Amends: A Love Story (13 page)

Chapter 14: Laird

Caspar, our weasel-faced pledge master, is a
little too excited about torturing freshmen. He's perched on the
edge of a surprisingly swank leather couch for a fraternity common
room. I get annoyed every time I look at it and all the other
furniture, games, and equipment that Dad bought for us last
year.

I thought the brothers elected me president
because they believed I'd do a good job. I wasn't so sure the next
day, when Dad's congratulations gifts started rolling in.

"Guys," says Caspar, taking a big gulp of his
favorite hoppy microbrew, "I want this pledge year to be epic, and
I had this amazing idea in the shower this morning. It's
un-fucking-believable. Trust me, It's going to blow your mind."

Hoover, a hockey player from North Dakota
with a gut that flops over his belt, emits a long, beery belch. "So
tell us what it is already."

Caspar's eyes shine with manic glee. "World
War II. This year, the pledges can be, like, prisoners and the
brothers can be Nazis. Hell night can be, like, one big death
camp!"

Teo Rabinowicz, the product of a Portuguese
mother and a Jewish father, rolls his eyes so far back into his
head that I worry they'll get stuck. "Dude, we can't have a
Holocaust-themed Hell week. The administration would shut us down.
Plus, it's disgusting."

Caspar grins, as if he'd been expecting this
objection. "The administration can't touch us. Laird's dad is a
fucking billionaire who donates, like, buildings and shit. If they
mess with Laird's frat, his father will cut them off. Am I
right?"

I clench my hand into a fist and dig my nails
into my palm. I am so sick of my dad and his money. "You're so not
right. My dad has a public image to maintain. I'm one hundred
percent sure he does not want to be publicly associated with the
Holocaust in any way, alright? No Nazis. End of story."

Teo and Hoover are nodding.
Before Caspar can reply, my phone plays the theme music from the
shower scene in
Psycho.

Teo snorts. "That psycho ex of yours just
doesn't give up, does she?"

Hoover shrugs. "The really hot ones are
always crazy. I saw Laird's ex when she showed up at last year's
Spring Fling. She is smokin' hot. A total ten. Smart, too. Doesn't
she go to Columbia? I bet she's totally into the club scene."

"She's insane," says Teo. "I met her, too,
remember? She wanted the names of all the girls Laird had hooked up
with." He turns to me and smirks. "You're lucky I told her that you
spend every night locked in your room, beating off and dreaming of
her crazy ass."

Hoover grins. "I'd do that crazy ass in a
heartbeat."

"But what about afterwards?"
asks Teo. "Do you really want to deal with all the tears and
endless talking?" The
Psycho
theme plays again, punctuating Teo's
point.

Now it's Hoover's turn to laugh. "I'm a fat
guy with an average-looking face. I come from a long line of
dentists. Girls don't get obsessed with me after one random
fuck."

Caspar smiles, but his voice is slightly
bitter. "Yes, we pity poor, rich Laird and poor, gorgeous Teo, who
have to fight off so much unwanted female attention. Now, can we
please get the back to Hell week? If Nazis are out, then what can
we do?"

I turn the sound off my
phone before Ember can text again. That
Psycho
-themed text alert had seemed so
clever and funny at three a.m., but it just makes me look like an
asshole. I'm going to get rid of it before it gets me into any more
trouble.

/////////////////////////

I love my room at the frat house. It's a
small, dark space on the top floor. I can look out the window and
see the whole campus. I have a surprisingly comfortable full bed
with an antique headboard and an ancient desk covered in a hundred
years of graffiti. Of course, I'm not entirely stuck in the past.
My nineteenth-century desk supports a fully loaded MacBook Pro.
I've also mounted speakers and a flat-panel monitor on my wall for
movies and mindless browsing.

Right now, I'm on the MacBook, paging through
Town Square, the Adams version of Facebook. It's a collection of
searchable profile pages, message boards, and class schedules,
accessible only by Adams students. I pull up Amity's profile. Her
photo is a toned down version of her Kat Club persona. Her face is
a pale oval in a sea of dark curls. Wary, kohl-rimmed eyes look out
from the screen.

