The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(61)
Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes. I still have fifty pages to read for my econ course, and a marketing plan to outline, but am I doing either of those things? Nope.
I reach for my cell and text Grace.
Me: What’s your email address?
She answers almost instantly: [email protected]
Me: Incoming.
This time around, she takes her sweet time messaging back. Forty-five minutes to be exact. I’m thirty pages into my reading assignment when my phone buzzes.
Her: Don’t quit your day job, Emily Dickinson.
Me: Hey, u didn’t say it had to be GOOD.
Her: Touché. D-on the poem. Can’t wait to see your collage.
Me: How do u feel about glitter? And dick pics?
Her: If there’s a pic of your dick on that collage, I’m photocopying it and passing it around in the student center.
Me: Bad idea. You’ll give all the other dudes an inferiority complex.
Her: Or an ego boost.
Smiling, I quickly type another message: I’m getting that date, gorgeous.
There’s a long delay, then: Good luck with #6.
She’s trying to get in my head. Ha. Well, good fucking luck with that. Grace Ivers has underestimated both my tenacity and my resourcefulness.
But she’ll find that out soon enough.
*
Grace
I’m laughing to myself as I sit at my desk rereading the God-awful poem Logan emailed me. His similes crack me up—mostly car or hockey comparisons—and his rhyme scheme is all over the place. Is it ABAB? No, there’s a third rhyme in there. ABACB?
God, this is epic-level bad.
And yet my heart won’t quit doing happy dolphin flips.
“What’s so funny?” Daisy waltzes into our room, back from the one-hour show she hosts at the station. She’s in ripped jeans, a teeny tank top, and her trademark Docs, but her bangs are now purple. She must have dyed them when I was in class today, because they were still pink when I left this morning.
“Love the purple,” I tell her.
“Thanks. Now show me what you’re giggling about.” She comes up behind me and peers at the screen. “Is it that baby koala video Morris forwarded everyone earlier? Because that was so adorab—Ode to Grace?” she squawks in dismay. “Oh God. Do I even want to know?”
I suppose a better person would have minimized the window before she could read Logan’s poem, but I leave it up. It’s too hilarious not to.
Her laughter reverberates through the room as she scans the poem. “Oh wow. This is a disaster. Points for the hockey references, though.” Daisy lifts a strand of my hair and scrutinizes it. “Hey, it kinda is the same shade as those Bruins throwback jerseys from the sixties.”
I gape at her. “How on earth do you know what those look like?”
“My brother has one.” She grins. “I used to go to all his high school games, which turned me into a reluctant fan. He plays for North Dakota now. I’m surprised my parents haven’t disowned us both—we pretty much rejected everything about the South and moved north the first chance we got.” Her gaze shifts back to the screen. “So you have a secret admirer?”
“Admirer, yes. Secret, no. You know that guy I was telling you about? Logan?”
“The hockey player?”
I nod. “I’m making him jump through a few hoops before I go out with him.”
Daisy looks intrigued. “What kind of hoops?”
“Well, this poem, for one. And…” I shrug, then grab my phone and pull up the text I sent him last night, the one that contains the most absurd list I’ve ever written.
She takes the phone. By the time she’s done reading, she’s laughing even harder. “Oh my God. This is insane. Blue roses? Do those even exist?”
I snicker. “Not in nature. And not at the flower shop in Hastings. But he might be able to order some from Boston.”
“You’re an evil, evil woman,” she accuses, a wide grin stretching her mouth. “I love it. How many has he done so far?”
“Just the poem.”
“I can’t believe he’s going along with this.” She flops on her bed, then wrinkles her forehead and stares at the mattress. “Did you make my bed?”
“Yes,” I say sheepishly, but she doesn’t seem pissed. I’d already warned her that my OCD might rear its incredibly tidy head every now and then, and so far she hasn’t batted an eye when it happens. The only items on her don’t-touch-or-I’ll-fuck-you-up list are her shoes and her iTunes music library.
“Wait, but you didn’t fold my laundry?” She mock gasps. “What the hell, Grace? I thought we were friends.”
I stick out my tongue. “I’m not your maid. Fold your own damn laundry.”
Daisy’s eyes gleam. “So you’re telling me you can look at that basket overflowing with fresh-from-the-dryer clothes—” she gestures to the basket in question “—and you aren’t the teensiest bit tempted to fold them? All those shirts…forming wrinkles as we speak. Lonely socks…longing for their pairs—”