Amends: A Love Story (14 page)

As I walk past the lush, green lawns, I envy
the clusters of students laughing in the gentle New England sun.
I'm painfully conscious of being a junior-year transfer student who
doesn't even have one friend on campus. I wonder if Adams is going
to be high school all over again, except with snow and mounting
debt. My mood is black when I open the door to my room and find my
new roommate unpacking a giant purple suitcase.

She turns to greet me, and the first thing I
notice is that she's about my height and probably close to three
hundred pounds. Now I know why all her photos on Facebook are head
shots. I wonder if the Admissions Office put us together on
purpose, because two outcasts like us—the gimp and the fatty—are
bound to get along.

The second thing I notice is Darcy's broad,
welcoming smile, and I feel like a total asshole.

"Oh, you must be Amity," she says in a sweet,
high voice. "I'm Darcy. I'm a transfer, too. From Midwestern U. My
parents have already left. They're driving back. It'll take them,
like, twenty-seven hours to get home. It's so nice to meet
you!"

She extends her hand slowly. Her eyes are
bright with hope and fear. I shake her hand with a firm grip. I
can't manage a smile above a very low wattage, but it's a
start.

/////////////////////////

Darcy is a computer science major, and she
has a truly awesome flat-screen monitor. I'm glad I was able to
help her mount it on our wall. All the Mr. Fixit chores I did for
Gran over the past couple of years are finally paying off. She
types something on her laptop, which she built herself from
components she scavenged on eBay, and the monitor comes to life.
The home screen for Town Square pops up.

"I hear we have a semi-famous classmate," she
says, giggling. "It's the only son of billionaire Josiah Conroy.
Let's look him up."

Ugh, I think, why bother? Josiah Conroy is a
rich old man who owns everything from the production company
funding Maggie's project to the Conroy Petrochemical Plant just
outside Triple Marsh. I'm sure his son is a spoiled jerk. I'm much
more worried about Registration Day.

"I've got a better idea," I say. "Can you see
when Registration Day is? According to the orientation guide, we
have to get our class schedules signed by all our professors. And
without a signed class schedule, we're not allowed to attend
class."

"That sounds like a big pain in the butt.
I'll check it out, but first you have to look at my famous hottie."
Darcy smiles brightly, and her enthusiasm is infectious.

"Fine," I concede. "I bet you're the kind of
girl who reads tabloids while you're waiting in line at the grocery
store."

"Hell, no," she says, laughing. "I pay good
money for tabloids. Someone's got to support the poor, struggling
paparazzi."

"Oh, alright, show me your hottie." I even
smile a little as Darcy points and clicks her way through the Town
Square and finds the profile search bar. But I'm not smiling, not
even a little, when a full color photo of Laird Bolton Conroy
appears onscreen.

Oh my God, it's him.

The name is right and so is the face. I've
been hoping to see him again for almost three years, daydreaming
almost every day of his kind face and strong, solid body. I can't
believe my fantasy boyfriend was Laird fucking Conroy.

Fortunately, Darcy doesn't notice the look of
shock on my face. She's too busy narrating Laird's vital
statistics.

"See? I told you he's a hottie. With that
hair and those cheekbones, he could be a model. And, of course,
he's starting quarterback on the football team. He's also president
of Kappa Alpha Delta, the only frat with its own house on campus. I
think they're having a party tonight."

Darcy is salivating like a fan girl, but he
sounds like the epitome of a rich, entitled Jasper Heights asshole
to me. I wonder if he's really the same guy I met in the cemetery.
He profile picture is just an assemblage of pixels and white space.
Maybe I'm just projecting.

"Does it say anything about his mother?" I
ask. "Is she dead?"

"Let me see," says Darcy,
typing furiously. "OK, here it is." She zooms into a section of the
profile called
Parents,
etcetera
. "Yes, his mom died of ovarian
cancer. How did you know that?"

"Oh, I must have read it somewhere. You know,
at the grocery store."

Darcy looks at me questioningly, but when I
don't say anything else, she lets it go. I tell myself that's what
I have to do, too. Let the past go, including Laird Conroy. With my
work-study job and my class schedule, I don't have time for a
stupid fantasy boyfriend from Jasper Heights.

