Crushed (24 page)

Alex passes the packed pipe to Brady. He exhales and sends a ring of smoke up around his head. The earthy smell of the pot masks some of the room’s odors, but not all.

“So,” Reid says to me. “You won.”

My mouth waters a little as I take the pipe and lighter from Brady. I clench the glass stem between my teeth and hold the lighter to the bowl. A deep draw. God, I love that burn. 

“Won what?” Paige asks. 

Brady dips his head toward Ellie like he just realized she was in the room. Huh. Brady doesn’t want to her to know. 

But Reid doesn’t seem to care. “Fletch hasn’t hooked up with Ellie. They’re still ‘just friends.’ He made it to Spring Break. Right, Ellie?”

She rolls her can of Coke between her palms. “As far as I know.” She gives me a mischievous glance. “Or did you take advantage of me in my sleep?”

“Wait a minute!” Brady exclaims. “You knew?”

“Of course she did, you told her,” I say.

His mouth drops open. “I didn’t. I —”

“Got extremely drunk at Parents’ Weekend and told me all about it,” Ellie finishes.

I blow smoke in Brady’s face. “I’m glad you enjoyed Cabo. It’s you and your right hand for the rest of the year.”

“Fuuuck.”

Calista raises her eyebrows, and I remember I told her Ellie and I kissed. My pulse speeds up, and I wonder if she’s going to tell. “So, does this mean you two are going out now?” she asks.

Her voice is pure honey, but I know better. Her shoulders are too tense. But I’m not worried about that. My eyes meet Ellie’s, and for a second, there’s no one else in the room but her — until Brady clear his throat.

“No,” Ellie says softly. “Fletch and I aren’t going out.”

35 

The last week of March ushers in a whole new level of neurosis to the Harker Campus. College admission letters began turning up in our normally barren mailboxes. Pretty much the entire senior class — with the exception of Kyle Bennett, who, as it turns out, is going to the Naval Academy — spends every free minute stalking the mailroom staff between classes. 

I lounge against the wall, waiting for everyone to show up. So far, the mailroom staff haven’t put anything in my box, but there’s still a stack of envelopes behind them. 

“There he is! Mr. Valedictorian!” Brady beams at me from the doorway. He lunges forward and pulls me into a one-armed hug. “Congratulations, man. You earned it.” 

“Thanks. You’ll make a great salutatorian,” I say. Rankings came out this afternoon, and I haven’t seen Brady since getting the news.

 “I will, won’t I?” He raises a pretend glass. “Salut! I mean c’mon. How perfect is that?”

“Perfect. But I think it’s
salud
.”

“Whatever.” Brady bends and squints into his box, only to confirm that it is, in fact, empty. “I’m going to die if I have to wait until next week. Why can’t they put the list online early?” 

“Because they get off on torturing thousands of kids.”

“Smartass.” 

The mail clerk stops in the middle section, near Brady’s box. She holds a fat envelope in her hands. Brady nearly jumps across the hall until the clerk walks to the end of the row and slips it into another box. 

He slumps back against the wall and groans in agony. “This sucks.”

I nod. Out of my five choices, only Stanford and Princeton notify this week. They’re the only two that matter. The rest send out letters after April First.

Lucy Newton races to the mailbox and yanks out the envelope the clerk just placed in there.

“It’s fat! It’s fat!” she screams while jumping up and down. Since I’ve been standing here – for at least twenty minutes – this has happened exactly five times. There have also been six students who retrieved thin envelopes and slinked away to read the contents in private. 

Lucy tears right into the envelope and screams some more. “Occidental! My first choice!”

Brady nudges me. “I bet her panties are so wet right now.”

“And you’ll never know. Being celibate and all.”

“You know, this isn’t really working for me.” He grabs his crotch. “My balls are so blue, it’s ridiculous.”

I shift my weight and reposition myself against the wall. “Masturbation is your friend.”

He winces. “Do you think I haven’t tried that? C’mon.”

“Dude. It’s only been a week. You’ll live.”

“Yeah, well, having sore balls for a week sucks. And not in the way that makes me moan either.”

I’m beginning to think the mail clerks are messing with us. The way they stop before a box, double check the name and move to the opposite end of the mailboxes is maddening.

“Like I said, Mr. Righty is your friend.” I keep my eyes trained on the mail bin and only half-listen to Brady’s response. The clerk just put a fat envelope in my box.

