Undecided (3 page)

“Maybe I
will.”

“Don’t
encourage him,” Kellan pleads, dragging Crosbie from the room.

“No
encouragement necessary,” Crosbie says. Just before he lets Kellan win the tug
of war he adds, “We’ll see you.”

That
would be a first, I think, watching them go.

* * *

Speaking of
invisible, I wish that were the case at Beans. Because almost everyone who
works here is a student, we have pretty set schedules and I normally work
alongside Marcela and our boss, Nate.

Nate and
Marcela are polar opposites. Nate is the tall, blond, hipster-type with skinny
jeans and dark-rimmed glasses, and Marcela is the kind of girl who beats up
hipsters. She favors thigh high boots, short skirts, and too-tight tops. Paired
with her bleached hair and signature red lipstick, she looks like a cross
between a fifties movie star and a naughty schoolgirl who hates me. I’d ended
things right after my arrest in May, and I’d sort of hoped that her summer away
from Burnham would help calm her vitriol, but it didn’t. She returned two weeks
ago with the same amount of burning resentment she’d left with.

“Hey,”
Nate calls when I rush in through the kitchen, tying my apron around my waist.
I’d parked my bike in the alley and now I wash my hands and pretend not to
notice Marcela ignoring me as she takes a tray of muffins out of the oven.
“You’re late,” he adds, propping himself up against the counter.

“It’s
three minutes,” I point out, drying my hands. “I didn’t account for the travel
time.”

“You’ve
been making the same trip for a year.”

“Not
today. I mov—” I try to stop myself, but it’s too late. Not that it’s a problem
if Nate knows where I live, but it’s obvious I can’t afford one of those
apartments by myself, so the next obvious question is to ask about roommates,
and I don’t want to have this conversation now.

Or ever.

Especially
when Nate might not know about the Kellan McVey thing, but Marcela does.

“Wait,” he
says when I try to hustle up front. “You moved?”
“Yeah,” I call over my shoulder. “I think
I heard the bell. Time to work!”

I elbow
my way through the swinging doors to the front of the shop, inhaling the
familiar smells of coffee, vanilla, and pastry. The owner of Beans is a huge
patron of the arts and every square inch of the shop that isn’t devoted to
coffee, snacks, and seating is committed to displaying artwork. We’ve got
everything from paintings on the walls to handmade furniture, sculpture, jewelry,
and a very popular set of Russian nesting dolls painted to look like famous
movie characters.

I
recognize the woman waiting at the counter. She comes in often and is nice
enough, but she’s got increasingly complicated drink orders and despite the fact
that she looks only a couple of years older than me, insists on wearing fur
coats year-round. Marcela nicknamed her Mink Coat and the name stuck.

“Ready to
order?” I ask.

“Yes,
please. I’ll have a small i
ced half-caf double non-fat peppermint mocha
with coconut milk. No whip.”

Nate’s
lingering at my side and she shoots him a shy smile he barely notices. For once
I’m grateful for her complicated order. Welcoming the opportunity to
avoid follow up questions, I take an
absurdly long time to make sure the cup is perfectly full before sliding it
across the counter.

“Thank
you.” She flicks another glance at Nate, who’s carefully restocking a tray of
brownies, and leaves.

“So,”
Nate says when Mink Coat is gone. “You moved?”

“Yeah.” I
add the extra change to our tip jar. “Just to the edge of campus. Off campus.
Barely.”

His brow
furrows. “Just off campus is a pretty nice area.”

“Safe and
studious.”

He rolls
his eyes. He knows all about my life changes, and while he wasn’t exactly
cheering when I got arrested last year, he does think I’m taking things way too
seriously. That’s just the way I am, though. Always have been. I’m hot or I’m
cold, never in between. Invisible or under arrest.

I started
to develop when I was thirteen, cringing at the newfound unwanted attention my
boobs were getting. Because I’d gone from being an awkward, gangly teen to the
subject of catcalls and leers with no transitional stage, I’d rebelled the best
way I could: baggy sweatshirts and jeans, sneakers, no makeup. And for the most
part, it did the trick. I got no attention. I also got no dates. No one asked
me to the Christmas dance or homecoming or even to prom. I had to go with my
neighbor Charlie, who was a grade behind. When I moved to Burnham from my home
in Washington, I decided it was time for a change of pace. I wasn’t going to
bury myself in oversized clothing I found on the discount racks, I was going to
come out of my self-imposed shell and live my life. When I met Marcela on my
second day at school, I knew she was the ideal accomplice and the perfect guide
to the Burnham party scene. And it wasn’t like I was particularly shy or
awkward—I’d just never embraced my outgoing, sexy side.

