Undecided (10 page)

Okay, I really
don’t think I’ve done anything to be hated for, but after exhausting all other
avenues, that’s where my mind goes.

“Hey,” I
say abruptly. I’m eating a plate of spaghetti at the dining table and Kellan’s
watching one of the
Die Hard
movies.

“What’s
up?” he asks, pausing the show.

“Do you
know if Crosbie’s still interested in doing open mic night at Beans?”

Kellan
frowns and rubs a finger between his eyebrows. “Has he been badgering you with
his ‘magic’ again?” he asks with a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him
about it.”

“No,” I
say hastily. “I haven’t even seen him, that’s why I’m asking you. I thought he
was interested, but he hasn’t signed up and all the slots are almost taken.”
That’s technically true, though I haven’t actually given open mic night or
Crosbie’s “magic” much thought recently. I just don’t know how else to ask
Kellan what the hell his best friend has been up to without fielding certain
questions in return.

“Oh,” he
says. “He hasn’t mentioned it. I can check with him if you want.”

I
swallow. “Sure. That would be great.” I don’t have Crosbie’s number, and I’ve
never given him mine. I don’t know his class schedule, either, so short of
skulking around outside the frat house, I have no way to run into him. I know
I’m being contrary. It was my plan to forget him, but now that he’s the one who
seems to have forgotten me, I can’t seem to think about much else besides
getting him to notice me again.

“Want to
watch this with me?” Kellan asks, nodding at the TV. “It just started. I can
rewind it if you want.”

“No.” I
shake my head. “Thanks, but I have to—”

“Study,”
he finishes for me, giving me a big thumbs up. “Got it.”

I take my
plate to the kitchen. I’m glad I ate most of the spaghetti before our
conversation, because my appetite seems to have fled. I rinse the plate and
stick it in the dishwasher, then head into my room to grab my jacket and bag.

“See you
later,” I call, heading outside.

“Have fun
at the library.”

I don’t
respond, shivering as the foggy night air greets me. It’s dark and quiet, the
air so dense it’s impossible to see more than ten feet in front. I climb on my
bike and pedal in the direction of the library, though for once that’s not my
destination. Despite my determination to be smarter this year, it has taken me
way too long to figure out how to learn what Crosbie Lucas has been up to: I
will quite literally read the writing on the wall.

It’s an
antiquated and distasteful tradition and the school puts up a token protest and
paints them every couple of years, but the fourth floor bathrooms in the
Student Union building are notorious for listing frat house hookups. The more
popular the guy, the longer the list. The lists appear in both the men and
women’s bathrooms, and for some it’s about the bragging rights, while for
others it’s just plain embarrassing. Last year I’d come up here daily in the
week after my hookup with Kellan to see if my name appeared on his very lengthy
list, but it never had. At the time I’d been a confusing mix of relieved and
disappointed; now I’m just relieved.

At six
o’clock on a Wednesday, the building is relatively quiet. I pass a few people
as I approach the elevator, but ride up to the fourth floor alone. There’s a
girl coming out of the bathroom as I enter, and then it’s just me. I take a
breath and study the long row of stalls. If I recall correctly, the third one
is dedicated to the Alpha Sigma Phi guys. I’d seen Crosbie’s name on there last
year when I checked Kellan’s list, but I hadn’t paid it any attention. Now it’s
the only one I’m interested in.

The
stalls are the standard cramped metal affairs with chipped gray paint. The
lists are written mostly in black marker, with the guy’s name at the top and
his conquests scrawled beneath. A lot of them are dated, too, like a time stamp.
It’s a mix of handwriting, some neat, some sloppy, updated by random people
with random intel. Out of curiosity, I check out Kellan’s list. There’s a
whopping sixty-two names listed on it, dating back to last September when he
first started at Burnham. I can’t help it: my jaw drops. I know he’s…prolific,
but that’s more than I expected. I had sex with five guys last year and I
thought that was a lot.

