Going Geek (12 page)

Y
asmin has transformed the Study, with its greasy burger smells and beat-up furniture, into a proper English garden party. We blanketed the room in doilies and tablecloths with a muted floral pattern. It doesn't look merely English; it looks Victorian. I marvel over the tiered silver pastry stands and ceramic teapots while I reach for a cucumber finger sandwich. Before I can pick it up, I feel a sharp crack on the back of my hand.

“Are you insane?” Yasmin shrieks. “Those are for the guests!”

“Okay, sheesh!” I say, rubbing the welt on my hand. “We're not allowed to eat at all?”

“Maybe if there are leftovers,” she says. I wonder if my Nona Rose would count this as fasting. She knows I don't usually fast for Yom Kippur, which doesn't make her happy, but my dad says I'm already in the doghouse for forgetting to call her on Rosh Hashanah.

Raksmey drags me away before I get slapped again. “You have to understand,” she says. “This is a dream come true for Yas.”

“Yeah, I've noticed she's a bit obsessed with romance.”

“You have no idea. Don't ever tell her you like a boy. She'll plan some elaborate scheme to catch him for you. And that's exactly how she'll phrase it, too. Like he's a fish.”

I have to smile at that. Yasmin is hopelessly, embarrassingly naive, but she's also a little bit adorable.

“Okay, people! Showtime!” Yasmin flutters her hands at Opal, who stands by the entrance. Opal throws open the double doors. There's actually a line outside. People push their way in, and I can't believe Yasmin has actually managed this. But then I see that the guests are starting a line by the register so they can order from the Study menu. I walk over to them.

“I'm sorry, but the Study is closed today. You're welcome to stay for tea, though. It's free.” I whisper all this as discreetly as I can. Yasmin doesn't need to know that her guests are here by mistake.

One boy looks at his posse, shrugs, and loads up a plate. He lifts the lids to a few teapots, takes a sniff, and replaces them. “Where's the coffee?” he asks.

Yasmin scurries over. “We aren't serving coffee. It's not traditional.”

“You can get coffee in the dining rooms,” I say quickly. “We'll be happy to hold your plate for you.”

The boy takes a small pot of clotted cream and overturns it on his plate. He smears it around with his scone and then pops the whole thing in his mouth. Yasmin cringes in disgust. “Good, but it needs coffee,” he says through a mouthful of scone crumbs. He motions to his friends, who've all been testing out the food. They abandon their plates and head for the exit.

Yasmin stacks their dishes with clenched teeth. “Let me take those,” Samantha says. She carries them toward the kitchen, but I see her sneak an uneaten pastry off one of the boys' plates. Gross.

I look around. Another group seems to be taking tentative bites out of some finger sandwiches. “Who made the food?” I ask.

“Martin from the Canteen kitchen. Making tea is one of his favorite pastimes,” Yasmin says.

“But judging from everyone's faces, he's not very good at it,” I venture.

She glares at me. “The food is delicious. These people just don't have refined palates.”

“We can't verify one way or the other. You won't let anyone taste the food.”

Yasmin ignores me and storms off. I think she's taking this a tad personally.

An hour later the room is still practically empty. Almost everyone who's walked through the doors has stayed less than ten minutes. Yasmin starts greeting people with “Hi. Welcome. There's no coffee.” Some don't even bother to sample the food after that.

Sid and Wyatt come in and walk right over to me when they spot me. I feel like I've been busted doing something wrong. “What's up with this?” Sid asks.

“It's an afternoon tea hosted by Abbot House,” I say, like tea is an event any teenager would kill to attend.

He gives me a sidelong glance. “Okay.” He helps himself to some éclairs and cheese-and-pickle sandwiches. “This shit is disgusting,” he says. “How did you get suckered into this?”

I'm highly aware that my dorm mates can overhear everything and that Sid's implication is that I'm somehow above this sad tea. Apparently he hasn't been tracking my downfall like most of the rest of the school has. “I live in Abbot now, and we only had a week to put something together,” I say lightly. I can feel Yasmin's glower boring a hole through the back of my head. Maybe I'm supposed to defend this train wreck until the bitter end, like a captain going down with the ship, but I can't bring myself to do it.

I have no idea why these two aren't turning tail and leaving like everyone else. That would make me so happy right now. “If there's no coffee, what do you have?” Wyatt asks. Oh god, they're staying.