Until
last year.

Repeatedly.
Endlessly. And sometimes illegally.

I went
from zero to sixty without ever tapping the brakes, and eventually I spun out.
So here I am, back to zero, hunkered down, paying for all my fun. Was it worth
it? Yes, I’d say so. Am I completely aware that I’m reversing course, going
from sixty to zero without ever finding a reasonable middle ground? Yes again.

I got good grades in high school, but high
school wasn’t hard. College is. Burnham is my dad’s alma mater, which is the
only reason I got in, and it’s prestigious for a reason. Their alumni boast two
presidents, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, and a Supreme Court Justice. Professors
will fail you if they don’t think you’re trying hard enough or if they think
you’re phoning it in. It’s not enough to show up and complete all your
assignments—they want to know you tried. And last year, I did not try. Hence my
scholarship getting slashed in half, my parents kicking in for the missing
tuition this year, and me moving in with Kellan McVey, my new study buddy.

I may
have gotten a C- in Stats last year, but even I know the odds of this
arrangement failing.

Okay, so
it’s possible I’ve been making a bigger deal out of this “Kellan McVey’s my
roommate thing” than is strictly necessary. I mean, he’s just a guy. A guy who
comes home after a mid-morning soccer game in the rain, strips off his soaking
wet jersey as he crosses the living room, and grins at me before disappearing
into the bathroom.

Have I
mentioned that Kellan is ripped? Like, how-is-that-real ripped? Because he is.
And while I’d like to pretend it’s the peanut butter sandwich I’m eating that
has my mouth watering, it’s not. The heated feeling spreading through my belly
has nothing to do with mealtime, either, and everything to do with the fact
that I haven’t actually been with anybody since that time in the closet with
Kellan.

Four long
months ago.

I firmly
close and lock the door on the dirty thoughts trying to penetrate my studious
haze, and focus on taking my plate to the sink when Kellan comes out of the
bathroom in shorts and…that’s it. Just shorts. His dark curls wet and shiny, a
tiny drop of water working its way between his pecs and down over his six pack
and—

“Any
plans today?” Kellan asks, joining me in the tiny kitchen and pulling a
leftover bowl of mac and cheese out of the fridge. He sticks it in the
microwave and punches a few buttons, the soft whir of the fans filling the air.

“Ah, just
work,” I say. “I start at two.”

“No last
act of rebellion before school starts?” It’s Labor Day, and classes officially
begin tomorrow. I’ve got five courses and two tutorials, and juggling school
and work should be more than enough to keep me out of trouble.

I shake
my head, since forming words poses a greater challenge than I’m up for. I’ve
already seen Kellan’s soap in the bathroom, but smelling it on his freshly
washed body is its own brand of olfactory torture. I rack my brain to think of
something witty or intelligent to say, but can only come up with, “What are you
going to do?”

“Eat,” he
says promptly, the microwave obeying the command and politely beeping. Kellan
removes the bowl, stirs, and takes a bite, nodding his satisfaction. If I have
learned one thing about Kellan in our three days as roommates, it’s that he
wasn’t lying when he said he loves mac and cheese. He buys it in bulk and one
of our four kitchen cupboards is stocked with boxes of it. I mean, I like a
bowl of mac and cheese as much as the next girl, but in this quantity it’s kind
of gross. Though it’s hard to think of mac and cheese as anything but sexy and
delicious when it’s being forked into the mouth of a shirtless Kellan McVey.

“Well,” I
begin, ready to make my escape and hopefully not embarrass myself by drooling.

“What’d
you say you were studying?” Kellan asks, boosting himself onto the counter and
settling in.

Is this
happening? Are we…talking? Just me and Kellan McVey?

“I’m
undecided,” I hear myself say, my voice blessedly normal. “I’ve got a bit of
everything this year. You’re doing sociology, right?”

“Yeah.”
He shrugs carelessly. “It seems like a safe bet. A good base. You can go a lot
of ways with it.”

“Sure.” I
take a sip of water and try not to look like I’m loitering in my own home. I
want to have a conversation with Kellan. I want this to be a thing we do. I
tossed the cardigan into the back of my closet the second I unpacked, and
though the corsets and leather mini-skirts are stuffed back there too, I don’t
want him to see me as the uptight budding librarian he met at our first
meeting.