I frown
as I scan his list. It’s numbered, and there are a couple of gaps on it:
numbers four, nine, twenty-two, forty-one, forty-two, and fifty are blank. I
don’t know where I fall in, but I take sick satisfaction in learning I’m not
the only girl he forgot.

I tuck my
hair behind my ears and study the rest of the stall. There are about twelve
guys’ purported hookups documented in here, and the lists range in length from
six to sixty-two, which I guess makes Kellan the “winner.”

I spot
Crosbie on the opposite side of the stall. His list has twenty-five names on
it, and I feel each one like a jealous little kick to the heart. I know it’s
stupid, but I read the names in case I recognize them, so I can see what kind
of girls Crosbie Lucas likes. What kind he suddenly starts avoiding. But I
don’t recognize any of the “Crosbabes,” and when I get to the bottom of the
list, I frown. The final entry is dated June second of this year. He wasn’t on
campus all summer, but if he’s the Crosbie Lucas I thought I knew—the one with
twenty-five Crosbabes notched into his bedpost—surely he’s messed around with
someone since the new school year started. What about the girl in the library?
Just to be sure, I check the other lists, and most have entries for September
and October. Kellan alone has ten since Labor Day.

My eyes
drift back to Crosbie’s list. I have no more information than I came in here
with—or do I? I’m scared to hope what I’m hoping, that he hasn’t had sex with
any girls since we met, but that’s ridiculous. I know his reputation. I’ve seen
him in action. I see his history scrawled right here on the bathroom wall. He’s
not a monk, and he certainly doesn’t suffer from a lack of female attention.

I leave
and grab my bicycle, but I don’t go to the library. Instead I just pedal
around, my feelings as murky as the thick fog. I can’t afford to care about
Crosbie Lucas, but I can’t seem to stop, either.

* * *

On Friday I have a two o’clock progress meeting with Dean Ripley. He and
my father had been roommates thirty years ago, so he has an unfortunately
vested interest in my progress.

I have
two classes on Fridays and normally hang out at the library in between instead
of biking home. Today, however, I want to change out of my standard uniform of
jeans and a T-shirt so I look upstanding and presentable when I meet with Dean
Ripley. The last time we met was after my arrest, and I’m pretty sure I was
wearing that white dress with the leather straps and a pair of Marcela’s
platform boots. This time when he calls my father with an update, I want
“leather” to have no role in the conversation.

I groan
and fish around in my closet until I find the blue dress with the Peter Pan
collar. I pull it over my head, pair it with some flats, and twist my hair into
a high bun. Stray strands flutter out, but I think I look kind of wholesome and
sweet—not easy to do when big boobs and a tiny waist make everything I put on
look anything but wholesome.

I pace
back and forth as I imagine the upcoming discussion, and I’m halfway through my
mumbled declaration about learning from my mistakes and channeling them into a
newer, better version of myself when I hear the front door open and the raucous
laughter of approximately half the track team. I freeze. I have to leave in ten
minutes and I’d really rather not explain why I’m home in the middle of the
day, or where I’m going. Or why I’m dressed like this.

Shit shit
shit.

Maybe
they’ll leave. Maybe Kellan just dropped by to pick up a game or something.

But ten
minutes later, they’re still here. I can hear the telltale explosions of
Fire
of Vengeance
and non-stop shouts and curses. When I can’t wait anymore, I
take a breath, plaster on what I hope is a pleasant and not at all irritated
expression, and step out of my room.

Absolutely
everyone falls silent. Even the game takes the hint and things stop exploding.

“Nora,”
Kellan says, standing abruptly. He looks guilty. “I—You’re—”

“Going
out,” I say. “Stay. Play your games. Have fun.” That’s when I notice Crosbie
straddling one of the dining chairs. Everyone else is clustered in the living
room, sitting on either the couch or the floor, but he’s slightly apart. I’ll
have to walk within six inches of him to get to the stairs.

