Undecided(32)

I frown as I scan his list. It’s numbered, and there are a couple of gaps on it: numbers four, nine, twenty-two, forty-one, forty-two, and fifty are blank. I don’t know where I fall in, but I take sick satisfaction in learning I’m not the only girl he forgot.

I tuck my hair behind my ears and study the rest of the stall. There are about twelve guys’ purported hookups documented in here, and the lists range in length from six to sixty-two, which I guess makes Kellan the “winner.”

I spot Crosbie on the opposite side of the stall. His list has twenty-five names on it, and I feel each one like a jealous little kick to the heart. I know it’s stupid, but I read the names in case I recognize them, so I can see what kind of girls Crosbie Lucas likes. What kind he suddenly starts avoiding. But I don’t recognize any of the “Crosbabes,” and when I get to the bottom of the list, I frown. The final entry is dated June second of this year. He wasn’t on campus all summer, but if he’s the Crosbie Lucas I thought I knew—the one with twenty-five Crosbabes notched into his bedpost—surely he’s messed around with someone since the new school year started. What about the girl in the library? Just to be sure, I check the other lists, and most have entries for September and October. Kellan alone has ten since Labor Day.

My eyes drift back to Crosbie’s list. I have no more information than I came in here with—or do I? I’m scared to hope what I’m hoping, that he hasn’t had sex with any girls since we met, but that’s ridiculous. I know his reputation. I’ve seen him in action. I see his history scrawled right here on the bathroom wall. He’s not a monk, and he certainly doesn’t suffer from a lack of female attention.

I leave and grab my bicycle, but I don’t go to the library. Instead I just pedal around, my feelings as murky as the thick fog. I can’t afford to care about Crosbie Lucas, but I can’t seem to stop, either.



*



On Friday I have a two o’clock progress meeting with Dean Ripley. He and my father had been roommates thirty years ago, so he has an unfortunately vested interest in my progress.

I have two classes on Fridays and normally hang out at the library in between instead of biking home. Today, however, I want to change out of my standard uniform of jeans and a T-shirt so I look upstanding and presentable when I meet with Dean Ripley. The last time we met was after my arrest, and I’m pretty sure I was wearing that white dress with the leather straps and a pair of Marcela’s platform boots. This time when he calls my father with an update, I want “leather” to have no role in the conversation.

I groan and fish around in my closet until I find the blue dress with the Peter Pan collar. I pull it over my head, pair it with some flats, and twist my hair into a high bun. Stray strands flutter out, but I think I look kind of wholesome and sweet—not easy to do when big boobs and a tiny waist make everything I put on look anything but wholesome.

I pace back and forth as I imagine the upcoming discussion, and I’m halfway through my mumbled declaration about learning from my mistakes and channeling them into a newer, better version of myself when I hear the front door open and the raucous laughter of approximately half the track team. I freeze. I have to leave in ten minutes and I’d really rather not explain why I’m home in the middle of the day, or where I’m going. Or why I’m dressed like this.

Shit shit shit.

Maybe they’ll leave. Maybe Kellan just dropped by to pick up a game or something.

But ten minutes later, they’re still here. I can hear the telltale explosions of Fire of Vengeance and non-stop shouts and curses. When I can’t wait anymore, I take a breath, plaster on what I hope is a pleasant and not at all irritated expression, and step out of my room.

Absolutely everyone falls silent. Even the game takes the hint and things stop exploding.

“Nora,” Kellan says, standing abruptly. He looks guilty. “I—You’re—”

“Going out,” I say. “Stay. Play your games. Have fun.” That’s when I notice Crosbie straddling one of the dining chairs. Everyone else is clustered in the living room, sitting on either the couch or the floor, but he’s slightly apart. I’ll have to walk within six inches of him to get to the stairs.

Kellan glances at his friends as though he’s worried what they might think if he cares too much about what I think, but I don’t care about any of them. It’s been two and a half weeks since I last saw Crosbie and he looks good. He’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt that strains against his biceps. His hair needs a trim and sticks up like he’d just run his fingers through it, but it’s the look on his face that gets me. Just for a second, I’d swear I see something that looks a lot like…longing in his eyes. Then it’s quickly replaced by his usual cocky grin and a full-body once over.

I hear whispers of, “Dude, who is that?” and “That’s your roommate?” and then, even though I know I should just call out, “Sorry, gotta run!” I stop when Kellan says my name.

My face stretches with a polite smile and I turn to greet the room. There are ten guys piled onto the couch and the floor around it, and maybe half look familiar. “Hi,” I say.

“Nora.” Kellan comes to stand at my side and gestures to the group, rattling off names as he points, finishing with, “And you know Crosbie. Everyone, this is my roommate, Nora.”