Going Geek (16 page)

O
peration Get Leo—which Yasmin insists on calling it—is in full effect by midweek. There's a home game, and though half the school's going, there's a guaranteed way to get Leo's attention.

Much to Jess's and Yasmin's annoyance, I ban them from the game when the day comes. “Opal's going to watch Remy, so I won't be totally unsupervised,” I argue. “She'll make sure that I don't wimp out.” Opal nods solemnly.

I put on my old red Uggs and a red Patagonia parka. I always made it a point to wear red to games so it'd be easy for Leo to spot me in the stands amid the swaths of green and white, Winthrop's school colors. When we get to the soccer field, I choose a spot about forty-five degrees to the right of the goal.

Sure enough, right before kickoff his gaze lands on me and stays there for a few seconds. My phone buzzes with a text from Yasmin.
Has he seen you?

I type back a quick affirmative response.

As the first half progresses, I find myself so caught up in the action, I almost forget about Leo. Remy's out there hustling and outmaneuvering the opponents. Opal grips my arm. The whole team plays at the top of their game, and I'm just as exhilarated as the rest of the crowd when Winthrop's up three to one at halftime.

But when Leo shoots me a questioning glance from the sidelines as the coach is going over plays, my stomach twists. That was not a happy-to-see-me look. I consider making a run for it, but Opal puts a hand on my shoulder. “Don't even think about it.”

Fortunately, my presence doesn't seem to be much of a distraction. Leo's saves are otherworldly. In fact, what I'm assuming to be annoyance at me might be making him play even better than normal.

But I realize that I don't know what normal is for him anymore. A summer and half a season have passed since I last saw him play, and for all I know his skills have elevated this much.

When the second half comes to a close, I really don't want the game to end—and not just because I'm afraid of what I have to do. I've missed being a part of all this.

Winthrop wins over Millard Day, five to three. The teams do the customary handshakes, with the keepers leading, and then head straight to the locker rooms. Leo lingers behind, and I know he's waiting for me.

“Great game. Glad to see I didn't throw you off at all,” I say when I get down to the field.

“Hey. Thanks for coming.” He gives a half smile but has a flat, faraway look in his eyes. My outfit gets a once-over. “I'm assuming your coming wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“No. I don't know if you're ready or not, but I want to talk.”

Leo nods, looking at his feet. “About Miranda?”

I shake my head. “Don't need to know her name.” I take a cleansing breath. “But I do need to know if you're ever going to forgive me.” I blink rapidly, trying to hold back tears.

He sighs and wipes a hand over his face. “Of course I forgive you. This isn't about me being mad.”

“Then what?” I say. It comes out like a croak.

“I told you. We were so serious about each other, but you didn't trust me enough to tell me. It made me wonder if I was wrong about what we were to each other.”

“You weren't wrong. You know I love you. But I was embarrassed and afraid. I still am. So you weren't wrong about that either. But how I feel about my family has nothing to do with you. Living with all their anxiety and disappointment has been so hard, and it's really not my favorite subject. Basically I'm guilty of wanting to enjoy the parts of my life that were still great, and that included you.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Leo says after a minute. “But it's kind of a lot to work a whole full-time job all summer long, never mention it, and actually say you're doing something else.”

“Yes. But it wasn't so much the waitressing I wasn't mentioning as it was my parents' silent feud or their constant, delusional reassuring that things will be back to normal any minute now. I was trying so hard to keep it together. If I'd started venting about my life, I would've driven everyone insane. That wouldn't have been good for anybody.”

“It's nice that they want to give you everything, but yeah, that sounds rough.” He actually does look sympathetic, which makes me think that I may have finally gotten through to him.

“So what now? Are you seeing that girl?” Ugh. Miranda. I don't think I've ever hated a name more.

He nods, and suddenly I can't swallow. “We've been hanging out for a month or so.”

“Is it…I mean, is it…serious?”

