Going Geek (5 page)

I
stalk to the Study, Winthrop's answer to Starbucks, on autopilot, grateful to have a destination that will take me away from Whitney's little bombshell. I'm moving so fast that I have to keep hopping off the path to pass people, weaving like a crazy driver on a traffic-filled LA freeway.

Lila's going to be instated into our group whether I like it or not. I see no way to win that battle, so resistance is pointless. But Whitney's not being more upset and apologetic about Lila taking my place in the dorm and our other friends' not bothering to mention it to me feel like massive, deliberate betrayals.

By the time I get to the Study, patches of my shirt are stuck to my skin. The Southern California Students Association social is already in progress, so I order a small iced tea and find a seat. Twenty or so people sit on couches and chairs arranged in an approximate semicircle.

As soon as I sit down, I debate skipping it altogether. At the moment I hate everybody, which seems counterproductive to mingling with strangers. Traditionally, I show up at the first gathering of the year to see if there are any people I should know. So far the answer has been a big fat no. Most of the group seems to come from San Diego or Orange County. There's nothing inherently wrong with those places, but they're pretty different from where my parents live.

A boy standing at the front drones on: “We're here for lots of different things, but the number one reason is to give you guys a base. As they say, there's no place like home, and we want you guys to meet other people who understand earthquakes, car chases, and awesome Mexican food.” Everyone laughs, but I'm barely listening.

There are quite a few new people, but their shining faces and quick laughs reek of desperation. I think I recognize one girl, but she looks (and acts) like a first-year, so I must be wrong. Maybe it's narrow-minded, but cultivating new friendships at this stage feels like a lot of pointless work.

The group starts introductions, and I stand back up. “You're leaving already?” the boy asks. “We have door prizes.”

“I'm okay, thanks.” Everyone watches me make my way to the door. Awkward.

“We must smell bad or something,” he says to the group. Everyone laughs again. Bunch of sheep.

That evening I get to Upper Left just in time for the first Calendar meeting. Whitney wastes no time getting us off the ground. She really wants her presidency to be her legacy.

“Did you bring ideas?” Elizabeth whispers.

“No,” I say in a normal voice.

She takes in my bitter expression. “I'll tell Whit to ease up.”

I snort. “Please. I can handle Whit.” I thought I'd calmed down, but maybe not.

Of course Lila joins us. I bet Whitney handpicked her schedule too. She's still wearing the same impervious expression as when we met earlier. Like she already knows she's won.

Once we all have food, Whitney clinks a spoon against her water glass. “Let's get started. We all know why we're here, so let's jump to introductions for the new members.” She looks to her right, where Lila sits, and motions for her to stand up.

“Hi, everyone! My name's Lila Duncan. I'm new this year, and as Whit knows from my fabulous summer parties in the Hamptons, I am no slouch when it comes to entertaining.” I didn't notice in our brief meeting earlier, but she has the most grating voice I've ever heard, like she's trying to force it down a register while simultaneously choking on a ball of cat hair. “I plan to bring my expertise and exemplary taste to the party circuit here at Winthrop.”

Everyone applauds. I stare at my lap. Barf.

The next girl stands as Lila sits down. “Hi! I'm Christy Foster, and I'm new this year too, but I'm a first-year. I know a lot about parties and dances, being from LA, but I'm excited to learn the ropes and contribute however I can.” I look up when she says the part about LA. Applause starts. “Um, excuse me? Don't I know you?” Christy asks. “Were you at the SoCal social?”

“Oh, yeah, just for a few minutes.” She's the girl I thought I recognized. Even her name sounds familiar.

“You worked at my beach club this summer! The Hayward Club? You were my family's favorite waitress! I had no idea you went here. Why didn't you ever say anything?”

All the blood leaves my heart and rushes to my extremities, most noticeably my face. My brain goes blank for what feels like several long minutes. Should I lie? Find some way to discredit her? Fake a blackout? In my peripheral vision I notice Lila hiding a smile behind her hand. She nudges Whit. “Sorry, you have me confused with someone else,” I croak.

“No! For sure. I was there almost every day at the beginning of summer before I left for surf camp in Costa Rica. Skylar, right? Oh my god, my parents are going to die! They love telling stories about how you never brought them the right order. That was the running joke—an affectionate one, of course.”

Finally, finally, she sits back down.

The table is silent. It feels like the entire dining room is silent. Lila clears her throat. “I thought Whit said you were some kind of movie development executive.” Her expression is mocking, scornful. “Was she mistaken? It sounded intriguing, I'll give you that.”

I avoid letting my eyes land on anyone, but I can feel their stares boring holes into my forehead. Christy seems to know that she said something unfortunate. “It's not impossible to be both,” I manage to get out.