/////////////////////////

"Here, Amity," says Darcy, handing me a beer
in a bright red cup. "You need to loosen up."

"I've tried loosening up. It never ends
well," I mutter, taking the beer even though it reminds me of my
father and his daily six pack after work.

Against my better judgment, I'm at the Kappa
Alpha Delta back-to-school bash. Darcy dragged me along with her
and three other girls she looked up on Town Square. The only thing
we have in common is that we're all junior-year transfers who don't
know a soul. Still, it hasn't been a bad evening. In fact, it's
been kind of fun exploring campus parties from within a small,
protective group,

Darcy adds, "There's also a dance floor
upstairs. That's where the other girls went. I think I'm going to
join them. Do you want to come?"

It does sound like fun, and I know I'm a good
dancer, but I wonder if I can dance without using any of my
stripper moves. "Maybe later," I say. "I'm going to finish my drink
and look around a little."

Darcy takes a sip of her beer and leaves the
half-full cup on a windowsill, alongside five others. "OK, girl,"
she trills. "Maybe I'll see you up there!"

Once Darcy is gone, I meander through the
party with my cup extended, as if I'm on my way to get a drink. For
the most part, people leave me alone. As I wander from room to
room, I'm left with the impression of extreme wealth. Everything is
either very old or very new. Most of the girls—the ones who aren't
obviously freshmen or strays, like my group—are pretty in an
expensive, understated way. Once again, I feel out of place.

I'm about to go upstairs and look for Darcy
when a tall guy with a narrow face grabs my arm. He pulls me though
a thick wooden door, and it closes behind us with a soft thud. I
find myself in a dimly lit room full of young men—probably
freshmen—stripped down to their boxer shorts and kneeling on a
hardwood floor. I see that my scrawny abductor is wearing a T-shirt
that reads PLEDGE MASTER in tall, block letters. He's grinning like
a loon and breathing heavily; the effect is definitely creepy.

"What do you want?" I ask, slowly backing
towards the door.

"Your help," he says, smacking his lips. "I
want you, beautiful girl, to help me show these pledges just how
lowly they are. I want you to spit on them."

As if on cue, the pledges say in unison,
"Please, mistress, we're too good for your blessed mouth
juice."

I look at their faces and
see that they're already slick with saliva.
Ew.
I guess it's a harmless hazing
ritual, but my gut still squirms. I swallow reflexively and take
another step backwards.

"Uh, no th-thanks," I stammer.

The pledge master moves to block my way. "But
you have to," he whines, putting one hot, sweaty hand on my
shoulder.

"No, I don't," I say, raising my voice to
just below a yell.

Then, like magic, the door opens, and in
steps Laird. He's the same height as the pledge master, but much
more muscular. He's also even more gorgeous than I remember. Of
course, I stare at him like a goggle-eyed loon. His moss-green eyes
flicker with recognition, but he says nothing to me. Instead, he
addresses the pledge master.

"What seems to be the problem here?" he asks
softly. I know his voice, and my heart flutters in my chest. My
throat constricts until all that's left is a tiny opening no wider
than my fingertip. I know there's no way I'll be able to talk
without wheezing and stammering.

The moment Laird takes a step towards the
pledge master, I run out the door and into the main hallway,
gasping for breath. I feel like a coward for running, but I tell
myself it doesn't matter. It's not like someone like him—a rich boy
from Jasper Heights—would ever be friends with someone like me.

While I'm trying to decide whether to find
Darcy or just go home, I see her and our new friends Sasha, Aliyah,
and Esther pushing their way through the crowd. I join them,
pretending I was with them the entire time.

As I fall in with the girls, it occurs to me
that this is the second time I've run away from Laird.

Chapter 16: Laird

I wake from a heavy, dreamless sleep to the
bleating of my phone alarm. It's seven a.m. on Registration Day.
It's also the day I'm going to have a real conversation with Amity
and begin to put my plan into action. I don't think I can wait to
casually meet her in class. She's too present in my thoughts, and I
know she'll be there in my head, haunting everything I see and do
until I make some kind of amends.