“Earl Grey, chamomile, or lavender!” Bettina calls out from the counter. I cringe inwardly. But Wyatt gamely gets himself a pot and a teacup and sits on a couch. Sid seems to have found some kind of tart that he's not mad at.

The realization that I miss these guys hits me suddenly and without warning. My fraternity brothers were a big part of my life. Well, maybe not Sid. I'm about to go over to catch up with them when Leo comes in. We make eye contact for a brief, wholly awkward second. “Hey,” he says, and turns his back to me, walking toward Sid and Wyatt.

My facade of calm crumbles. I grab some dirty cups, bring them back to the kitchen, and throw them crashing into the sink. The door swings open, and Opal scurries in. “Okay, everyone heard that. We borrowed these dishes from the Winthrop Society. If we break them, we have to pay for them.”

“Sorry, they slipped out of my hands.”

She gives me a knowing look. “You have to pull it together. We're not even halfway through the tea.”

“This thing is a total joke. I should've figured. Everyone knows English food sucks. I can't believe that Leo, of all people, has to be here to witness my final descent into loserdom.”

Her expression hardens. “I'm no expert on guys, but if you don't get out there and act normal, you're going to regret it. Besides, we need everyone out there so it looks busier.”

Somehow, even through my haze of despair, I can see that she's right. So I take a deep, cleansing breath as instructed and open the door. As soon as I step out, Leo gets up and comes to the counter with a tentative smile. I struggle to keep my face neutral. “Sorry about that a minute ago,” he says. “I was a little caught off guard.”

“That's okay.” I clear my throat and attempt a smile. “How've you been?”

“Okay. You know, just busy with the team and all the usual stuff. What about you?”

“I'm fine. Took up yoga. Got booted from my position on the Calendar.”

“Sorry,” he says.

“About which part?” I ask. He laughs, and even though I've missed his laugh so much, it sounds hollow.

“So this is pretty cool,” Leo says, looking around at the depressingly empty room. “Something a little different from the usual campus stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” He's being totally sincere, but it's fairly obvious that English tea is unlikely to become a recurring event.

I wonder if this will be the moment he finally tells me what's going on. I know he wasn't planning to run into me (at least, I don't think he was), but it's been a month, and I've given him all the space a person could possibly need. I haven't even texted him once.

“So you're liking Abbot okay?” he asks. I deflate a little bit.

“Well, it's…fine.” For some reason I can't stop using that stupid word. “It has its moments.”

Leo nods emphatically, like I've said something really revealing. “Awesome. That's so good to hear. Any other updates? College stuff ?”

I must be giving him a weird look, because he's starting to look scared. Which is when it dawns on me that he's not going to say anything about him and me.

“Not really,” I say. “Ms. Randall's stressing me out, but that was a given.”

He snorts and nods again. “No kidding.” Seriously, I could be having this exact conversation with someone I just met. But before I can decide whether or not to raise the subject of us, he reaches for my hand and gives it a quick squeeze. “I wish we had more time to catch up. But it seems like things are going okay, and I'm really glad.”

Sid and Wyatt are already heading for the door, pausing to wait for Leo. None of them look my way as they exit.

T
he slog continues into the next week. I get a 79 on my history test and a B
–
on my
Wuthering Heights
paper and pull my hamstring. This is a pain that no one should have to suffer through. I blame Opal for pushing me too far in a forward bend, but she insists it's because I have emotional blockages due to not fully expressing myself with Leo.

Despite analyzing it every imaginable way, I don't know what I could possibly do. If Leo's not ready to talk, forcing him would just weird him out. So I'm back to staring at my phone.

One morning after I haven't slept at all, I tag along with Opal to Yoga Connection. It has definitely grown since the first couple meetings. She keeps the studio warm and dimly lit, and due to the early hour, there's almost no talking. Just being in the room feels calming.

I move at a slower pace because of my hamstring, lying flat on my back, reaching my arms and legs in opposite directions. Someone unrolls a mat next to me. “Hey,” he whispers. I lift my head and smile when I see Remy standing there. It's a habitual response; we haven't spoken since the day he ditched me. I turn my head away from him and pretend to watch Opal working with a student.

The style of yoga she teaches is especially active and athletic, so there are a fair number of jock types practicing. Still, I'm surprised that Remy's here. We all go through a set sequence at our own pace while Opal patrols the room and adjusts us. I sneak peeks at his poses, and he looks proficient enough that I'd guess he's been coming for a little while.

