Begin Again(40)

Shay throws on her coat. “I know. And if it’s dumb, I will bail,” she jokes. “But I meant what I said. I’ll help you get your ribbons so you and your Lifetime movie cutout of a boyfriend can get your happily-ever-after.” She pauses as she reaches for her gloves. “Also, I heard a rumor about free hot chocolate.”

I bite down a smile, because we both know full well Shay has access to free hot chocolate at Bagelopolis for no less than eternity. We pass Milo’s room on our way out, both of us glancing at the shut door that means he must be in an afternoon class. This morning was the second Friday in a row he tried to get me to take over the show; I’ve still adamantly refused, and he’s still adamantly stuck to his new catchphrase of “next week, then,” and I’ve still pretended it doesn’t matter to me when it might just be the one thing that matters most.

“So how exactly did you end up working with Milo on the radio show?” I ask Shay as we make our way to the quad. The flurry of snow from this morning has long since stopped, and now the entire campus is under a blanket of white, the little roads and sidewalks cleared like paper cutouts. “And how did Milo end up working on the show?”

“He told me he started out in the cafeteria for work-study his freshman year. He’d have to do announcements on the loudspeaker sometimes, like if they’d run out of a certain dish, or if campus safety wanted to reiterate something for the fiftieth time while everyone was eating. I guess he added some Milo flair to it and . . . boom, recruited.”

“Do I even want to know what kind of flair?”

“Eh, you know his thing with the work-studies. Apparently he started mouthing off about the program when he saw all the students elbowing each other for positions in the cafeteria and did some digging into it. Probably good thing he got recruited for The Knights’ Watch, because he was probably one snarky remark away from getting fired.”

“But who recruited him?” I ask.

Shay shrugs. “Some faculty member. Anyway, I ended up finding out at the beginning of first semester because Milo was taking a power nap during his break at Bagelopolis, and he talks in his sleep.”

“He confessed to being the Knight while he was asleep?”

“Oh, no, worse. He was full-on doing the morning broadcast in his sleep, Milo radio voice and all. Except his weather forecast was about flying dogs.”

I look up at the gray post-snow sky. “I can get behind that.”

When we reach the quad, we find at least a few hundred freshmen also gathered in anticipation. After a few moments of hovering on the edge of it, a hand catches my eye, and I see Harriet and Ellie not too far off. I wave back and we start walking over to them just as someone gets on a loudspeaker to address all of us.

“Your task is to build a snowman. Your team has to have a minimum of three people, max of six, and your snowman has to be at least five feet tall. The more creative your snowman, the more ribbons you’ll qualify for,” says the upperclassman, holding a fistful of red ribbons. “You have one hour. Go!”

Before we even reach the other girls, students start diving into the snow like they’re going to run out of it. Ellie freezes, her eyes going wide, and Harriet scans the quad with mild amusement. I shove a hand into the space between all three of us, using the knowledge from the one or two sports movies I’ve seen in my life to say, “Hands in.”

Then I make eye contact with everyone in turn. “Shay and I will get the snow for the base. Harriet, you can get the snow for the middle tier. Ellie, you’re on top tier, and also we’re going to need your belt. Okay, three, two, one, go!”

We all scatter, and Shay and I both start haphazardly gathering snow and rolling it as I try to come up with a plan. “We can make it upside down,” I say, out of breath. “So it’ll stand out.”

A bunch of kids I grew up with in Little Fells perfected the art of upside-down snowmen when we were nine or ten. It was my dad who taught us how to do it one winter, when we seemed to have endless snowstorms and endless energy. A lot of the neighborhood parents would send their stir-crazy kids out into the quiet street to burn it off, but if my dad wasn’t working, he was always the first to join in and lend all his know-how on igloos and snow angels and homemade sno-cones.

My throat tightens—not just at the memory, but the guilt. I haven’t sent the “Bed of Roses” clips to him yet. I haven’t said much of anything to him since I found out about Kelly’s daughter. I wonder if he’s in the snow with her right now, teaching her the same tricks.

“If you think we can pull that off, sure,” says Shay, pulling me out of the thought.

I push it further down and smile at her cheekily. “Maybe it’ll ignite your passion for architectural soundness, and that will be your major.”

“As someone who once accidentally sat on her sister’s dollhouse, I sincerely doubt that,” says Shay. “Do we have a theme?”

She took the words right out of my mouth. “There are some bagels in my bag?” I think out loud. “For like . . . Mickey ears or something?”

Shay hums doubtfully, and I rack my brain for some other idea. I usually work well under pressure. What I don’t work well under is the shadow of a tall person staring down at me. I blink up and see Tyler squinting at the four of us, a Chipotle burrito in hand.

“Okay, I’m late,” he says. “But is it okay to join your team if I have an idea?”