Undecided (12 page)

He leans
in conspiratorially. “Was it a boy?”

I snort
and push him away. “Why? Are you jealous?”

For a
second he doesn’t react. Our eyes lock and my hand feels like it’s stuck to his
chest, my fingertips digging into his pecs. And then he shakes his head and
smirks and I take away my hand. “You see right through me, Nora.”

“Ha. I
haven’t seen you much at all since pizza night.” The night he pretended to be
looking for Kellan, but really came looking for me.

He turns
his attention back to the jeans. “I’ve been busy.”

“I see.”

“With
school.”

“Right.
Me too.”

A pause.
“And Kellan told me you had some trouble last year and really need to study, so
you can’t afford any distractions.”

“You
don’t distract me.” The words come out a little too quickly.

“He said
maybe the video games were a problem.”
“I just tune them out, like I do with
most of your comments. It’s kind of like white noise now.”

He
glances at me. “So what you’re saying is…I help you.”

“That’s
exactly it.”

“I make
you better.”

“Shut up,
Crosbie.”

“You’ve
missed me.”

Our eyes
meet again, and even though he’d said the words in jest, I think we both know
they’re a little bit true. Maybe a lot true.

“Kellan’s
right that I have to keep my grades up, but it’s not terrible, having company
sometimes.”

“Oh
yeah?” He looks decidedly pleased and more than a little smug.

“Occasionally.”

“I’m your
best friend, aren’t I?”

“I’ve
changed my mind. The video games are a real problem.”

“Is that
why you’re coming to the Halloween party?”

“Is what
why? The video games?”

“To talk
to someone. To meet people. To do what people do at parties.” He waggles his
eyebrows and leans in a little, close enough I can smell the faint scent of
shampoo on his still-damp hair.

Even
though I know exactly what he’s referring to, I pretend I’m not sniffing him
and ask, “What do you mean?”

“Have you ever been to a party, Nora?”

“Of
course.”

“I don’t
mean birthday parties when you were a kid.”

I roll my
eyes. “Oh. In that case, no.”

“Yeah?
What are you like at parties? Do you stand in the corner? Hide in the bathroom?
Take a couple of pictures to show you were there, post them on Facebook, then
run home to read?”

I stick
out my tongue. “I’ll have you know I’m great at parties.” Or rather, Marcela
was great at parties; I was okay after two drinks had loosened my inhibitions.

“Tell
me.”

“Well,
first I like to head right to the snack table.”

“Ooh.”

“I really
go to town on the free chips.”

“This is
a wild story, Nora.”

“Then I
study all the family pictures on the wall, and ask the host questions about
them.”

Crosbie
grins. “I know you’re trying to sound like you’re joking, but I think this is
true.”

“And then
I go home. In bed by nine.”

He
laughs. “What I always suspected.”

I find a
couple of pairs of jeans and drape them over my forearm. “Okay, tell me your
party strategy.”

“All
right. Listen closely. Not a lot of girls get this type of intel. Mostly
they’re too amazed by me to appreciate the process.”

“I don’t
doubt it for a minute.”

“First I
put on a T-shirt.”

“Whoa.”

“Then I
add a pair of jeans.”

“I don’t
think I can take much more.”

“Then I
show up. Bam. Game over.” He brushes his hands together, mission accomplished.

“You make
it sound so easy.”

He
shrugs, exaggeratedly cocky. “For some of us, it is.”

“Yo!
Gossip queens!”

We turn
to see Kellan waving from the changing rooms in the corner. “I’m about to get
dressed. Prepare yourselves for the thrill of a lifetime.”

I snag
another pair of jeans before following Crosbie to the back of the store to see
Kellan’s show. He grabs two cheap wooden chairs from a dining room display and
arranges them side-by-side, and when we sit down it’s like we’re the only
people at a strange discount theater.

“So what
have you been up to these past couple of weeks?” he asks, taking one pair of
jeans and holding them up to study.

“Why?” I
ask, echoing his earlier joke. “Did you miss me?”

He looks
at me from the corner of his eye. “Desperately.”

I laugh.
“Well—”

“Hey,
Crosbie.”

We turn
as two girls stroll by, arms laden with costume options. While I don’t
appreciate them interrupting the conversation, I do appreciate that they have
at least steered clear of the slutty French maid outfit.