I scan her class schedule and see lots of
hard science and premed classes. The only concession to the
humanities is Abnormal Psychology. I make a mental note to sign up
for that class. I could sit next to her and start an easy,
lighthearted conversation. Maybe ask for her notes. Everything will
seem normal and natural.

I switch the display from
the computer to the monitor, so Amity looks down on me like a
benevolent angel.
Amity
, I want to tell her,
your life is
about to change.

"Who's that? I'd stay away from her if I were
you."

I almost fall out of my chair when I hear
Teo's voice. The frat has an open door policy—brothers drop in on
each other without knocking—but I've never gotten used to it. I see
him staring at Amity with critical eyes.

"Why do you say that?" I ask, genuinely
curious.

"She looks spooky. Haunted. Maybe a little
too complicated. You have enough trouble with your psycho ex."

My phone is still blinking, reminding me that
Ember's messages are still waiting for me. I nod in agreement.
"Don't worry about me, bro. That girl on the monitor is just a
friend."

Teo's eyebrows rise and fall. "Whatever you
say, man. Whatever you say."

/////////////////////////

"Hey Teo! Get me a beer."

Teo looks at me skeptically. "Don't you have
football practice tomorrow? If you show up hung over, the coach
will rat us out to the dean."

I shake my emphatically. "Not until next
week, man. Anyway, it's my birthday. I'm officially twenty-one
years old."

"Then party on, birthday bro." Teo brings me
a cold pint of lager in a chilled glass emblazoned with the Kappa
Alpha Delta insignia. Anyone who isn't a brother gets lukewarm
Meister Brew.

Hoover stands in the center of a group of
freshman girls holding colored plastic cups. Fresh meat we call
them, although brothers can be blackballed for hooking up with one
if she's under eighteen. Hoover's face is red, and his arm is wound
tightly around a tall blonde with thin lips and a beaky nose. I'm a
little worried about him.

As president, I'm responsible for enforcing
the charter rules. He's my buddy, and I'd hate to have to boot him
over a drunken grope fest with a freshman a few days shy of her
eighteenth birthday. My mind flashes briefly to Ember and my dad,
but I try to focus on the issue at hand.

"Hey, Hoover!" I call, approaching his
group.

The girls around him titter and whisper to
each other. It's annoying, but I'm used to it. Everyone here knows
I'm Josiah Conroy's son, and a lot of girls want to get with me,
just so they can have a story to tell their friends. The beak-nosed
girl detaches herself from Hoover with the alacrity of a lamprey
that's found tastier prey.

"Excuse me," she coos, using her yellow beer
cup as a geisha would use her fan. "Are you Laird Conroy? My dad
works with your dad."

I want to snap that my dad is the last thing
I want to talk about right now. Instead, I nod politely and say,
"I'm going to borrow Hoover for a second."

I take his arm in a firm
grip, and he follows me like an obedient, somewhat intoxicated ox.
I drag him to the bar area and pour myself a fresh drink. "You know
what I'm going to say, man," I say. "Check her ID. Check her
real
ID. If she doesn't
have it on her, you've got to bail. Do you understand?"

His head bobs and weaves in a poorly executed
nod. "I understand," he says. I hope he does.

As I step away from the drinks table, my
phone vibrates. I know it's Ember, and I feel a familiar rush of
worry and excitement. I decide it's time for me to scroll through
her texts.

You got me all hot and bothered, and then
you left. You owe me. Fucker.

No surprise there. She's still mad that I
left her alone and naked in her back yard. I guess I can't really
blame her.

All I want is for you to finish what you
started. No history lessons or drama class. Just sexy, mindless fun
with someone safe and familiar.

My stomach does a slow roll. She's familiar,
but there's no way she's safe.

Taking a shower. Putting on perfume. Leaving
the panties at home. Flower loves the breeze.

Flower is Ember's pet name for her girl
parts. I cringe, even as the blood rushes to my dick.

Getting in my car. Driving south. Thinking
of you.

Traffic on the bridge. Touching myself.
Thinking of you.

Now I'm hard and thoroughly disgusted with
myself. I think of Ember and my father and the accident. I feel
sick to my stomach, and yet I still want her.

