Fangirl (7 page)

Even after they’d stopped writing together, Cath would still follow Wren around the house, begging for help, whenever she couldn’t get Simon and Baz to do anything but talk.

Nick wasn’t Wren.

He was bossier and more of a showboat. And also, obviously, a boy. Up close, his eyes were bluer, and his eyebrows were practically sentient. He licked his lips when he wrote, tapping his tongue on his front teeth.

To his credit, he got over the gay thing pretty much immediately. Even when Cath gave gay-fictional Nick heavy black eyebrows and periwinkle blue wingtips.

Nonfiction Nick had trouble taking turns; he’d start to take the notebook out of Cath’s hands before she was done writing, and her green pen would pull across the page.

“Wait,” she’d say.

“No, I have an idea—and you’re about to ruin it.”

She tried hard to make her paragraphs sound like Nick’s, but her own style kept leaking through. It was cool when she realized he was imitating her, too.

After a few hours, Cath was yawning, and their story was twice as long as it needed to be. “This is gonna take forever to type up,” she said.

“Don’t type it, then. We’ll turn it in like this.”

Cath looked down at the green-and-blue-smudged pages. “It’s our only copy.”

“So don’t let your dog eat it.” He zipped up a gray hoodie and reached for his ratty denim jacket. “It’s midnight. I have to clock out.”

The book cart next to their table was still heaped with books. “What about these?” Cath asked.

“The morning girl can do it. It’ll remind her that she’s alive.”

Cath carefully tore their story out of Nick’s notebook and tucked it into her backpack, then followed him up the winding staircase. They didn’t see anyone else on their way to the first floor.

It was different being with him now. Different even from a few hours ago.
Fun.
Cath didn’t feel like her real self was buried under eight layers of fear and diagnosable anxiety. Nick walked right next to her on the stairs, and they talked like they were still passing the notebook between them.

When they got outside, they stopped at the sidewalk.

Cath felt some of her nervousness creeping back. She fumbled with the buttons of her coat.

“All right,” Nick said, putting his arms through his backpack. “See you in class?”

“Yeah,” Cath said. “I’ll try not to lose our novel.”

“Our
first
novel,” he said, taking the path that led off campus. “Good night.”

“Good night.” She watched him go, all dark hair and blue smudges in the moonlight.…

And then it was just Cath out on the quad. Cath and about a hundred trees that she never noticed during the daytime. The library lights switched off behind her; her shadow disappeared.

Cath sighed and got out her phone—she had two texts from Abel; she ignored them—then dialed her room, hoping her roommate wasn’t asleep.

“Hello?” Reagan answered on the third ring. There was music in the background.

“It’s Cath.”

“Well, hello, Cath, how was your date?”

“It wasn’t—Look, I’m just gonna walk home. I’ll be fast. I’m already walking.”

“Levi left as soon as the phone rang. You may as well wait for him.”

“He doesn’t have to—”

“It’ll be a bigger hassle if he can’t find you.”

“Okay,” Cath said, giving in. “Thanks, I guess.”

Reagan hung up.

Cath stood next to a lamppost, so he’d see her, and tried to look like the huntsman, not the little girl with the basket. Levi showed up long before she expected him to, jogging down the pathway. Even his jogging looked laid-back.

She started walking toward him, thinking she’d save him at least a few steps.

“Catherine,” he said, stopping when they met and turning to walk with her. “In one piece, even.”

“That,” she said, “isn’t even my name.”

“Just Cather, huh?”

“Just Cath.”

“Did you get lost in the library?”

“No.”

“I always get lost in the library,” he said, “no matter how many times I go. In fact, I think I get lost there
more,
the more that I go. Like it’s getting to know me and revealing new passages.”

“You spend a lot of time in the library?”

“I do, actually.”

“How is that possible when you’re always in my room?”

“Where do you think I sleep?” he asked. And when she looked at him, he was grinning.

Simon curled on his bed like a wounded unicorn foal, holding the torn piece of green velvet to his tear-stained face.

“Are you okay?” Basil asked. You could tell he didn’t want to ask. You could tell he found it quite distasteful to speak to his longtime enemy.