“Hey,”
Crosbie responds, stretching one arm along the back of my chair as he grins at
them. If I were an idiot I might think the gesture was a possessive one, an
action meant to say,
Hey, I’m busy here
. But because I have two eyes, I
know the gesture has more to do with allowing his coat to gape open, revealing
a well-defined chest beneath his thin white T-shirt.

I sigh
inwardly as the trio makes small talk. My gaze shifts around the store, landing
on a display of sunglasses. I need a pair anyway, and now suddenly seems like
the perfect time to check them out. When I stand, however, Crosbie circles my
wrist with his calloused fingers and keeps me in my seat.

“Don’t
go,” he says in a low voice. To the girls he adds, “See you at the Halloween
party, ladies.”

They take
the cue and say goodbye, but I don’t miss the way their eyes flit to the
still-closed door of the change room before they leave.

“I need
to look at the sunglasses,” I say before Crosbie can accuse me of being jealous
or anything equally ridiculous and untrue. But this time it’s not his fingers
that stop me from standing, it’s his words.

“They’re
only talking to me to get close to Kellan.”

I freeze.
“What?”

He strums
his fingers on the back of my chair and focuses on something over my shoulder,
avoiding eye contact. Which is probably for the best, because there are only
about ten inches separating us, and I’m all too aware of the warm length of his
arm along my shoulders, the way his big knee presses into the outside of my
thigh.

“You
heard me.”

“And
that’s…a problem?” The Crosbie I know—thought I knew—wouldn’t have cared why he
was getting the attention, as long as he was getting it.

His
nostrils flare slightly as he exhales. “I wasn’t complaining about it last
year. I met a lot of girls I wouldn’t have met otherwise. But this year…the
girls Kellan attracts just don’t do it for me.”

I recoil,
stung. “I see.” My chest suddenly feels tight and I blink to clear my vision.

“I didn’t
mean—”

The
change room door bangs open to reveal Kellan propped against the cheap plywood
wall, hands tucked into his pockets, one foot crossed over the other at the
ankle. He’s wearing a navy suit with a red and white striped tie, shiny
loafers, and a pair of black-framed glasses. He looks more like a fashion model
than a journalist, but who’s complaining?

“Thoughts?”
he asks, strutting out of the stall and taking ten steps down the nearest aisle
before executing an exaggerated turn and strolling back. He poses, jutting out
his jaw, then tipping down the glasses to fix me with a laughably intense
stare.

I
snicker, my hurt feelings subsiding for just a second. “Very nice.”

He
studies the price tags stapled to the jacket sleeve and the tie. “All for a
grand total of…twenty-two dollars.”

“You make
it look like an even forty.”

He winks
at me. “I know.” Then he turns to Crosbie, who’s looking more than a little
uneasy. “Don’t tell me I look fat, bro. This is navy. You said it was
slimming.”

Crosbie
clears his throat. “Ten out of ten. Good call with the tie.”

Kellan
fingers it thoughtfully. “I like it.” He disappears back into the change room
and I stand.

“Nora,”
Crosbie says.

“Good
night.” I hang the jeans on the closest rack, no longer interested in playing dress
up or any other games. The burning humiliation I’d felt at his words is welling
right back up, threatening to bubble over. I just want to go home.

“Nora.”
He follows me down an aisle of children’s clothes, fingers folding around the
hem of my coat. “Would you stop?”

“No,” I
say, even as I stop. “Fuck off. I was just being nice—”

“I didn’t
mean you,” he interrupts. “You’re not the kind of girl he likes—”

“Oh,
Jesus Christ.” I yank my coat out of his grasp. “I mean it, Crosbie. Shut up.”

“Come on.
You know what I meant.”

“No,” I
bite out. “Obviously I don’t.”

“He likes
you,” he says, running a hand over the side of his face, frazzled. “And so do
I. You know I do.”

I glance
away, more angry than I should be. No, not angry. Sad. Because I missed Crosbie,
for reasons I don’t want to dwell on, and he hurt my feelings.

“Come
on,” he says again. “Thelma is super hot. I want to see you in those jeans.
Don’t go home empty handed.”

I scowl.
“If you noticed me at a party, it would be the first time.”