An hour later we're finished. I slip out of the studio and am walking toward the girls' locker room when Remy calls, “Wait up, Skylar.” He's loud enough that if I ignore him, everyone will know it's deliberate. So I turn around.

“Everything okay?” I ask when I see the worried look on his face.

“Yeah. Just feels weird not to see you much,” he says. “We were friends too, you know.”

How touching that he remembers. “I guess Leo got you in the divorce. Aren't you worried about what he'll say if we start hanging out?”

His body sags, like he's profoundly disappointed in me. “That's not how he rolls. You know that. Besides, it's not like he wants to start listening to all my girl troubles.”

I smile. “Okay, but if we're going to keep being friends, you might actually have to eat with me sometimes.”

His cheeks turn pink, but at least he doesn't deny that he blatantly blew me off that time. “You know how it is: the team sits together during the season.”

I nod. I do know how it is.

“What happened to you?” Declan asks as I limp to the seat beside him at the next screening for Images of Women in Film. We had bonded a little during the rest of our Canteen-duty week—mostly over a shared dislike of Lila and an annoyance with C.J.'s tendency to slack.

“Yoga injury.”

He tilts his head as if he wants to know more, but then the lights go out and opening credits for
Desperately Seeking Susan
start rolling. This is one of my mom's favorite movies. She's almost as passionate about it as she is about
Over It.
Seeing it gives me a sharp pang of not exactly homesickness, more like worry about what's going on back home. My parents call me every week, but we never talk about anything important. I don't feel like it's my job to know about their lives as much as it's their job to know about mine. But they're clearly already maxed out.

Declan's still watching me, so I force back tears and try to act normal.

But when the lights go back on nearly two hours later, he turns toward me. “Did you think it was going to be a sad movie?”

“I've seen it before. Probably at least five times.” I close my notebook and put it away.

He nods slowly. “Oh. Then everything okay?”

He's looking at me with so much concern, like he really wants to know, that I almost break down and tell him. Not everything, just about how this particular movie at this particular moment is giving me an unshakable feeling of melancholy. So of course I say, “Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?”

“Okay. If you say so. You coming by the studio after dinner?” he asks.

“Maybe.” I haven't even thought that far, but with a calculus test at the end of the week and a paper for this class due on Monday, it probably wouldn't be a bad idea. We stand and pack up our stuff.

“Is there a story behind why you've been working there instead of your dorm or the library?” Declan asks.

“Sorry. Does my non-artiness cramp your style?” I know that's not what he meant, but don't I have a right to be there? “Bettina invited me that one time, and I actually got a lot done.” He shrugs and nods. “I've seen you work there on non-art stuff,” I say. “Is it because you hate your dorm?”

He gives a surprised half laugh as we walk out of the building. “No. Why would you think that?”

“I don't know. Isn't Thatcher known for having a lot of geeky personalities?” I'm distracted, looking through my bag for my phone. I know Leo probably hasn't decided to suddenly text me, but you never know. Other kids whip past us.

“Thatcher might not be jock central, but that doesn't mean it's lame. They're smart, nice guys. Most people like that kind of thing,” he says.

“Well, yeah, but everyone here is pretty smart. Don't you think?”

Declan stops walking. “So what are you trying to say?”

“Huh?” I look up from my bag. “No, nothing. Just that I can relate to not feeling in sync with your dorm. The Abbot girls are nice and smart, like you said, but, like, I don't consider myself one of them.”

He stares at me hard enough to make me squirm. “Well, I do consider myself part of Thatcher,” he says.

“Okay. Great. That's nice for you.” I break eye contact but sense he's still staring at me. “Why are you looking at me like that? You have to admit, Thatcher has a certain…flair.”

He resumes walking. “I can't figure you out. I know the Webster guys are your friends, but I used to live in that dorm, and I can say firsthand that the Thatcher guys are way more solid.”

“I wouldn't exactly say I'm friends with the Webster boys. And I was just repeating a commonly held opinion. It's not like I've given it a ton of thought.” I know he lives there, but I think Declan's being overly sensitive about Thatcher.

“Sorry, I just get bummed about misperceptions.” He doesn't make an excuse and bolt, but we both go silent. Eventually I make some inane comment about the weather turning colder, but the return to small talk feels stilted and unwelcome.

It's a cowardly response, but I don't know what else to do. I see Opal in the distance, mumble a hurried goodbye, and then rush to catch up with her.