Seeing her at the frat party really opened my
eyes. When I realized it was her in the pledge room, I could barely
breathe. Her eyes widened when she looked at me, and her delicate
pink tongue flicked over her lips. Without her shield of stage
makeup, she seemed naked. Vulnerable. Open. In that instant, she
became a real, fully dimensional part of my world. I felt drawn to
her in a visceral way that I didn't when I saw her at the strip
club. I'm going to have to watch myself around her.

I wonder if she remembers me from her
mother's grave, and how I broke down, sobbing in her arms. I
haven't really talked to anyone about my mother since then. Most
people our age just don't understand. They can't imagine their
parents dying and the grief that follows any more than they can
imagine an alien from another planet. But Amity can. She knows what
I've been through, and then some.

I tell myself to get a grip. I can't be more
than the most casual, surface-skimming friends with Amity. I killed
her mother, for God's sake. Not to mention the fact that I can't
stop fucking Ember, the crazy girl who grabbed the wheel of my Land
Rover and helped me put this whole nightmare into motion.

My phone vibrates against my nightstand, and
my stomach clenches like a fist. There's only one person who would
text me this early in the morning.

Thinking of me? Will I see you tonight?

It's Ember. And, yes, I'm thinking of her,
but only because I can't help it. I switch my phone to silent mode.
I'll deal with her later. For now, I need to get dressed and get to
Registration Day. Professor Carmichael, the Ab Psych professor,
will only be there until noon. I think I'll bring some pledges as
camouflage, so I don't look too obviously like a lone stalker.

/////////////////////////

The line for Professor Carmichael stretches
out of the Jefferson Gymnasium, where each professor sits at his or
her own small table, and around the Phelps Pool and Water Polo
Complex. I spy Amity hurrying over from the Adams Apple. She walks
with an odd, lurching gait, and I worry she's going to spill the
huge cup of coffee she's holding with both hands.

When she gets in line, two pledges fall in
behind her, saving my spot. I sidle over to them and take their
place. I'm now close enough to Amity to touch her. Her smooth,
glossy hair tumbles down her back. It smells like strawberries. To
my utter shock and dismay, I crave her touch. I so badly want to
put my arms around her and feel her awkward, long-limbed body melt
into mine.

Instead, I say, "Excuse me?"

She turns around. For a moment, her eyes are
narrow and guarded. Then, as recognition dawns, her expression
softens by increments, and her mouth twitches into an uneasy
smile.

"I know you," she says in a breathless
near-whisper. "From the frat party." She pauses and adds softly,
"And the cemetery."

All at once, memories of my mother and the
awful weeks following her death come flooding back. My eyes burn,
and my throat tightens. All I can do is nod.

She reaches out a delicate white hand and
rests it gently on my arm. "How are you doing?" she asks.

"Fine, most of the time. They just sneak up
on me sometimes. The memories."

"I know what you mean," she says, squeezing
my arm. Once again, I again want to sweep her into a lingering,
full-bodied embrace. I bite the inside of my cheek and tell myself
to get it together.

I quickly change the subject. "Which class
are you taking with Professor Carmichael? He's quite a
character."

She takes my cue and lets her hand fall away
from my arm. "Abnormal Psychology. I'm taking it as my humanities
requirement. All the rest of my classes are chem and bio."

"Pre-med?"

"Yep."

"Why Ab Psych?" I know I'm putting her on the
spot, but I'm genuinely curious. "Is it because you want to see
Carmichael's collection of funny hats?"

"No," she says with a small half-smile. "I
just thought it would be interesting. I've, uh, met plenty of
abnormal people. Maybe now I'll be able to diagnose them."

My phone vibrates
again.
Ember.
Damn
her. "Yeah, I know quite a few abnormals myself. I'm even related
to some of them."

Now Amity's smile connects with her eyes.
"What was going on at the frat the other night? Some guy wanted me
to spit on your pledges. What's up with that?"

Now she's putting me on the spot. "Oh, we do
all kinds of dumb things to the pledges," I explain sheepishly.
"Nothing dangerous or anything. But some stuff is pretty
gross."