“What?
There will be a lot of people, but—” He shakes his head. “Fine, I’ll set a
trap. I’ll put family photos on the wall and wait until you approach.”

“I don’t
want to see your photos.”

“And I’ll
buy all the best chips.”

I blow
out a breath. “I have to go, Crosbie.”

He
shuffles closer. “Wait until Kellan’s ready and I’ll drive you back.”
“I rode my bike.” I turn to go.

“I’m
sorry I hurt your feelings.”

The words
make me pause. Maybe it’s just because he’s had a lot of experience issuing
apologies, but he’s good at this. I’m already calming down and starting to feel
a little embarrassed by my reaction. “Maybe I overreacted,” I mutter.

He nudges
my foot with his. “Yeah, you’re a fucking psychopath.”

I meet
his eye. “I live with Kellan, Crosbie. I don’t need to be nice to you to get
close to him.”

He
frowns. “I know.”

I watch
him for a moment. “I really don’t think you do.”

At eight o’clock on Halloween night, I’m sitting on one of the stools at
the breakfast bar in my Thelma get-up, a half-finished bottle of beer in one
hand as the other hovers over my phone, ready to type a furious “How dare you
do this, Louise!” message to Marcela.

“Hey,”
Kellan says, coming out of his room.

“Hey,” I mutter, too disappointed and
frustrated to manage many more words than that. I’m reading Marcela’s text—
“Sorry,
babe, but I’m dying—like for real dying, vomit everywhere dying—and I cannot be
your Louise tonight. Find Brad Pitt and bang his brains out for me”
—and
trying not to cry.

Kellan
eyes me warily. “Everything okay?”

I sigh.
“Marcela can’t make it,” I mutter. “There’s no Thelma and Louise without
Louise.” And there’s no way I’m about to show up to Alpha Sigma Phi
solo—Marcela’s more than a wingman, she’s the tour guide, and I hate to admit
it, but I still want her to hold my hand until I get warmed up for the evening.

Kellan
sets his briefcase down on the dining room table. It takes me a full five
seconds of staring before I realize he’s in costume—and he looks
good
.
Imagine the sexiest Clark Kent in the history of the world, and transplant him
to my living room. He’s wearing the navy suit, polished black wingtips, and the
red and white striped tie. Paired with gelled back hair and horn-rimmed
glasses, he is the epitome of smart and sexy.

“Wow,” I
manage. “I know I’ve seen it before, but you look great.”

“You too,
Thelma,” he returns, gesturing to my dated ensemble. “Don’t even think about
letting all this go to waste.”

I’m
wearing the tight, high-waisted jeans and a denim shirt Marcela transformed
with a pair of scissors and a spool of thread so it’s sleeveless and ties in
the front just below my belly button. We’d found a curly orange wig at the
drugstore and topped off everything with red lipstick, sunglasses, and a
plastic pistol. I thought I looked pretty good, but without Louise, I just look
like a trashy criminal. The reason the movie’s so awesome is because they’re a
team. And now I’m flying solo. As always.

I force a
smile and take another sip of beer. “I won’t,” I lie. As soon as Kellan leaves
I’m shucking this denim and pouting in bed.

“Nuh-huh.”
He sets his jaw and stubbornly shakes his head. “The second I leave you’re
going to take off that costume and cry yourself to sleep.”

My mouth
falls open. “That is so far from true—”

“Fine,”
he says. “You don’t go, I don’t go.” He starts to undo his tie.

“You have
to go,” I protest. “Every girl on campus will bawl her head off if you don’t.
And half the guys, too.”

“I’m not
going to leave you home alone on the one night you’re supposed to have fun. I
know you aced those assignments, now get your ass out the door.”

“I can’t
go as Thelma—”

“Where’s
Louise’s outfit? I’ll go as Louise if you need a partner.”

I laugh
at the idea of Kellan squeezing into Marcela’s size four jeans. “The outfit is
at her place. There’s nothing here.”

“Fine. Do
you have a business suit? I need a Lois Lane.”

I think
we both know there will be at least a dozen Lois Lanes at tonight’s party. As
soon as word got out that Kellan was going as Clark Kent—and maybe a few people
knew Crosbie would be Superman—Lois became the campus’s most popular costume
idea.