“Leave me alone,” Simon spat, choking on his tears and hating Basil even more than usual. “She was my mother.”

Basil frowned. He narrowed his smoky grey eyes and folded his arms, like he was forcing himself to keep standing there. Like what he really wanted to do was throw another sneezing spell at Simon.

“I know,” Basil said almost angrily. “I know what you’re going through. I lost my mother, too.”

Simon wiped his snotty nose on the sleeve of his jacket and slowly sat up, his eyes as wide and blue as the Eighth Sea.
Was Basil lying? That would be just like him, the prat.

—from “Friends for Life—and After,” posted August 2006 by FanFixx.net authors
Magicath
and
Wrenegade

SIX

“Dad? Call me.”

___

“It’s Cath again. Call me.”

___

“Dad, stop ignoring my voice mail. Do you listen to your voice mail? Do you know how? Even if you don’t, I know you can see my number in your missed calls. Call me back, okay?”

___

“Dad. Call me. Or call Wren. No, call
me.
I’m worried about you. I don’t like worrying about you.”

___

“Don’t make me call the neighbors. They’ll come check on you, and you don’t speak any Spanish, and it’ll be embarrassing.”

___

“Dad?”

“Hey, Cath.”

“
Dad.
Why haven’t you called me? I left you a million messages.”

“You left me too many messages. You shouldn’t be calling me or even thinking about me. You’re in college now. Move on.”

“It’s just school, Dad. It’s not like we have irreconcilable differences.”

“Honey, I’ve watched a lot of
90210.
The parents weren’t even on the show once Brandon and Brenda went to college. This is your time—you’re supposed to be going to frat parties and getting back together with Dylan.”

“Why does everybody want me to go to frat parties?”

“Who wants you to go to frat parties? I was just kidding. Don’t hang out with frat guys, Cath, they’re terrible. All they do is get drunk and watch
90210.
”

“Dad, how are you?”

“I’m fine, honey.”

“Are you lonely?”

“Yes.”

“Are you eating?”

“Yes.”

“What are you eating?”

“Nutritious food.”

“What did you eat today?
No lying.
”

“Something ingenious I discovered at QuikTrip: It’s a sausage wrapped in a pancake, then cooked to perfection on a hot dog roller—”

“Dad.”

“Come on, Cath, you told me not to lie.”

“Could you just go to the grocery store or something?”

“You know I hate the grocery store.”

“They sell fruit at QuikTrip.”

“They do?”

“Yes. Ask somebody.”

“You know I hate to ask somebodies.”

“You’re making me worry about you.”

“Don’t worry about me, Cath. I’ll look for the fruit.”

“That is such a lame concession.…”

“Fine, I’ll go the grocery store.”

“
No lying
—promise?”

“I promise.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Tell your sister I love her.”

___

“Cath, it’s your dad. I know it’s late, and you’re probably asleep. I hope you’re asleep! But I had this idea. It’s a great idea. Call me.”

___

“Cath? It’s your dad again. It’s still late, but I couldn’t wait to tell you this. You know how you guys want a bathroom upstairs? Your room is
right over
the bathroom. We could put in a trapdoor. And a ladder. It would be like a secret shortcut to the bathroom. Isn’t this a great idea? Call me. It’s your dad.”

___

“Cath! Not a ladder—a fireman’s pole! You’d still have to use the stairs to get up to your room—but, Cath,
a fireman’s pole.
I think I can do this myself. I mean, I’ll have to find a pole.…”

___

“Dad? Call me.”

___

“Call me, okay?”

___

“Dad, it’s Cath. Call me.”

*   *   *

It was Friday night, and Cath had the dorm room to herself.

She was trying to work on
Carry On, Simon,
but her mind kept wandering.… Today in class, Professor Piper had handed back the story that she and Nick wrote together. The professor had filled the margins with
A
’s and drawn a little caricature of herself in the corner, shouting,
“AAAAAA!”

She had a few of the writing teams—the people who had done really well—read their stories out loud in class. Cath and Nick went last, trading paragraphs so they were always reading what the other person had written. They got tons of laughs. Probably because Nick acted like he was doing Shakespeare in the park. Cath’s cheeks and neck were burning by the time they sat down.