“God, Skylar, we all know you're not one to let facts get in the way of a good story, but this takes it to a new level,” Whitney says. “What's with the waitressing thing? And more importantly, why have you never mentioned it?”

“You know, we do have friends who work,” Lila says. “Hope you didn't cover it up on our account.” She doesn't even look at me while she's talking.

And how is she all of a sudden a “we”? She got here all of five seconds ago. But I'm fully aware that if Lila was at all worried about claiming Whitney as her best-friend prize, I've just handed her the winning ticket.

“No, that wasn't the reason.” Yes, it was. Maybe some trust fund kids try to keep it real, but not these ones. I sigh. “I just wanted to earn my own money for once. Getting into a whole thing seemed pointless.” Clearly this isn't the moment for the full truth.

“Couldn't your mom just pay you?” Whitney asks.

Elizabeth shoots me a nervous look.

I clear my throat, searching for a plausible explanation. Eventually I say, “I guess, but that wouldn't really be earning my own money.”

Whitney grimaces. “Fair enough. But did you even work on the sequel to
Over It
?”

I settle for a half-truth. “When I could. I also read some new stuff.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Okay, whatever. But by the way, those shorts you were wearing yesterday? I could totally tell they were pleather.” Whitney's smiling, but her voice is shards of smashed glass.

Lila's cackles ricochet around the dining hall.

U
ncertainty about where I stand with my friends plagues me through the night, making sleep impossible. I texted Leo frantically when I left the Canteen, but he was busy dealing with one of his first-years' meltdowns. There are always a handful who are inconsolable and want to go home in the first few days. I want to take them by the hand and then very gently but very firmly shake them; first year is all pass/fail. It only gets worse.

Absolutely no one tried to talk to me after the Calendar meeting or even texted me later, but still, I'm determined to face the day with my head up. So what if they found out? So what if they now suspect we're a little hard up for cash? I'm still the same girl. My mother is still Lisa Chen, and
Over It
still exists, largely because of her.

I actually feel lighter now that I have nothing to hide. Even my physics book can't weigh me down. I practically skip out of Abbot.

“Skylar. Hold up.” I turn to see Leo sitting on the porch banister.

“Hey, handsome!” I walk over to give him a kiss, but I get his cheek. There's not even anyone around. “Take me to breakfast on our first day as seniors? I have stuff to tell you.”

He looks down at the ground. Now that I take a better look, Leo kind of looks like hell, which is not easy for him to achieve. Almost like he didn't sleep either, and definitely like he didn't shave. I reach my hand out to him. He takes it and slides off the banister but drops it as soon as he's standing. I glance at him with a questioning look. “Let's walk,” he says.

It doesn't take a genius to see that something's up. “Is everything okay with the team?” I ask.

“Yeah, fine,” he says.

“How about your first-year? Is he okay?”

He gives a brief nod, then stops in the middle of the wooded path. “Skylar.”

“What's the matter? They stop serving hot food in fifteen minutes.” I try to keep walking, but it's obvious that Leo isn't thinking about waffles right now.

“Why didn't you tell me what you were really doing this summer?”

And there it is. I hear the hurt and bewilderment in Leo's voice and hate myself for putting it there. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and then turn toward him. “I'm sorry. That's what I was about to tell you. I should have mentioned it sooner, but things at home were just so tense. All I wanted was to come back here and put it behind me.”

“But all those times I talked to you and you said you'd spent all day reading in an office or that you went to lunch with your mom while she met with actors who wanted parts. That was all made up?”

I look at the ground. “It's all stuff I've done before, but I didn't do much of it this summer.”

Leo rubs the back of his neck. “I don't get it. Why did you lie? Is it that shameful to have to earn a paycheck?”

I have to tread carefully here. Leo's family isn't poor, but his tuition is covered by a soccer scholarship. “I mean, my family hasn't been doing as well, and it's hard to watch, but I was glad to help out. The only thing I cared about was making sure I got back for our senior year.” The last part is intended to remind Leo of how happy we are to be together for these next ten months. Harvard's not going to be knocking down my door anytime soon, so my goal is to enjoy our time before we have to do some stressful long-distance thing.

But he doesn't reach for my hand or brush my hair off my face or make any of the affectionate gestures that might imply that he understands and forgives me. He stares at me, his expression harder than I've ever seen it, at least off the soccer field. “How could you keep something like this a secret from me, of all people? Did you think I'd care if you weren't rich? Or some movie wasn't happening?”

