Wrecked(33)

“I’m chasing you away,” he says. “Sorry; don’t mean to be a downer.”

“No, not at all. I’m just tired. And I’d love to sleep, but I have to at least attempt some reading tonight.”

Richard nods, like he understands, but she can see he’s not buying this, either.

“So give me your number and I’ll text you about apples,” he says, pulling out his phone.

“Great,” she says, searching through her pack. “I’m pretty sure I can do that. Coach has let me off the hook for away games, so I think I’m free.” She hears the conditional in her own voice. Setting up excuses already. They clang. Lame. So lame.

They exchange numbers, and she gets up. He remains seated in the booth. He smiles as she slides away, his mouth closed. Like he’s determined to not seem like a guy who has just opened up to a girl who then decides to blow him off.

“See you,” she says.

“Right,” he answers.

Haley turns and walks toward the exit. Could this possibly suck more?





. . .


Jenny knows they call her Mouse. She knows she is invisible. And who can blame them? Hidden beneath the weight of her own books, still locked in the role of some parents’ good daughter, she barely knows herself.

Until now. She has this: a party invitation. From an older boy. Bring friends, he said. And suddenly, like some brilliant ignition, some curtain rising accompanied by drumroll, she appears. In a thigh--grazing dress with capital to expend.

She’s a girl worth knowing.

Tonight, anyway.

. . .





14





Richard Haley’s text on Saturday morning surprises Richard.


When she’d left the Grille so suddenly, Richard figured it was the last he’d see of her. What the hell? he’d thought as she walked away.

He hadn’t pegged her for a snob. One of the rich--girl--beautiful--people. They usually can sniff you out early on, realize you’re not going to be going along on the gang’s spring break trip to so--and--so’s parents’ house in Aruba, or you don’t have a car on campus, or you don’t have a season pass to the nearest ski resort—so sorry, gotta run, end this conversation fast. Because you, buddy, are not a wise investment of my time.

He’s met those girls before. Figured out how to spot them first and avoid wasting his time.

He’d thought Haley was different. But she’s a soccer girl. And probably a super jock. You don’t just show up and start as a freshman unless you’re pretty damn good.

So the sudden flip, when he mentioned work--study? All of a sudden she “thinks” she’s free for the apple picking she supposedly loves?

Then, she texts.

Apples?

It wakes him. Nine a.m. on Saturday morning. Taylor House is still. Most of his housemates won’t be up for hours. A few might be lucky to make it to lunch before the dining hall closes. Then again, they might get up and stumble across campus to the home football game. Cruise an assortment of tailgate parties for a one--p.m. breakfast of champions: guacamole and chips with some cold beer to wash it down.

He peers again at his phone.

Apples?

He presses his head back into the pillows, focuses on the ceiling. Can he focus on the ceiling? The place behind his eyes aches with that Death Valley crack, where the earth splits from too long without rain. His tongue is made of sandpaper.

He’d succumbed to beer pong in the basement last night. His team didn’t win.

The problem was the crap beer.

The problem was too much crap beer.

The problem was . . . too much.

But it’s not like he’d had anything else planned for Friday night.

It was him, Rob, and Justin against three guys who had wandered in from Conundrum. He should’ve known better: Rob and Justin usually just watched from the sidelines. Guys from Conundrum pretty much majored in beer pong.

At one point they were taking a break while someone went upstairs to take a piss. He’d crashed onto the couch against the wall. The room was spinning, slowly, clockwise. He remembers thinking that wasn’t too bad. End to end spins, where you rotate head over heels? Those were the spins to watch out for.

He remembers a piece of one conversation.

“So, did you all meet with Bockus tonight?” This from Todd, a Conundrum guy.

Rob and Justin looked blank.

“Meeting?” Justin asked.

Short laugh from Todd. “Guess he’s in trouble,” he said. “Some girl reported him after that party we hosted with you all a couple weeks ago. He’s being investigated and had to give the college a list of people who were there.”

“Damn,” said Rob. “I didn’t hear anything about this.”

“Were you at the party?” asked Todd.

“What party?” said Justin.

“Exactly,” Todd said, laughing. “People are conveniently forgetting about that party, let me tell you. I, for one, have no idea what Bockus was up to that night, and I sure as hell don’t want to get nailed for serving alcohol to underage freshmen because he was being a dick.”

“Wait, some freshman girl is upset because Bockus gave her a drink?” said Rob.

“Dude, you’re stupid. A girl is accusing Bockus of rape.”