“Brady.” I nudge him. “Look.”

He pushes me forward. “Go get it.”

Please let it be Stanford. Please. My legs shake as I take the three steps across the hall. I say one more prayer before extracting the letter from my box. 

Stanford. A fat, fucking envelope from Stanford. I turn around and hold it up so Brady can see the logo, and notice he’s holding a similar envelope, only his is already open. 

His grin could swallow up his face. Mine could probably swallow the world. 

Suddenly, Brady starts jumping down the hallway, whooping at the top of his lungs. I chase after him, into the courtyard. 

“Stanfooord,” he shouts and punches the air over his head. “Stanford!”

I’m laughing so hard, I don’t notice Ellie standing at the far end of the Quad watching us until Brady finger guns her. When I hold up my letter like a freakin’ winning lottery ticket, she closes the distance quickly and launches herself into my arms.

Best. Moment. Ever. Standing in the Quad with my Stanford acceptance, hugging Ellie Jacobs. Feeling her warm breath on my cheek and hearing her whisper congratulations in my ear. Knowing she means it.

And her lips reaching up for mine. Touching mine. Kissing mine.

***

I ignore the phone on my desk. Calling Dad is the last thing I want to do. Maybe I can get away with an email? 

On each side of me sits a fat envelope– Stanford and Princeton. 

With a sinking sensation in my gut, I turn the phone over in my hand and roll my shoulders a little. I haven’t actually spoken to Dad since Christmas break, but after Mr. Tolst called me in to his office, I’ve sent short responses to my parents’ emails, if only to get Tolst off my back.

What if Dad’s not alone? What if he’s with one of his whores?

My fingers twitch as I select “Dad’s Cell” from the favorites list.

He picks up so quickly, it’s like he was waiting for me. It gives me no time to prepare myself and my stomach cartwheels when he says, “Hey, buddy? Calling with good news?”

The excitement in his voice fills me with dread.

Deep breath. “Hey, Dad. Yeah.” My words rush out of me. “I got into Stanford.”

Silence.

“Dad?” I hold the phone away from my face to see if the call dropped.

“That’s great, Fletch.” Dad says, as I put the phone back to my ear. “Stanford’s a great back up school. I’m proud of you.” He pauses. “Have you heard from Princeton?”

Back up school. I unclench my jaw. “Yeah. I got in.”

Dad lets out a loud, “Yes!” I can almost see the capital letters through the phone. “What’d I tell, you? Huh? I knew you were a Princeton man.”

He’s gushing. 

And I’m so not.

A ringing noise fills my ears, and my brain feels like it’s stuck in a hurricane. I can’t make out what he’s saying.

“I want to go to Stanford,” I blurt out over his enthusiastic rambling.

While I wait for him to say something, I walk to the balcony and throw the door open. The cool air floods my room. 

“Stanford isn’t Princeton, Fletch. Besides, it will be good for you to get out of California. You need to go away from home.”

On the Beach, a few lonely souls trek through the twilight and disappear into dorms. I’d rather be one of them right now.

“I’ve been away from home since I was fourteen.”

“You know what I mean,” he replies. “Just give it a try. You’ll love it, I promise.”

I kick at the railing, resignation seeping into my body. 

“But I want to go to Stanford. Brady’s going and—”

“If you want to go to Stanford, you can pay for it yourself. How does that sound?” All the joy from earlier has left his voice. He’s in business mode now. Explaining my options, pushing me into a corner.

I’m not going to Stanford. He won’t even consider it.

“I have to go,” I whisper, meaning Stanford.

“All right. Go celebrate. You deserve it.”

I squish my eyes together and force out, “Thanks, Dad.”

“Go Tigers!” he yells as I hang up.

36

“Guess who got into Reed? And by Reed, I mean the college, not the boy.” Ellie’s hands cover my eyes.

Our friends laugh at her joke.

“Congrats, Elle,” I say as she drops her hands. Other than the kiss in The Quad last week, Ellie and I haven’t touched each other or discussed what’s going on between us. “Want to sit down?” I push my chair back and offer it to her. The dining hall is crowded.

“No thanks. I just wanted to tell you.” She leans over me, brushes her arm against mine, and steals a few fries off my plate. 

Two touches in ten seconds. 

“I’m still waiting on Brown and Dartmouth.” Ellie wants to go to Brown about as badly as I want to go to Stanford. The wait is killing her.

