Wrecked(12)

Exley disliked Richard instantly, stiffening like a restrained animal that senses a threat the moment they met. Richard didn’t really get it, but the more he got to know Exley, the more it made sense. It was like the guy needed someone to provoke, to target, and fixated on Richard. Exley was always pushing Richard to drink more than he wanted, goading him if he slowed down. Mocking him for tutoring math instead of joining the rest of the guys for beer pong or pool shots at the house. When they got cited for damage and banned from hosting parties, Richard was actually relieved.

As Richard stands just behind a tree near the entrance to the history building, watching Carrie, who seems to be waiting for someone, a wave of urgency breaks over him. He can fix this. He needs to fix this. He takes a deep breath, relaxes his shoulders, and observes. It occurs to him that this is how he attacks tough math problems: avoid panic, take one step at a time. There is always a solution. It always, ultimately, reveals itself.

Richard steps out from behind the cover of the tree and plants himself behind her. At the same moment, the doors to the building yield, letting loose a stream of bodies. They break around Carrie as she remains in place, her gaze fixed on a point at the top of the stairs. She doesn’t turn. He takes one step closer.

She speaks to someone. A girl who has just come out.

Richard knows her. Recognizes her, anyway. She comes to tutoring, although he’s never worked with her. Soccer Girl (the sweatshirt she always wears gave that away), who sometimes doesn’t ask for help at all but simply studies in the math lounge.

He notices Soccer Girl’s hesitancy as she answers Carrie. She wrinkles her forehead, looks beyond Carrie as if she’s impatient to move on. That’s when Soccer Girl sees him, and their eyes lock. Surprise unfolds across her face.

Carrie turns to see what’s so interesting over her shoulder. When she picks out Richard, she flashes him a furious look, then whips her head back toward the girl. More words are exchanged between the two of them, then the matter is settled and they begin walking together. They pass him on the sidewalk, Carrie’s eyes fixed ahead at something, anything except him.

It’s not turning out the way he intended.





. . .


Music seeps from someone’s room, not clear which. The volume is turned up, and several doors down someone else sings along. A few more join in from another room, then the whole thing goes hall--viral.

Girls who never thought they could carry a tune are belting it. Girls who never thought they could dance are shaking it, down the hall, in dresses and jeans and gym shorts and sweatpants. They hold hairbrushes like microphones, they whip out their cell phones and blind themselves with repeated flashes from their cameras.

From the bathroom, one girl emerges, shower--fresh, wrapped in a towel. She stands in the center of the hall and, diva--like, sings.

They laugh so hard they gasp for breath, falling against each other for support.

. . .





5





Haley


Haley’s not a hugger.

Never has been. Not even when Haley was little and girlhood was defined by sleepovers and whispered secrets, giggles and body--rocking laughter over practically nothing. And hugs.

Spontaneous, random hugs. On the playground. At the swim club. Before school, after school. In the hallways as they changed classes. On the couch in someone’s den, the big TV room, group--hug pileup with a bowl of popcorn knocked over in the crush. Body language that declared, emphatically: We Are Friends. Best Friends. Forever. And when they got older? Instagram--Snapchat--Facebook--posted documentation of girl--love, those hugs. The imprimatur of success: Me and my besties. #HavingSoMuchFun

It wasn’t instinctive for Haley. She could feel herself tighten awkwardly when friends threw their arms around her. Her return hugs were swift; she always let go first. It wasn’t that she wasn’t physical—just the opposite. Haley was the first to rush the goal and hurl herself at their keeper when they won a game; the first to slap your hand in encouragement after a tough point; the first urging everyone together in a midfield huddle, heads bumping, arms laced over hunched shoulders.

That felt genuine to her. The rest . . . not. So when she opens the door to their room and finds Jenny waiting, as Carrie promised, she is startled by her own response.

Haley drops her pack and walks straight to where Jenny sits on her bed, open laptop resting on her knees, a box of tissues at the ready. She ignores all that, even the stray used tissues. She ignores the polite, respectful distance that has made them such good roommates and slides herself onto the thin wedge of bedside next to Jenny, the computer tilting dangerously. She feels her own eyes fill as she throws her arms around the girl’s shoulders and, wordlessly, squeezes tight.

Oh, Jen. I’m so, so sorry, she doesn’t say out loud.

Her roommate shakes with silent sobs. Haley just holds on. She doesn’t know how long.

When they finally move apart, Haley stays on the bed. Jenny’s face is creased and red--streaked. Her eyelids look raw.

“I feel terrible. I had absolutely no idea,” Haley says quietly.

“How could you? I didn’t tell you. I could barely admit it to myself.”

“That’s what Carrie said. But she said you’ve been really brave.”

Jenny angles her head away. “I don’t know. If I’m so brave, how come I didn’t fight him off? How come I let this happen to me?” Fresh tears begin to form in her eyes. “I don’t feel brave. I feel stupid.”