After class, Nick held up his pinkie to her. When she stared at it, he said, “Come on, we’re making an oath.”

She curled her finger around his, and he squeezed it. “Partners, automatically, any time we need one—deal?” His eyes were set so deep, it made everything he said more intense.

“Deal,” Cath said, looking away.

“Goddamn,” Nick said, his hand already gone. “We are so fucking good.”

“I don’t think she has any A’s left after our paper,” Cath said, following him out of the room. “People will be getting B-pluses for the next eight years because of us.”

“We should do this again.” He turned, suddenly, in the doorway.

Cath hip-checked him before she could stop herself. “We already swore an oath,” she said, stepping back.

“Not what I mean. Not for an assignment. We should do it just because it was good. You know?”

It was good. It was the most fun Cath had had since … well, since she got here, for sure. “Yeah,” she said. “All right.”

“I work Tuesday and Thursday nights,” Nick said. “You want to do this again Tuesday? Same time?”

“Sure,” Cath said.

She hadn’t stopped thinking about it since then. She wondered what they’d write. She wanted to talk to Wren about it. Cath had tried calling Wren earlier, but she hadn’t picked up. It was almost eleven now.…

Cath picked up the phone and hit Wren’s number.

Wren answered. “Yes, sister-sister?”

“Hey, can you talk?”

“Yes, sister-sister,” Wren said, giggling.

“Are you out?”

“I am on the tenth floor of Schramm Hall. This is where …
all
the tourists come when they visit Schramm Hall. The observation deck. ‘See the world from Tyler’s room’—that’s what it says on the postcards.’”

Wren’s voice was warm and liquid. Their dad always said that Wren and Cath had the same voice, but Wren was 33 rpm and Cath was 45.… This was different.

“Are you drunk?”

“I
was
drunk,” Wren said. “Now I think I’m something else.”

“Are you alone? Where’s Courtney?”

“She’s here. I might be sitting on her leg.”

“Wren, are you okay?”

“Yes-yes-yes, sister-sister. That’s why I answered the phone. To tell you I’m okay. So you can leave me alone for a while. Okay-okay?”

Cath felt her face tense. More from hurt now than worry. “I was just calling to talk to you about Dad.” Cath wished she didn’t use the word “just” so much. It was her passive-aggressive tell, like someone who twitched when they were lying. “And other stuff. Boy … stuff.”

Wren giggled. “Boy stuff? Is Simon coming out to Agatha again? Did Baz make him a vampire? Again? Are their fingers helplessly caught in each other’s hair? Have you got to the part where Baz calls him ‘Simon’ for the first time, because that’s always a tough one.… That’s always a three-alarm fire.”

Cath pulled the phone away so that it wasn’t touching her ear. “Fuck off,” she whispered. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Okay-okay,” Wren said, her voice an edgy singsong. Then she hung up.

Cath set the phone on her desk and leaned back away from it. Like it was something that would bite.

Wren must be drunk. Or high.

Wren never …
would
never.

She never teased Cath about Simon and Baz. Simon and Baz were …

Cath got up to turn off the light. Her fingers felt cold. She kicked off her jeans and climbed into bed.

Then she got up again to check that the door was locked, and looked out the peephole into the empty hallway.

She sat back on her bed. She stood back up.

She opened her laptop, booted it up, closed it again.

Wren must be high. Wren would never.

She knew what Simon and Baz were. What they meant. Simon and Baz were …

Cath lay back down in bed and shook out her wrists over the comforter, then twisted her hands in the hair at her temples until she could feel the pull.

Simon and Baz were untouchable.

*   *   *

“This isn’t any fun today,” Reagan said, staring glumly at the dining hall door.

Reagan was always cranky on weekend mornings (when she was around). She drank too much and slept too little. She hadn’t washed off last night’s makeup yet this morning, and she still smelled like sweat and cigarette smoke.
Day-old Reagan,
Cath thought.

But Cath didn’t worry about Reagan, not like she worried about Wren. Maybe because Reagan looked like the Big Bad Wolf—and Wren just looked like Cath with a better haircut.