Undecided(9)

Okay. Enough stalling. I have to be at work in forty minutes, and I left early so I’d have a bit of time to amble around town while it was still quiet. Because it’s Labor Day and everybody’s busy moving in and preparing for class, the small downtown will be mostly empty, just a few shops and restaurants open for locals. Quiet solitary walks—how’s that for rebellion, Kellan?

I wipe my sneakers on the welcome mat—I expect this mat will go the way of the plant—and climb the old wooden staircase to the upper level. Last year the guys’ rooms had names on them, and this year is no different. Though without blaring dance music, a hundred writhing bodies, and sticky splashes of alcohol on the floor, it’s nothing like my past experiences.

There’s a long hallway that stretches toward the back of the house, lined with doors on either side. A couple are open but most are closed, and I can hear music and voices filtering through the thin walls. I make my way down the hall, scanning names until I find Crosbie second from the end.

I inch closer and try to listen for warning sounds—mattress springs squeaking, heavy breathing, cheesy porno music—but there’s just a strangely rhythmic thud and whir noise. I give serious thought to hanging the shoes on the knob and getting out of here, then I tell myself to suck it up and knock. He’s not going to answer the door naked—I’m pretty sure. Like, fifty percent sure. Thirty.

I knock. The thud-whir combo slows, then stops, and after a second the door is wrenched open to reveal Crosbie on the other side, a small towel in one hand as he wipes his neck. He’s wearing a white wife beater with a large V-shaped sweat mark down the front and gray sweatpants. His forehead is slick and shiny, and every one of his overdeveloped muscles is on display.

He’s alone.

And very surprised to see me.

“Nora,” he says, eyes comically wide. It’s actually kind of cute, especially now that I can breathe easy knowing I’m not about to walk in on anything that will give me nightmares.

“Hey,” I say.

For a second we just stare at each other. It’s weird—like seeing an animal in the wild you’ve only ever seen at the zoo.

“Um.” I shake my head and thrust out the bag. “Kellan asked me to give you these. They’re sneakers.”

“Right. Okay. Thanks.” He takes the bag and then we just stare some more. “What are you doing right now?”

My heart thumps in my chest. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but that line worked on me a couple of times last year with other guys. But today my answer is different. “I’m going to work. I start at two.”

“Yeah? Two?” He’s got an mp3 player in his pocket and now he pulls it out to check the time. Then he nudges the door open a bit wider and glances behind him to where I can see a haphazardly made bed. “Come in here for a minute.”

“I beg your pardon?”

It takes a second, then his whole face changes, confusion shifting to surprise then amusement. “Just lay on the bed for a bit,” he says, trying to keep a straight face. “This won’t take long.”

I roll my eyes, feeling foolish. “Shut up.”

He laughs. “Seriously, come in. I need someone to quiz me and those ass hats won’t do it.”

“What do you need to be quizzed for? Classes haven’t even started.”

“I’ve got Bio with McGregor tomorrow.” He opens the door more and gestures for me to enter. And for some reason, I’m entering. “Everybody knows he drops a pop quiz first thing on day one and I’m going to be ready for it.”

I’m trying to listen, but mostly I’m taking in Crosbie Lucas’s bedroom. It’s small and cramped, with a queen bed against the wall on the right, its blue plaid bedspread rumpled on top. The desk is home to a laptop and piles of books and school supplies, and the rest of the room is devoted to sports. The source of the thud-whir is an elliptical machine on the left side of the room, next to which sits a small weight stack. Even though Crosbie’s only on the track team, same as Kellan, there are hockey sticks, baseball bats, soccer balls, volleyballs…pretty much anything you’d need to play any game on the planet.

A wardrobe, its doors left open, reveals an explosion of clothing, much of which is heaped in the corner, on the desk chair, and on the floor by the bed. A garbage can holds a couple of empty beer bottles, but the window that overlooks the front lawn—and which is propped open with a ruler—keeps the room from smelling as bad as it looks.

“Here.” Crosbie snatches a textbook from the elliptical and sticks it in my hand. “Have a seat and start asking me questions about the first chapter.”

The only free space to sit is the bed, and when I shoot a longing look at the clothing-covered desk chair, Crosbie laughs at me. Given our first cardigan-clad encounter, he must think I’m a terrified prude. “Just sit on the bed,” he says. “It’s not like I knew you were coming. I don’t exactly bring a lot of girls up here to ‘quiz.’”

“You don’t need the air quotes,” I say, taking a seat at the very edge of the mattress. “I’m actually just going to quiz you.”

He makes a finger gun with his hand and shoots me. “I knew you were smart.” He grabs a bottle of water from the cup holder on the elliptical, chugs half, and climbs back on the machine. “Okay. Start.”