“Of
course I don’t have a business suit. I work at a coffee shop.”

Kellan
crosses his arms and manages to look terribly sexy doing so. “Then figure
something out. Because we’re spending this night together, Nora—whether it’s
here or there is up to you.”

I run an
exasperated hand through my fake hair. “Kellan, just go, please. I’ll come
later.”

“Liar.”

I totally
am. “I don’t have—”

“You have
a white sheet? Be a ghost.”

“I—”

“Or put
on that outfit you wore the day we first met. We’ll stick a book in your hand
and call you a librarian. Wait—that’s too close to the truth.”

“Har
har.”

He sticks
out his tongue, refastens his tie, and tosses me my coat from the back of the
chair. “Get your ass out the door, Thelma. You don’t need Louise to have fun.”

I suck in
a breath, then slowly exhale as I shrug into my coat. Okay, maybe I am
overreacting a little bit. I’m just not someone who knows how to show up to a
party alone and not stand around awkwardly. But if I’m showing up with Kellan
McVey, I won’t be alone, will I? And if things go south, I can just head home
early—we’ve already established I’m virtually invisible at frat houses, anyway.

“When was
the last time you went to a party?” Kellan asks as we trudge through the cold
night. Leaves crunch under our feet and our breath puffs out in white clouds as
we make the fifteen minute trek.

“Last
year,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pocket.

“Last
year?”

“I mean, last
school year,” I amend. “Late spring.”
Specifically the Alpha Sigma Phi May
Madness party where we screwed in a coat closet and you followed it up by
getting a blowjob from some girl while a crowd looked on. Remember? No?

“Did you have fun?”

I hedge.
“Mmm.”

“Crosbie
said you almost flunked out.”

“Yeah.” I
shoot him a smile. “I had a little too much fun.”

He smiles
back. “I hear you. So did I.”

“You’re
still having fun,” I point out. He’s been more than true to our promise not to
bring dates home—I never hear him having sex, never see anyone sneaking out in
the mornings. I know he sleeps out fairly frequently, but I also see him
studying regularly and last week he boasted about the B+ he got on an English
essay.

“Why
not?” he asks, shivering and picking up the pace, forcing me to speed walk to
keep up. “I mean, if there’s no one tying you down, why not?”

I frown.
That seems like an odd thing for Kellan McVey to say. “Was there?” I ask.
“Someone?”

He’s
quiet for a second. “Nah,” he says finally. “There’ve been a lot of someones,
but no one special.”

Ouch. “I
see.”

“What
about you?”

I force a
smile. “No one special.”

“And
tonight? You have anyone in mind? Want me to introduce you? Because honestly,
Nora? You’re super hot. And in that outfit, you could have anyone you want.”

I laugh
because I can’t help it. “I’m steering clear of green paint,” I say,
“otherwise, I’m keeping my options open.”

He gives
me a weird look. “Green paint, huh? I’m making a mental note to ask about that
in the morning.”

“I’m sure
I won’t know what you’re talking about.”

“McVey!”

Ten feet
from the front door of the Alpha Sigma Phi house, it’s like a starting whistle
has been blown. Every guy and girl in the vicinity start to cry Kellan’s name,
and he grins and waves and greets them like the world’s best politician. Almost
immediately I feel myself fading into the background.

The
walkway leading up to the front door is lined with modified tiki torches, each
boasting a severed head with flames licking out the eyes. There are
jack-o-lanterns and stuffed black cats, ghosts dangling from bare tree
branches, and the entire front lawn is covered in tombstones, many of which
appear to have been recently disturbed.

The front
door is open, crime scene tape fluttering on either side, chalk outlines of
broken bodies etched on the steps and floor. Dance music fights to be heard
over shrill screams and ghostly howls, and the laughter of the living is barely
audible over the sounds of the dead.

Kellan
shoots me an apologetic look over his shoulder as he’s quickly whisked away,
some sort of beverage in a plastic skull shoved into his hand. I shiver a
little in my coat, wishing I’d come up with an outfit that didn’t bare my
midriff and show more than a hint of cleavage. I try not to look uncomfortable
as I climb the steps and enter the dim house, every light swapped for either
red bulbs or flickering black lights, casting everyone in an eerie glow.