“You wouldn't understand. Your family's always been the same,” I begin. His face—mouth tight, eyes flat—closes down further. “Wait, that's not what I mean.” I wish for a do-over where I actually don't say something stupid or insulting.

“Yeah. We've never had a ton of money. Until now I never thought that bothered you.”

“It doesn't matter to me one bit. God, Leo.” I grab his arm, desperate for him to believe me. “But it's hard to go from being known as one thing and then having to get used to being something else. If anything, I just didn't want to ruin your image of me. Being with someone who sees only the best version of you is really kind of uplifting. And with all the unhappy and annoying stuff happening, I needed some uplifting.”

“My image of you is of someone I trust, who trusts me. That's all I care about. I never knew you thought all the Hollywood bullshit mattered to me. I thought we worked because we could be ourselves with each other.”

“We can,” I say, hoping that my conviction is enough to pull us through this.

“Evidently not.”

I rack my brain for a way to explain this to him. “What if you got hurt and couldn't play anymore? Somebody else would take your place as the star of varsity soccer, and you probably wouldn't feel normal for a very long time.”

From his serious expression, I can tell he's thought about this before. “Yeah. That would obviously suck. But I wouldn't be able to hide it, and even if I could, that isn't really my style. And I definitely wouldn't be worried that you'd feel any different about me.” His eyes narrow. “Would you?”

Could this conversation be going any worse? “Of course not! That's not what I'm saying at all. But wouldn't it make you even a little scared that your entire identity would change?”

Leo gives me a stern look. “I would miss playing and being with the team. And I'd have to figure out a new scholarship. But I have plenty of other stuff going on, and my real friends would still be there.”

“Yeah, well…lucky you.”

He lets out a long exhale. “I guess what bothers me is that you cared what everyone else thinks more than you cared about being honest with me.”

From where he's sitting, I'm sure that's exactly what it looks like. Anything I say will probably make it worse, but I have to try. “You're right. That shouldn't have been more important.”

“But it was.”

“What can I say? I wasn't thinking about it from your point of view, and I'm sorry.” I watch him. He chews the corner of his bottom lip, his gaze unwavering. A heavy feeling of dread settles in the center of my chest.

“I don't know, Sky.” He's the only one who's allowed to call me that, but hearing him say it now is disconcerting. “Most of that is made up in other people's heads, which is their business, but I didn't know that it was so in
your
head. You never talk about Hollywood or parties or money when it's just you and me.”

“Because that's not us.” My voice is barely a whisper.

“But you lied for an entire summer—probably longer—so now I don't know what
is
us.” His whole body is a stormy clash of hurt and anger. “Maybe we need some space to figure this out.”

“I don't need space. I didn't do this to hurt you, and I still want to be with you.”

Leo kicks a rock out of the path. “Okay. Then I need time.”

Space and time have never sounded so ominous. I want to ask him to define exactly what that means but sense that pressing him right now would only end badly. Better to let him cool down for a couple of days.

But he looks so upset, and it hits me that I can't be the one to comfort him. Not this time. It's such an unfamiliar, gutting feeling. I have no choice but to keep going to the main campus. At least I manage to get far enough away before the sobs start.

I fly up the Canteen steps and duck into the bathroom. Even though there's no one here, I run into a stall and lock the door behind me. After several minutes of trying to cry quietly into a balled-up wad of toilet paper, I feel reasonably sure that I can pull it together. Or at least fake it. I step out of the stall and stare in the mirror.

My eyes are red-ringed and puffy, and my eyelashes stick together in wet spikes. The healthy bronze glow I acquired from a summer outside seems to have faded overnight. I get out my compact and lip gloss and do the best repair job I can. I perch my sunglasses on top of my head so that they'll be accessible as soon as I step outside.

It's late enough that the dining rooms have thinned out. The thought of eating makes me nauseated, but I could use some coffee. I consider skipping classes, but I know all too well how easy it is to get behind here. That's the last thing I need. Problems on top of problems.

Of course, Whitney's waiting for her toast by the buffet. I went to Upper Left on autopilot but clearly should've chosen one of the other dining rooms.

“You look awful,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“Couldn't sleep? Guilty conscience?” Whitney smirks as she smears peanut butter on her toast.

No point in delaying the inevitable. “Leo found out. I didn't even get a chance to tell him myself.”

She doesn't even look surprised. “Well, that was bound to happen. What did he say?”

“He said we should take a little space for a bit.”

Whitney shrugs. “Can't blame him. That was a pretty big omission.”

“Wow, Whit, thanks for your sympathy and concern.” I turn and walk out, sans caffeine. She calls after me in a wheedling, placating voice, but I don't stop. She can pretend to be all concerned, but we both know that her reaction yesterday helped set the tone.