Someone’s zipper clicks against the inside of the dryer. I look up, easily pulled away from the notes in front of me.
I’m sitting in the laundry room on Sunday night, studying for my only remaining final. I’ve already turned in my papers for my other classes. The first a piece on feminism, intersectionality and media called “The Taylor Swift Effect.” The idea was to examine whether the trendiness and popularity of feminism will create real and lasting activism or just more social media likes and no real change, as well as how having celebrity quasi-spokespeople for feminism affects what people think a feminist looks, acts and thinks like. My rhetoric paper was a blur, fifteen pages written in three days about JFK. With grade inflation, I’ll pull off a C, at least.
And obviously I turned in the first half of my project.
So now all that stands between me and the snow, turkeys, plastic yard Santas, cookies, absence of homework and, most likely, family drama of winter break is my sociology exam. It’s worth 30 percent of my grade, but I have a 97 percent as things stand, even with the few weeks I took the quizzes hungover or still drunk from Rush events. So I’m not too worried.
Actually, that’s not all that stands in my way. I still have to pack all my shit for a monthlong break. Which of course means catching up on three weeks of backed-up laundry.
A dryer beeps, and I try to refocus on reading through my notes. I flip through my flash cards again, interrupted every thirty seconds by that freakin’ beep.
“Cassie.”
“What?” I look up. Jordan stands in the doorway, a blue military-style duffel, the classic manly-man-I-don’t-do-laundry way to carry your dirty clothes, slung over his shoulder.
“I mean, hey.” I sit up straighter. “Sorry, I, uh, I’m just mad at the beeps.” He gives me an odd look but doesn’t say anything. As he sets his bag on the other side of the table, his eyes don’t leave me.
I look down at my hands and my note cards. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since our night of...nothing, it was nothing.
“Uh.” I look up. “Thanks, for, um, last night and everything.”
He looks down at his bag, tugging on the drawstring. “Don’t mention it.” He starts to pull out T-shirts, gray, blue and black, then shoves them into the washer with great purpose.
I turn back to my notes.
“You hungover today?”
What? “Oh, only a little.”
He smirks. “I’m jealous. I know when I first started drinking, I could black out and pop up the next morning and head to practice. Now I’m like an old man—too much Taaka and I’m bedridden for days.”
I laugh lightly. “I don’t think old men drink Taaka.”
“True.”
Something beeps again and luckily this time it’s the washer my clothes are in. I walk over and start to quickly throw them in a dryer, my mind still running through sociology terms.
I pause suddenly, staring down at the bright pink lace in my hand.
Fuck.
My underwear can’t go in the dryer, otherwise it will fall apart. It needs to be hung up to dry, but now Jordan’s here and...
I glance around the room. There’s a metal contraption on the other side of the room that’s meant for this, and it’s empty. That’s pretty typical, except for when there’s a career fair or formal, and it gets hidden under a rainbow of button-downs.
I’ve used it for my delicates before. But I also usually do my laundry at odd hours to avoid this kind of situation.
But with finals and the project and still showing up to frat events, I hadn’t had the time, and I need these things to dry before I can pack them, so...
I stand up straight and will myself not to blush as I cross the room and carefully, professionally hang the thong.
He whistles.
I turn around and flip him off, although the effect is probably diminished by my bright red cheeks.
“What?” He holds up his hands innocently.
“Don’t be a perv.”
“I can’t appreciate high fashion?”
I roll my eyes and walk back to the washer. I continue to unload it, praying I have a dress or something that can’t go in the dryer so my panties won’t be alone.
Unfortunately this load contains only two more lacy panties and three bras.
“It’s like a Christmas tree of lingerie.” He stands next to me as I hang the last bra, examining the display, head tilted to the side and hand on his chin.
I playfully hit him. “Focus on your own shit. There’s so much to do before we leave.”
“Not for me.”
I scoff. “Oh, I’m Jordan, I have my shit sooo together, blah, blah, blah.”
He sticks his tongue out at me, and I do the same in response.
Because Warren students come from so many places, even other countries, we have a weird schedule where we get off from Thanksgiving to January 2, so people don’t have to travel twice. Unfortunately, that also means packing for four and a half weeks before we leave.
Sliding up to sit on the table, he says, “I’m actually not going home.”
“What? Why, because of soccer?”
“Yes and no.” He swings his foot against the leg of the table. “They give us a week off for Thanksgiving and then again for Christmas.”
“Oh, that’s not too bad. You’d have a day of traveling each time, but that’s worth it for time at home, right?”
“Yeah, if you can afford it.”
I look up. Even by Warren standards, the Greek community is a bit of a rich kids’ club. The 1 percent of the .001 percent. Most of the kids in DTC live on Park Avenue or in Beverly Hills mansions, not...
“Where are you from again?”
“West Virginia.”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s far.”
“Yep.”
I lean against the washer and bite my lip. I think of the way financial aid is referred to around the house, the way people spend fortunes on speakers they’ll spill beer on and sports cars they’ll crash. I guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t quite fit in here.
“So what are you gonna do?”
“Huh?”
“During break?”
“Haven’t thought about it too much. Probably sleep. I’ve been missing that a lot lately.”
I nod.
“Play soccer, work out, read. I like to read when I have free time. Last summer I did The Iliad and—”
“The Iliad?”
He nods.
“Oh, c’mon,” I scoff. “People don’t read that shit for fun. No use in trying to impress me.”
He shrugs. “I’m serious. I like challenging books. I mean, I like thrillers, too, but when I have a lot of free time, I could get down to some Ayn Rand.”
“Really?”
He raises his eyebrows. “I’m surprised something that simple would impress a girl like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re brilliant, and what? You’re impressed the jock can read.”
Brilliant? “No, that’s not what I—”
“I mean, if you really want to be impressed...” He hops down from the table. “I know a lot of big words. Ethnocentrism, heteronormativity.” He walks toward me. “Ethnomethodology—those are from our class.” He leans against the dryer. “See? Impressive. For an athlete, at least.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant, Cassie.” A smirk spreads across his face, and he leans forward. “Antidisestablishmentarianism. Have you ever even heard a word that big?”
“Oh, shut up. You are such a dork!” I swat his arm.
He grabs my hand, holding on to my wrist. “You’re seriously going to have to stop hitting me or I’ll report you to Sebastian.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I make my best tough-guy face.
“Try me.”
He continues to hold on and stares at me for a second too long.
“Cassie...” His voice is serious.
“What?”
“I need you to move. You’re standing in front of my clothes.”