In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(21)

Courtney, I understood—of course she got Chi O, she was born for it. But Heather? Heather was barely pretty. Her forehead was too big. She was short. It’s not like she had stellar grades or was so much more popular. Being part of the East House Seven gave Heather and me equal standing, or so I’d thought. She came from money—was that it? Or was it the power of her loud voice, her confidence, her outsized personality?

It was a terrible way to think. I loved Heather. She made me feel brave, like there was nothing we couldn’t do when we were together. But I just couldn’t stop picturing her jumping with Courtney, laughing and waving the card that should have been mine. What if our spots had gotten mixed up? What if I went to the Panhellenic president and opened an inquiry, and they realized their mistake? I envisioned the president taking Heather’s card from her and handing it to me, the rightful owner.

No. Obviously, I couldn’t do that. But I felt so helpless. I wanted to do something to take control, take away the pain. The vision of Heather’s happy face cut at me.

“Look,” Mint said, putting a hand on my leg. “Chi O made a mistake by not choosing you. Show them that.”

“How?” Where we touched, my skin tingled.

“Kappa is number two, right? All you have to do is take the number-one spot from Chi O. Rush harder. Beat them at their own game. I’ll help you.”

“You will?”

He turned and faced me, cross-legged. I couldn’t help it—I pictured the scene in Sixteen Candles when Jake Ryan sits across the table from Molly Ringwald’s character, birthday cake between them, and tells her to make a wish. He was Jake Ryan, but in gold.

“Of course. Whatever I can do.”

I almost asked why, but didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Tell me something,” I said instead. “Something embarrassing.”

“What?” Mint looked taken aback.

“I just told you how I failed,” I said, “and now I’m sitting here feeling ashamed. Tell me something to level the playing field.”

Mint’s cheeks actually turned pink—was I witnessing him blush? I marveled at my power.

“Something you’ve never told anyone else,” I added, emboldened.

He studied me. I must have looked pitiful, because he blew out a breath. “Okay. I’ll tell you something I’m ashamed of, if you swear never to repeat it.”

“I swear.” The words were a binding oath. I could feel a string snap taut between us.

“My mom…” His voice caught, and he took another deep breath. I got goose bumps—he really was going to tell me something important, I could feel it.

“Last year, I found out my mom cheated on my dad.”

I gasped sympathetically.

“It was humiliating. She’d been cheating on him a long time, it turned out, with one of the members of the board of my parents’ company. Everyone found out. But she refused to stop seeing the guy. I expected my dad to end things, divorce her—hell, punch the asshole in the face. I was preparing myself to be a latchkey kid. But he totally folded.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was so weak. He didn’t even fight it. He let her walk all over him, let this other guy emasculate him. He cried for days and begged her not to divorce him, said she could keep seeing the guy, anything she wanted. Everyone found out about that, too, and now everywhere we go, people whisper about how my mom’s getting it from some other guy, and my dad’s a fucking cuckold.”

Mint’s voice had grown harder and sharper as he spoke. When he said cuckold, that strange, old-fashioned word, it was like jagged glass. I leaned back. “My dad’s the biggest coward. I hate him. Everyone at home talks about me behind my back, and it’s all his fault. At a dinner party my mom threw before I left for Duquette, he came late from work and I locked him out of the house. People were laughing and pointing at him through the windows. And you know what? Instead of feeling bad for him, I felt good. Really good. He was the loser, not me.”

“Mint, that’s terrible,” I said, unable to help it.

“Yeah, well. Now you know a shameful secret. Feel better?”

We sat in silence while I processed the fact that the perfect Mark Minter had such a messed-up family. I swallowed. “I think I hate my father, too.”

Mint had been studying his comforter; now, he looked up at me. “Really?”

“I think so.”

“Well, will you look at us. Two jerks who hate their dads.”

I laughed with relief, because of course Mint wasn’t a jerk, and if I was grouped with him, I was going to be okay.

“I can’t believe you told me something so personal,” I said.

“You asked me to.”

“Yeah, but…I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“Jess.” Mint blinked. “I like you.”

For the second time that day, the world tilted on its axis. Mark Minter liked me? Me, Jessica Miller? It was the most improbable of victories, like winning the lottery, or finding a golden ticket in your chocolate bar.

He swallowed, looking unbearably nervous, and I realized I hadn’t yet responded, lost in wonder. “I don’t believe you,” I said.

He cracked a smile, bright as the sun, and he was back to being the golden boy, shameful confession far behind him. “Why not?”