If I'm Being Honest(44)
“Wonderful!” he exclaims. “I had no idea Daniel’s daughter was a senior. Well, a Bright would certainly excel at Wharton. I look forward to mentioning it to your father. I hope to see your application in my pile.”
The idea of doing design in college collapses in my head. Replacing it is what I’ve known for what feels like forever. Wharton is my father. Economics is my father. He’s the reason I’m doing this, why I’m committing to this life. The opportunity to live in his world, to never worry about unpaid bills or borrowed blazers, to have a future of my own, is worth every endless night.
“You will,” I promise. “I already sent it in.”
I thank the representative for his time and walk away from the table. The crowd is emptying from the courtyard now, everybody heading for their cars. I don’t find Brendan’s tall frame in the throng. He and Paige have probably already left, I realize with a touch of disappointment.
I pull out my phone, where I find a reply from Brendan. A pleased flutter runs through me, enough to calm my nerves.
Wait. Did I, video game nerd Brendan Rosenfeld, make you blush?
Don’t be ridiculous.
Okay . . .
Just a little.
I reply, thoughts of Wharton thousands of miles away.
Twenty
PAIGE HAS NEWLY PURPLE HAIR. IN THE reading nook under the SCIENCE FICTION sign in the Depths of Mordor, I watch her intricately hand-stitch an apron to what appears to be a French-maid costume. Even with her fingers decked in the cheap plastic rings you get from a vending machine, she deftly passes the needle through the fabric, not wincing when the point hits her thumb. She completes ten, twenty stitches in seconds.
It’s impressive. Kinda cool, even.
She explained to me the other day what “cosplay” is, how she devotes days and weeks to recreating the costumes and props of her and her friends’ favorite characters from video games, TV shows, and the Japanese comics they’re always reading. She’s proudest of the Effie Trinket character she designed from The Hunger Games a couple years ago. Personally, I can’t understand putting that many hours into a costume you’ll wear for one day, but I caught the pride in Paige’s voice when she described her pink Effie suit, and I held my tongue.
In the chairs opposite us, Abby and Charlie play a game I don’t recognize. It’s got dice and a board and decks of cards with pictures of grotesque creatures. They’re focused on the board, wordless. The shop’s predictably empty otherwise, except for Grant on a couch near the register trying to do homework, his nose in a book, and the WINTER IS COMING dude, who I’m convinced lives here and never changes his shirt.
“Andrew didn’t say anything about me?” I press Paige. “For the whole rest of the night?”
“Oh my god,” she groans, not skipping a stitch. “For the hundredth time, no. I didn’t even know you were still into him.”
I collapse onto the armrest. “I’ve liked Andrew for a year! You’re the one who ruined everything.” I find myself not hesitating to confide my crush in Paige, even though it’s definitely friend territory. I guess our friend-date went well.
“You ruined it on your own, Bright.” It’s exactly what she would have said a couple weeks ago. Except this time, she’s giving me a teasing grin.
“I know . . .” I sigh.
Paige notices my dejection. Her eyes flit to me before returning to her needle and thread. “He’s having a hard time with the team,” she offers. “We pretty much just talked about that after you left. He probably would have said something about you otherwise.”
I pull my head up off my hand. “What’s happening with the team?”
“Oh, you know,” Paige says easily, “he just feels like he doesn’t fit in with the other guys.” I didn’t know. Why didn’t I know? “Those guys are more interested in partying and hookups,” Paige continues. “They don’t exactly want to come over and watch Sherlock with Andrew.”
“Sherlock?”
Paige glances up from her costuming, openly aghast. “Come on. You can’t be too cool to know what Sherlock is.”
“I know what Sherlock is,” I reply. Honestly, I’ve long had a thing for Benedict Cumberbatch. He’s definitely gawky and nerdy, with his bushy hair and narrow frame, but I’m into it. “I didn’t know Andrew was a fan.”
She snorts incredulously. “Haven’t you seen Andrew’s room? It’s practically a shrine to the BBC.”
I feel a pang in my chest, the way I did when Paige went to help Andrew with his History homework. Paige and Andrew have only just become friends, and she’s been in his room? I haven’t in over three years of friendship. Or what I thought was friendship.
“Hey, did Brendan have a good time last night?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
Paige brightens. “I think he actually did!” she enthuses. “I was kind of amazed he didn’t leave after he talked to MIT. Do you know how rarely he hangs out with people?”
“I don’t know why,” I say. “He’s plenty socially capable. And he’s really talented. He’s definitely going to get that Naughty Dog internship. The Girl’s a Sorceress looks amazing. He sent me a few images the other day . . .” I trail off, noticing Paige’s expression. Her eyes hold questions alongside a knowing glint.