I shrug
out of my jacket as I make my way through the throng of writhing bodies, barely
miss walking through an enormous web, and finally find a table full of bowls of
spiked red punch, tiny spiders and eyeballs peeking out between bubbles.

“It’s not
bad,” comes a voice from over my shoulder. “If you don’t mind blood and guts.”

I glance back
to see a zombie smiling at me, part of his skull missing, his overalls and
plaid shirt covered in blood and gore as his innards spill out. “If it’s got
spiders, I’m drinking it,” I say.

He takes
in my costume. “Did you come with somebody?”

“Louise got
a bad case of food poisoning.”

He ladles
punch into my skull cup and pours himself a glass. “Lucky me.” He touches his
cup to mine. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

We sip
the sickly sweet liquid, dosed heavily with vodka. I try not to wince as it
burns on the way down, telling myself it’ll soon wash away all this
awkwardness. I came here to have fun, dammit—and I’m going to.

“I’m
Max,” the zombie says, extending a hand.

“Nora.”
We shake and he smiles and under the gruesome makeup, I think he’s probably
quite handsome. “Do you live here?”

He shakes
his head. “I did two years ago, but I moved off campus. I come back for the
parties, though. Are you in a sorority?”

“No. My,
uh, roommate has friends here.”

“Cool.”

“Thelma!”
someone bellows.

I jump back as a bright blue blur cuts between
Max and I, zipping around in a circle before coming back to stand beside us,
hands on hips, chest proudly thrust out to reveal the iconic S on his
skin-tight suit. It’s Crosbie, clad head to toe in spandex, a red cape hanging
down his back. Even in the darkness I can see his clearly defined muscles, and
just as quickly as I notice, I chastise myself for noticing.

“Hey, Cros,” Max says dryly.

Crosbie spares him a formal nod. “Maxwell.”

Max rolls his eyes.

Then Crosbie takes my arm. “Let me borrow
Thelma for a minute, would you? I need her help with something.”

“I didn’t think Superman had a sidekick,” I say
as he drags me through the crowd to the staircase. I grab the banister before
he can pull me up. “What’s going on?”

“Kellan told me your friend bailed,” Crosbie
explains. He stopped when I stopped, so now he’s one step up, looking down at
me. “And he said you wanted to meet somebody. Well, I’m here to help.”

“I’m pretty sure Superman’s skills can be put
to better use. Plus, if you didn’t notice, I was talking to someone.”

“You do not want to hook up with Max Folsom,”
he says seriously. “Trust me. Now come on.” He reaches around my shoulder to
draw me up the stairs.

“How am I
going to meet somebody upstairs when the party’s downstairs?” I ask, trailing
him down the hall toward his room.

He pulls
a single key from a nearly invisible pocket and unlocks his door. “Vantage
point.”

I’m not
sure what he means until I follow him inside, watching as he goes to the window
and shoves it open. Frosty air rolls in, and when Crosbie gestures for me to
crawl through, I peer out cautiously. The window opens onto a small eave that
overlooks the front lawn. We’re high enough up that someone would have to crane
their neck to see us, but from here we can easily spy on everyone who comes and
goes.

“See?” he
says, tapping my back to indicate I should start moving, which I carefully do,
shivering while I put my coat back on. Crosbie follows, and when I hear glass
clink I look over to see two bottles of beer have materialized in his hand.

I accept
one after he twists off the cap. “Where’d you get this?”

“Personal
stash.” It’s the same local craft brew Kellan drinks. I’d never heard of it
until I found it in the fridge one day, and while I don’t drink it often, I’d
mentioned once that I liked it.

“This is
good,” I say. “Kellan buys it.”

“I know.”
Crosbie sips his beer and studies the mass of people below us. Like me, his
knees are drawn up to his chest for warmth. There’s about a foot of space
between us and the cold shingles chill my ass through my jeans.

“Do you
come out here a lot?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.

He shakes
his head. “No. What for?”

I shrug.
“I don’t know.” I scan the crowd. I don’t see Kellan or Max or anyone else I
recognize. Not that I’m likely to recognize many people given my determined
homebody status. “What was wrong with Max?”

“The
Walking Douche?” Crosbie asks, angling an unimpressed look my way. “We call him
that even without the zombie getup.”