Kellan
glances at his friends as though he’s worried what they might think if he cares
too much about what I think, but I don’t care about any of them. It’s been two
and a half weeks since I last saw Crosbie and he looks good. He’s wearing a
pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt that strains against his
biceps. His hair needs a trim and sticks up like he’d just run his fingers
through it, but it’s the look on his face that gets me. Just for a second, I’d
swear I see something that looks a lot like…longing in his eyes. Then it’s
quickly replaced by his usual cocky grin and a full-body once over.

I hear
whispers of, “Dude, who is that?” and “That’s your roommate?” and then, even
though I know I should just call out, “Sorry, gotta run!” I stop when Kellan
says my name.

My face
stretches with a polite smile and I turn to greet the room. There are ten guys
piled onto the couch and the floor around it, and maybe half look familiar.
“Hi,” I say.

“Nora.”
Kellan comes to stand at my side and gestures to the group, rattling off names
as he points, finishing with, “And you know Crosbie. Everyone, this is my
roommate, Nora.”

“Hey,
Nora,” they chorus.

Kellan
points a stern finger in their direction. “Nora’s a very good student and a
very good influence,” he says. “No one try to corrupt her.” To me he adds, “If
any of them tries to corrupt you, tell me right away.”

I’m not
entirely sure he’s kidding.

“Nice to
meet you,” I say, even though I instantly forgot everyone’s names.

“Are you
coming to the Halloween party?” one guys asks.

“Ah…what?”
I want to take the words back as soon as I say them. Who doesn’t understand the
words “Halloween” or “party?”

“Alpha Sigma
Phi,” another guy clarifies. “We host a Halloween party every year. It’s invite
only, but for Kellan’s roommate, we’ll make an exception.”

Marcela
got an invite last year and I actually went to this party dressed as a slutty
mermaid, and it was pretty amazing. They turn the place into a haunted
house—complete with spiked punch with fake eyeballs and rubber spiders frozen
in ice cubes—and only “real” costumes are allowed to enter, no writing “book”
on your forehead and trying to convince people you’re Facebook.

“Oh,
thanks,” I say, trying to hide my interest the way a junkie, three days clean,
might pretend she’s not craving meth. “But I have to work that night.” That’s
not true at all; Beans closes early on Halloween to prevent drunk college kids
from coming in and wreaking havoc, which has happened in the past. Costumes
make people daring; I should know. After my sorta-boyfriend and I broke up last
year, the Halloween party was where I had my first one night stand with a guy
dressed as a plastic army man. I had green paint in too many crevices to count
for a full week afterward. Lesson learned.

Sort of.

“Call in
sick,” Crosbie suggests, and for a moment, it feels like the whole room falls
silent, the simple suggestion hanging in the air like a challenge.

One of
the guys pipes up before I can respond. “He’ll make it worth your while,” he
adds, jerking a thumb in Crosbie’s direction. “Last year he went as an
underwear model.”

Because
he’s an obnoxious attention whore, I’d noticed Crosbie last year but
immediately dismissed him. Now that it’s pointed out, however, I recall him
wearing a pair of Calvin Klein underwear and strutting around, drunkenly
shouting, “Where are you
now
, Mark Wahlberg?
Huh
?”

I smile
as I recall it. “What about this year?” I ask him.

“I’m
going as Clark Kent,” Kellan interrupts. “Crosbie’s going to be Superman.” He
grins at me, his eyes lighting up. “You should be Lois Lane!”

The room
explodes in approving cheers and applause, and I laugh dryly. A woman torn
between two men? Not part of the “better Nora” agenda. “We’ll see,” I say,
though we most definitely will not be seeing this.

“She’s
in!” someone cries.

I wave
and head down the stairs. “I have to go.”

Kellan
leans over the rail to watch me put on my coat. “You look hot,” he says,
nodding at my dress. “Big date?”

“Something
like that,” I tell him. At the last second I spot Crosbie behind Kellan,
listening.

“Have
fun,” Crosbie says, holding my stare just a little too long.