The Mistake(58)

“Yep. And you’re Daisy…?”

She grins as she closes the door behind her. “I know. The name doesn’t suit me. I think when they named me, my parents thought I’d grow up to be a Southern Belle like my mom, but much to their chagrin, they got this.” She gestures to herself from head to toe, then shrugs.

I do hear a trace of the South in her voice, though, a very subtle drawl that adds to her easygoing attitude. I like her already.

“I hope you don’t mind all the boxes. I flew in from Atlanta early this morning and haven’t had a chance to unpack yet.”

“No worries. Do you need help unpacking?” I offer.

Gratitude fills her eyes. “I’d love that. But it’ll have to wait until this evening. I just popped in to grab my iPad, and now I’m heading to the station.”

“The station?”

“Campus radio station,” she explains. “I host an indie rock show once a week, and produce two other ones. I’m a broadcasting and comm major.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I was actually going to check if there are any available student jobs there,” I confess. “I was thinking of joining the school paper, but the guy I spoke to said their freelancer list is a mile long. And I don’t have an athletic or musical bone in my body, so sports and music is out, and all the other clubs I looked into sound insanely boring. Or plain nuts—did you know the environmental activist group on campus spends their weekends chaining themselves up to trees to protest all the townhouse developments that are being built in Hastings? And last year some chick got struck by lightning because she refused to unchain herself during a thunderstorm—” I stop abruptly, feeling my cheeks heat up. “For the sake of full disclosure, you should know I’m a babbler.”

Daisy bursts out laughing. “Noted.”

“You might find it endearing one day,” I say helpfully.

“Don’t worry, I’m on board with the babbling. As long as you promise to be on board with my night terrors. Seriously, it’s brutal. I wake up screaming my lungs out and—kidding, Grace.” Her laughter is out of control now. “God, you should have seen the look on your face. I promise, no night terrors. But I have been told I talk in my sleep sometimes.”

I snicker. “That’s fine. I’ll babble during the waking hours, you’ll babble in the sleeping hours. Match made in heaven.”

Daisy unzips one of the suitcases on her bed and fishes around inside until she pulls out a bright pink iPad case. She tucks it into the khaki-green canvas bag that’s slung over her shoulder and glances at me. “Hey, if you’re serious about the extra-curricular thing, we actually are looking for people to help out at the station. There are a couple of open hosting slots, but I don’t think you’ll want them—it’s the graveyard shift. And if on-air stuff isn’t your style, we also need a producer for one of the talk shows.”

“What would I have to do?”

“It’s a call-in advice show. Monday evenings and Friday afternoons. You’d be screening calls, doing research for the hosts if they plan on talking about a specific topic, that kind of stuff.” She gives me an earnest look. “You know what? Why don’t you come with me right now? I’ll introduce you to Morris, the station manager, and you guys can talk.”

I think it over, but it doesn’t take long to reach a decision. Daisy seems cool, and it wouldn’t hurt to talk to her station manager. Besides, I wanted to make new friends, right?

Might as well start now.

*

Logan

It’s good to be home. Not to rip off Dorothy or anything, but there really is no place like it. The irony doesn’t escape me, though—technically the house I stayed in all summer and just left last night is home. But I was never half as happy in Munsen as I am here in Hastings, in the house I’ve only been renting for two years.

My first morning back, and I’m in such a terrific mood that I start the day off right by blasting Nappy Roots in the kitchen while I scarf down some cereal. The loud strains of “Good Day” draw the others from their bedrooms, and Garrett is the first to appear, clad in boxers and rubbing his eyes.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he mumbles. “Please tell me you made some coffee.”

I point to the counter. “Go nuts.”

He pours himself a cup and plops down on one of the stools. “Did cartoon chipmunks dress you this morning?” he grumbles. “You’re scarily chipper.”