d try to be more original if I were you.”
He sighs and doesn’t attempt to talk to me again. On reaching his building, we walk to his apartment in silence, not even attempting to hold hands. It’s quiet enough to tell me that his roommate’s not home. My eyes struggle to stay open as I trudge toward his room and into his closet. Here I’m comfortable, surrounded by all that’s familiar.
I change into one of his T-shirts and get into bed.
We’ve still not spoken a word.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow we should talk,” Cole says softly as he strips down to his boxers and gets into bed. He lies on his back and pulls me up so that my head rests on his chest, my arms go around his stomach, and my legs are tangled with his.
Maybe I nod, or maybe I just doze off.