“You’ll get in. You’ve got great grades. And hey, you even took beginning violin. No school can resist a violinist with your capabilities.”

She hits my arm. “Stop teasing.” 

Three touches.

“I’m not. You’re awesome.” 

She wrinkles her nose. “Now you’re lying.”

“Only about the violin.”

She tilts her head, her brown eyes full of questions. There are so many things for us to talk about, but I don’t know how to start on any of them. Should I just say, ‘Hey, Ellie, about that kiss, can we do it again?’ Or how about ‘I’m over Calista and promise never to sleep with her again’? Somehow, neither rolls off my tongue.

Brady pipes up. “C’mon, Ellie. Eat with us. Sarah and Libby can come too.” He pats his lap. “See, there’s plenty of room.”

Across from me, Calista folds her arms like a prison warden. “There isn’t any room, Brady.”

Ellie ignores her and musses up Brady’s hair. “Sarah may like that spot, but the rest of us prefer seating that’s a bit less pokey.” She leans into me and whispers, “See you later?”

“Yeah, sure.” Even though I want to look at her, I keep my focus forward, on my food and not on the way she bounces across the room. But as she walks away, my heart flops and drops and flops again. 

Cal stabs her carrots and directs a death-glare at me.

“What?” My voice is hard. At the other end of the table, Alex and Reid play some sort of punching game over hand signals, but next to me, Paige and Brady both tense like they’re waiting for an explosion.

Calista shoves her plate away. “Nothing.” She turns to Paige. “I’m done.”

Paige darts her eyes to me, then back to Calista. “You going back to the room?”

Cal stands up and smoothes the flipped up part of her pleated uniform skirt. “Do you even care? You probably want to sit here and hang out with Fletch and his b-f-f Ellie.”

Paige’s mouth drops open slightly. “Are you serious, Cal? Really?”

“Whatever.” She leaves her tray on the table and storms off.

Once Paige recovers, she points at me. “You have to fix this. You have to apologize to her.”

Brady chokes. “Careful, Paige. You don’t know what you’re stepping into.”

“She’s hurt.” Paige thinly set lips dare me to defy her. “You hurt her — again. Don’t get me wrong, I like Ellie, but bringing her around all the time isn’t nice. Salt to wound, Fletch. Salt to wound.” 

I grit my teeth and spin my fork around on the table. Part of me wants to know exactly what Cal told Paige. How she milks the sympathy while making me out to be the asshole? But what’s the point?

“She doesn’t like me, Paige. She never has. Ask her about that.”

“You’re wrong. She’s your friend. One of your best friends.”

“Ellie is my friend. Calista is just a girl I thought I knew.”

37

The cold, metal scissor blades scrape across my neck and send a shiver down my spine. “Don’t move, or I’m going to fuck it up,” Brady orders.

Of course, I immediately twitch when Brady takes the first snip.

“Dude, hold still. Unless you want to look like an epileptic monkey cut your hair.” He bends my head forward so that I rest my chin against my chest. 

As fun as it is to get a questionable haircut from Brady, it’s not enough to distract me from the envelope sitting in my desk drawer. 

Decline enrollment. That’s what I quickly checked this morning on my Stanford acceptance, but I still haven’t worked up the nerve to walk it down to the mailbox. I don’t know why. Waiting isn’t going to change Dad’s mind.

“Don’t you feel better already?” Brady asks as more of my hair falls to the ground. “It’s like a snake shedding its skin making way for the new.” 

According to Brady, cutting hair lets positive energy in. Or something. It sounded logical when he explained it, but now, not so much — especially since we’ve both seen the mess I made of his hair. How that can be positive, I don’t know. 

He steps around me. “Put your head up so I can see your eyes.”

I tilt back until I’m staring at the ceiling and close my eyes so I don’t have to admire the hack job I did to Brady’s hair. 

“How do you not walk into things?” Brady lifts a lock and snips. I have a bad feeling I’m going to end up looking like a toddler who found of a pair of safety scissors. 

“If I knew you two were going to play beauty parlor tonight, I would have come over earlier.” 

I half-open my eyes as the scissors snap dangerously close to my eyebrow and around another piece of my hair. “I told you’d you get in,” I say, trying not to move out of fear of being blinded. Ellie’s letter came yesterday and she hasn’t stopped beaming.