In deference to the rainy weather, I’m wearing
jeans and a turquoise flannel shirt, which fits well and shows off my figure,
not that he seems to notice. After a lengthy moment of awkward silence, I sigh
and turn to go.

“Hey,” he
says.

I stop.
“Yeah?”

“You pass
the Frat Farm when you go into town, right? For work?”

I pretend
I have to think about it, that I haven’t spent a lot of time at the Frat Farm.
“I guess so.”

“Any
chance I can get you to drop off something for Crosbie? He needs it first thing
tomorrow, but I’m not heading there today.”

It’s
like, fifteen minutes from here to the Frat Farm, but whatever. It’s on my way.
“Sure,” I say. “But you’ll have to give me the address.” This part is true—I
know Crosbie lives in a frat house, but not which one. They’re all the same in
the dark.

“Thanks.”
He hops off the counter and jogs into his room as I try not to ogle the
shifting muscles in his back. He returns a second later carrying a box with a
familiar shoe company logo. “Sneakers,” he explains. “Special order. A guy I
know works at the store and Crosbie’s been waiting for these forever.”

“A shoe
guy,” I say, studying the box. “Who knew?” When I think of Crosbie Lucas—and to
be fair, it’s not often that I do—I think of three things: loud, muscles, and
Crosbabes. Only one of those things floats my boat, and it’s not enough to make
up for the other two.

Kellan
shakes his head. “Don’t get him talking about shoes, he’ll never stop. And no
matter what, don’t let him convince you to participate in any magic tricks.
You’ll never get out alive.”

Illusions
,
I think.
Don’t participate in any illusions
. “Duly noted,” I say. Then,
for some reason, I salute.

Kellan
stares at me for a second, then wrinkles up his nose and lets loose with a
heartfelt belly laugh. And by belly laugh, I mean six-pack laugh, because that
thing ripples and shifts in a way that does something to my own stomach and a
certain spot beneath it.

* * *

Twenty
minutes later I’m leaning my bike against the front stoop of the Alpha Sigma
Phi frat house. It’s a peeling green Victorian on a shady, tree-lined street of
similar houses painted in muted and respectable earth tones. Because it’s the
day before classes start, things on the Frat Farm are relatively tame—guys are
moving in, there are several parents hanging around, and everyone’s still on their
best behavior.

Alpha
Sigma Phi is quiet, the front door closed, a large potted plant blooming
cheerfully beneath the mailbox. It’s the kind of plant that says “Trust us,
mom—your son’s in good hands!” The kind of plant that’ll be dead a week from
now.

I ring
the bell and hear it chime inside, and a few seconds later the door opens to
reveal a tall, thin black guy wearing a suit and tie and a nametag that says
“My name is Dane.” He does a double take when he sees me, and I realize they’re
expecting new roommates and are hoping to make a good impression on the
parents. This is positive news for me—Alpha Sigma Phi is aptly named. The guys
are all athletes and take the “Alpha” part of their title very seriously, each
one determined to be the man of the house. If they’re still in “impress mom”
mode, I’m unlikely to stumble into an orgy.

“Hey,” I
say.

“Hey.” He
glances at the box in my hand.

“Does
Crosbie Lucas live here?”

“
Oh
.”
Dane smiles and nods knowingly. “Yeah, yeah. He lives here. Right up there.” He
steps aside to reveal a large staircase leading to the second floor. “Go ahead.
Do your thing.”

I blink.
Flannel, jeans, and one o’clock on a Monday? There’s nothing sexy or suggestive
about me. “I don’t need to go upstairs,” I say, suddenly a little less
confident I won’t see anything I can’t unsee. The last thing I need is to walk
in on Crosbie and his newest Crosbabe. I thrust the paper bag holding the
shoebox toward Dane. “Could you just give him this? It’s from—”

“Tell him
yourself,” he says. “I’m not going to be responsible for whatever ‘gift’ you
brought for the guy.”

“It’s not
a gift—”

But
Dane’s already walking away. So much for best behavior.

I
consider just leaving the bag inside the door and asking Kellan to call Crosbie
and tell him it’s there, but I think about how irresponsible frat houses are
and figure I’ll just hurry upstairs, find his room, cover my eyes and knock on
the door. No chance for any sort of miscommunication or awkward encounter.

