Emergency Contact(11)

Sam loathed the arbitrary taxonomy of fiddly coffee drinks and had long since learned them all out of spite.

“Sure,” he said, grinding beans for a short shot.

“Do you know what that is?” she challenged.

“Yep,” he said. “Latte with a modified espresso to milk ratio. With microfoam.”

“Nice try, Mal,” said Jude.

“What are you having,” he asked. “Penny was it?”

Sam followed Penny’s sight line to her shoes. Which, coincidentally, were exactly his shoes though smaller.

“Great taste,” he said, nodding at her feet.

Penny’s mouth made the shape of an “O,” but no sound escaped.

Dorm lotteries made for the funniest groupings. Sam’s old freshman roommate, Kirin Mehta, used to sleepwalk and sleep-pee in a corner of their living room every weekend. Sam hoped that these two girls—the mute and the sexpot—got along for Jude’s sake.

“Let me guess,” he said to Penny. “You want a bone-dry half-caff cappuccino with a caramel drizzle?”

Penny cleared her throat and nodded.

“What are the odds?” he asked her, fairly certain that it wasn’t at all what she wanted.

Sam studied Penny out of the corner of his eye. Her messy hair lent her an air of zaniness. She looked like a scribbled-in-graphite drawing.

“Actually, may I have an iced coffee?” she piped up.

“Of course you may,” he said pointedly.

“Oh, Uncle Sam?”

He swiveled to see Mallory leaning toward him, elbows hooked on the bar. Her not-insignificant boobs were hoisted to where they almost hit her chin. She lowered her sunglasses with a silver-painted talon. Clearly, too much time had elapsed since Mallory was paid attention to.

“What’s up?”

“Is it true that you bake?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Maybe someday you’ll bake something for me,” she said, suggestively tilting her head.

He tilted his head to mirror hers.

“No maybes about it, Mallory,” he said. “Eat off Jude’s plate right now and I’ll have baked that for you. Happy trails.”

“You’re funny,” she tittered, sashaying off to follow her friend.

Sam shook his head. There was no way he was going to mix it up with a freshman. Let alone a friend of Jude’s. Even he wasn’t that dumb.





PENNY.


The three girls sat on a floral couch toward the back with Jude in the middle. They set down their drinks, and Penny noted that Jude’s femur was almost twice as long as hers.

“So.” Mallory leaned to address Penny. “Jude mentioned you were an only child too.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I have two little sisters,” Mallory continued, sipping her coffee. “Whereas Jude hasn’t had to share anything in her life, let alone a room.”

Jude jabbed her friend in the ribs and grabbed another donut.

“What Mal’s so subtly trying to tell you is that I’m a slob.” Jude took a bite, spraying crumbs in her lap to prove her point. “Look, I’m way too busy living life to mull over something as dull as cleaning. Besides, everyone knows geniuses are messy.”

Mallory plowed on.

“It’s just that I happened to notice earlier that you were highly organized,” she said. “It’s going to make things interesting. I live in Twombly, but you should expect me around a lot.”

Ah, Twombly. Rich-bitch housing.

Penny wondered why Jude couldn’t just visit Mallory at Twombly. They had a Pilates studio in the basement and a screening room that showed movies that were still in theaters.

Sam met them with an espresso and set it down on the coffee table.

“Can you visit more with us?” Jude asked him.

“In a bit,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

The girls watched him go.

“Whoa,” said Penny, realizing what should have been obvious. “It’s not just the shoes,” she whispered.

“What?” asked Mallory in an outside voice. Penny huddled closer.

“Me and your uncle are wearing the same outfit.”

Jude and Mallory craned their necks. It was true; they were both wearing black T-shirts with three-quarter-length sleeves, black belts with burnished silver buckles, and skinny black jeans with holes at both knees and black high-top Chucks.

“Oh my God,” said Jude. “He was such a skater when we were kids. I didn’t realize he’d crossed over to the dark side.”

Mallory snorted.

“Remember in sixth grade when you had the wallet chain and those enormous, disgusting khakis?” asked Mallory. “God, you were obsessed with Uncle Sam. Watch, Jude’s going to start dressing in mourning garb now.”

Sam was arranging dirty mugs on a tray. He had a cowlick on his head. An unruly little curlicue that rose off his otherwise very cool hair. He probably hated it. Penny loved when that happened. When a single detail rebelled against the package. She wanted to touch it. Penny looked away before she got caught staring.

Mallory bit into one of the donuts. “Ack,” she said, sticking her tongue out like a baby. “I hate pistachio.” She removed the offending clump from her mouth with her fingernails and set the damp mass on the table.