Parking now. Gonna give you a birthday
present you'll never forget.

Oh shit.
She's coming here.

There are so many freshmen girls at this
party. Ugh. You look great, though, birthday boy.

Scratch that. She's here now. Where the fuck
is she?

Waiting in your room. Your friend Hoover is
a doll.

Damn, damn, damn.
It's like every horror movie ever written. She's
texting from inside the house. I rush up the stairs to my
room.

/////////////////////////

The next morning, she's gone. I'd like to
think it didn't happen, but the long blonde hairs and faint floral
scent on my pillow say otherwise. I am such an idiot. This is the
last time, I tell myself, I swear.

Chapter 15: Amity

My roommate—her name is Darcy Monahan—hasn't
arrived yet. She posted a status update that she and her parents
are going to spend an extra couple of days with her grandparents in
upstate New York. She has bushy red hair, freckles, and an open,
friendly face. I'm irrationally terrified that she's going to hate
me.

When I arrived yesterday afternoon, I took
the bed with the most graffiti on the frame, the desk in the poorly
lit corner, and the smaller closet. She won't be able to say I came
early and swiped the best of everything.

I check the time on my
phone. I've got twenty minutes to get to the Adams Apple, the
university-sponsored student café where I've been assigned for my
work-study job. The pay is just over minimum wage, and I think
wistfully about the tips I received as a stripper. I pinch the back
of my hand and give myself a good scold.
You are a college student, not a stripper.

I'm supposed to meet Kendall Grimes, the café
manager, and sign up for at least five shifts. Since most of my
classes are in the morning, I'm planning to load up on afternoon
and evening shifts. It's not like I'm expecting to have much of a
social life with all the chem and bio I'm taking this semester.

I know it's not a job interview, but I'm
still nervous. I'm wearing a knee-length khaki skirt with a white
button-down shirt and basic leather sandals. My hair is piled into
a demure bun that should go great with a hairnet. The clothes are a
mix of vintage and BigMart, but the

styles are plain enough that they don't
announce their humble origins. The shoes are Prada, a shameful
one-time splurge from when I'd first started stripping.

I look at my phone again. It's time to go. I
leave my room, hurry down the hallway, and emerge into a
postcard-perfect college scene. The buildings are old and modeled
after England's Oxford. Well-worn cobblestone pathways connect
them, forming a sort of maze. Each building has its own gorgeous
lawn where students play Frisbee or just lounge on blankets. All
the girls I pass are wearing comfy-looking jeans, delicate tops,
and light pastel sweaters. They carry big, colorful bags. I feel
drab by comparison, a wren among peacocks.

I glance down at the map on my phone. I
should be standing in front of the Adams Apple, but all I see is
the Art History Complex. I tap on my phone and—damn it!—the
network's down. I wave down a flock of pretty girls. They turn and
look at me with what I hope are friendly eyes.

"Sorry to bother you. I'm a little lost.
C-c-can you tell me where the Adams Apple is?" I stammer so much
that I'm no sure they understand anything I say.

One of the girls, a blonde wearing a pink
sorority tank top, nods with comprehension. She's short and
doll-like with big brown eyes and a rosebud mouth. Her skin is so
perfect she looks airbrushed. "Go back through the Arch of
Tradition," she says, smiling brightly. "The Adams Apple will be on
your right."

I spit out a barely coherent thank you and
walk as fast as I can towards the Arch. Trying to hurry always
makes my limp worse, but I have to push the pace or I'll be
late.

Once I get through the Arch, I find myself
behind the Adams Apple, staring at the service entrance. I wonder
if the sorority girl somehow guessed I was on work study, or if I'm
just being paranoid.

/////////////////////////

I limp slowly back to the dorm after spending
an hour filling out tax forms and listening to Kendall—an Adams
graduate who didn't make it through the last recession—recite an
endless series of rules and warnings, which culminated in a threat
against my hair.

"Your hair is long, thick,
and practically black," she said sternly. "People will freak out if
it gets into their food. I'll let you try a hairnet, but if I get
even one complaint, you're going to have to cut it."
Yeah, right
. There's no
way I'm going to chop off my hair for this job. I'll make them
reassign me, if it comes to that.