Okay.
Enough stalling. I have to be at work in forty minutes, and I left early so I’d
have a bit of time to amble around town while it was still quiet. Because it’s
Labor Day and everybody’s busy moving in and preparing for class, the small
downtown will be mostly empty, just a few shops and restaurants open for
locals. Quiet solitary walks—how’s that for rebellion, Kellan?

I wipe my
sneakers on the welcome mat—I expect this mat will go the way of the plant—and
climb the old wooden staircase to the upper level. Last year the guys’ rooms
had names on them, and this year is no different. Though without blaring dance
music, a hundred writhing bodies, and sticky splashes of alcohol on the floor,
it’s nothing like my past experiences.

There’s a
long hallway that stretches toward the back of the house, lined with doors on
either side. A couple are open but most are closed, and I can hear music and
voices filtering through the thin walls. I make my way down the hall, scanning
names until I find Crosbie second from the end.

I inch
closer and try to listen for warning sounds—mattress springs squeaking, heavy
breathing, cheesy porno music—but there’s just a strangely rhythmic thud and
whir noise. I give serious thought to hanging the shoes on the knob and getting
out of here, then I tell myself to suck it up and knock. He’s not going to
answer the door naked—I’m pretty sure. Like, fifty percent sure. Thirty.

I knock.
The thud-whir combo slows, then stops, and after a second the door is wrenched
open to reveal Crosbie on the other side, a small towel in one hand as he wipes
his neck. He’s wearing a white wife beater with a large V-shaped sweat mark
down the front and gray sweatpants. His forehead is slick and shiny, and every
one of his overdeveloped muscles is on display.

He’s
alone.

And very
surprised to see me.

“Nora,”
he says, eyes comically wide. It’s actually kind of cute, especially now that I
can breathe easy knowing I’m not about to walk in on anything that will give me
nightmares.

“Hey,” I
say.

For a
second we just stare at each other. It’s weird—like seeing an animal in the
wild you’ve only ever seen at the zoo.

“Um.” I
shake my head and thrust out the bag. “Kellan asked me to give you these.
They’re sneakers.”

“Right.
Okay. Thanks.” He takes the bag and then we just stare some more. “What are you
doing right now?”

My heart
thumps in my chest. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but that line worked on me a
couple of times last year with other guys. But today my answer is different.
“I’m going to work. I start at two.”

“Yeah?
Two?” He’s got an mp3 player in his pocket and now he pulls it out to check the
time. Then he nudges the door open a bit wider and glances behind him to where
I can see a haphazardly made bed. “Come in here for a minute.”

“I beg
your pardon?”

It takes
a second, then his whole face changes, confusion shifting to surprise then
amusement. “Just lay on the bed for a bit,” he says, trying to keep a straight
face. “This won’t take long.”

I roll my
eyes, feeling foolish. “Shut up.”

He
laughs. “Seriously, come in. I need someone to quiz me and those ass hats won’t
do it.”

“What do
you need to be quizzed for? Classes haven’t even started.”

“I’ve got
Bio with McGregor tomorrow.” He opens the door more and gestures for me to
enter. And for some reason, I’m entering. “Everybody knows he drops a pop quiz
first thing on day one and I’m going to be ready for it.”

I’m
trying to listen, but mostly I’m taking in Crosbie Lucas’s bedroom. It’s small
and cramped, with a queen bed against the wall on the right, its blue plaid
bedspread rumpled on top. The desk is home to a laptop and piles of books and
school supplies, and the rest of the room is devoted to sports. The source of
the thud-whir is an elliptical machine on the left side of the room, next to
which sits a small weight stack. Even though Crosbie’s only on the track team,
same as Kellan, there are hockey sticks, baseball bats, soccer balls,
volleyballs…pretty much anything you’d need to play any game on the planet.

A
wardrobe, its doors left open, reveals an explosion of clothing, much of which
is heaped in the corner, on the desk chair, and on the floor by the bed. A
garbage can holds a couple of empty beer bottles, but the window that overlooks
the front lawn—and which is propped open with a ruler—keeps the room from
smelling as bad as it looks.

“Here.”
Crosbie snatches a textbook from the elliptical and sticks it in my hand. “Have
a seat and start asking me questions about the first chapter.”

The only
free space to sit is the bed, and when I shoot a longing look at the clothing-covered
desk chair, Crosbie laughs at me. Given our first cardigan-clad encounter, he
must think I’m a terrified prude. “Just sit on the bed,” he says. “It’s not
like I knew you were coming. I don’t exactly bring a lot of girls up here to
‘quiz.’”