Wrecked(18)

Haley


Fritos. Did she really tell him she eats Fritos?

Better yet: Get your own, Math Dude.

There’s a reason she’s never had a real boyfriend. For the longest time she’s been blaming it on soccer. All those weekends during high school when she was either resting up the night before a big game or traveling for tournaments? She’d never had time for boys. Never had time for those big high school parties, the illicit drink--and--make--out fests in houses where the parents were away. That’s why she had to cajole one of her teammates’ brothers into taking her to prom. Not because she was a complete idiot about guys—she’d just never had time to meet any.

But now it’s apparent: she is a complete idiot about guys.

Her phone chimes. Text message.

Location change. We r @ dean of students office.

She quickly types back “k” and picks up the pace. Jenny asked her to come to a meeting. Didn’t say what it was about, exactly. And it starts in . . . three minutes. She’d spent too much time with Cute Guy. Correction: lost track of time talking to Cute Guy.

Further correction: lost track of time embarrassing herself in front of Cute Guy. Whose name is actually Richard. Who she’s already lied to. Because she didn’t know how to tell him she has a rendezvous with her recently raped roommate and god knows who else from the college.

She hopes it’s not Carrie. She can’t look at her right now.

Because she totally, completely gets what Richard has (correction: had) in common with Carrie. Honestly, what straight guy wouldn’t? The woman is crazy gorgeous.

Maybe she should consider switching from Fritos to tofu. How long would it take for the beautifying powers of all that health food to sink in? Could she gag it down?

When she enters the Dean of Students Office, Jenny is already there, sitting on a bench in the lobby, the ginormous backpack parked at her feet. She smiles when she sees Haley.

“Sorry I’m late,” Haley begins.

“It’s fine. We can go right up.” Jenny stands, lifting the pack and swinging it over her shoulder with one smooth motion.

Their feet creak up the stairs. About half the buildings on campus have been remodeled to some approximation of shining, smooth efficiency. Not this one. The wooden steps are worn in the center from generations of students making the climb. The moldings around the doorjambs are thick with paint. “Love this building,” Haley says.

“I know, right?” Jenny says. “It reminds me of my grandmother’s living room.”

Haley decides not to point out that she was joking. Instead, she pauses when they come to a landing.

“So, before we go up. Why are we here?”

Jenny glances up the stairs, then back down. She looks like she’s trying to decide something. Like a mouse caught, frozen, when you flick on the overhead lights.

“We’re meeting with Carole Patterson,” she says slowly. “There’s something I want to ask you, and I thought she’d be a good person to explain it.”

“Wait, who’s Carole Patterson?”

“She’s the person in charge whenever there’s a judicial thing on campus,” Jenny explains. “She coordinates everything.” She starts walking up the stairs again.

Haley doesn’t budge. “Why can’t you ask me yourself?”

Jenny stops, but doesn’t turn. “Can we just go up?”

“Jen. You don’t always have to go through a third party with me. I don’t bite.”

Jenny finally turns. “I know. I’m sorry. This is just . . . a lot. Okay? It helps to have someone else explain.”

“Is it just this Patterson person?”

“Yeah, I think.” Jenny continues her trek up the stairs.

Haley follows.

Carole Patterson’s door is ajar, her voice a friendly “Come in!” when Jenny knocks. The first thing Haley notices is a big window and a massive, flaming maple just outside. Through the fluttering leaves she glimpses a row of campus buildings, a sloping lawn, dots of students lounging on grass or throwing Frisbee.

A woman wearing khakis and black clogs crosses the room, hand extended, as they enter.

“You must be Haley,” she says. As she smiles, spider--web creases fan the corners of her eyes. Her grip feels cool and powder--dusted. Like a gymnast’s, preparing for a routine on the bars. “I’m Carole Patterson. Please call me Carole.” She motions them to a trio of wooden college armchairs arranged in front of a bookcase.

“Great view,” Haley comments as they sit.

“I think it’s safe to say that’s the most magnificent tree on campus,” Carole agrees, her eyes wandering to the maple. “Especially this time of year.”

“It looks like a migration of monarchs,” Jenny says.

“I’ll bet you know a lot about that,” Carole says. She looks at Haley. “Your friend never ceases to amaze me with what she knows about biology.”

“Me too,” Haley says. “Amaze, that is.”

Carole has a manila folder on her lap. She opens it, glancing quickly at the paper on top. Haley can’t read what it says, but it looks like bullet points.

“How are you doing?” Carole asks Jenny. Not unkindly.

Jenny’s jawline tightens. She doesn’t answer.