Leo sighs. “I don't know. I'm just seeing where it's going for now.” His mouth tightens into a resolute line, and I know that's it. Game over.

“Okay,” I manage to get out. “Well. Thanks for listening.” It's a meaningless, hollow thing to say, but that's exactly how I feel at the moment.

Leo grabs the rest of his gear and smiles sadly before walking toward the gym. I, on the other hand, am rooted to the ground. The stands are now empty, and the wind starts to whip, snapping bare tree branches in the distance. When the field lights eventually blink out, I start back to the main campus.

I'm in bed for all of one minute when the door flies open. It's Opal, with Remy in tow. “Oh no,” Opal says when she sees me curled up.

“Guys, I can't handle this right now,” I say.

“Haven't we already done this?” Opal asks.

“Yeah, Skylar. Nothing new has really happened,” Remy says.

“He confirmed he's seeing that girl,” I say.

“Miranda?” Remy asks.

“Why does everyone keep saying her name?” I groan into my pillow.

Opal approaches my bed and sticks her face right up next to mine. “I'm giving you twenty-four hours to snap out of this. We have work to do.” She pinches my arm—not hard enough to hurt, but I yelp anyway.

“Ow! That's not ahimsa!” I love throwing Opal's yoga-speak back at her.

“Sounds more than reasonable to me,” Remy adds. Traitor.

What's wrong with these two? This is so not how to treat someone who's had her heart ripped out. They leave with mercifully little fanfare.

I wake up a few times during the night, with Opal's words reverberating and bouncing around my brain. The next morning I don't feel any worse than I did before. In its own way I suppose that's a win.

Luckily, I don't have time to overanalyze, because the SATs happen this weekend. For the two weeks leading up to the exam, Raksmey and I woke up at six a.m. “The test starts at eight,” she said. “We want our brains to be sharp and ready to go by then, so we have to get used to functioning at the early hour.” She's like a standardized-testing personal trainer.

Dragging myself out of bed was more than half the battle, but once I did, I just attached myself to Opal and let her steer me to Yoga Connection. After about a week of this torture, I find that I did indeed adjust to the wake-up time. And there's something nice about not having to dash to class as soon as my feet hit the ground.

So on the morning of, I'm sitting up in bed, waiting while Raks picks out my outfit. “Now, I know some people show up to finals in pjs or sweats and think they're being cute in their all-nighter attire,” she says, continuing to rifle through my closet. “F that. You need to get in a take-no-prisoners frame of mind. Like, ‘I'm here to conquer this test, and no one better get in my way.' And for that you can't be too comfortable.”

“Okay. What kind of clothes say that?” I ask.

“Do you have a suit?” she asks.

“Are
you
wearing a suit?” I ask, giving her a suspicious look.

“No, but I don't need to. I don't respond to costumes and adornment as much as you do. Clothes directly affect your mind-set, so you need to look the part.”

I'm kind of startled that she's read me so well. “I'm not judging,” she says, misinterpreting my look. “I get it now. It's how you express yourself.”

“Actually I do have a suit.” I have a couple of my mom's hand-me-downs, which I wore when sitting in on development meetings. That seems like a lifetime ago. I brought one for college interviews.

“Well, get it on!” Raks says.

Soon I'm standing in front of the full-length bathroom mirror, checking myself out in a black pantsuit, white blouse, and sky-high heels. The suit's a bit wrinkled, but it mostly steams out after Raks hangs it in the shower. She studies me. “You look sharp,” she concludes. “Now we need breakfast.”

At the Canteen she continues to order me around. “Don't talk to anyone. You're in the zone unless your mother's dying. Anything else can wait until after. Pick something high in protein.”

“You're being extreme.” But actually I'm not complaining. Her intensity, while weird, is motivating. And with any luck, effective. Needless to say, my preparation last time included none of this.

I do as instructed and bring my one cup of black coffee and two soft-boiled eggs to a table at the edge of the dining hall. I avoid eye contact with everyone, which is hard, because I'm causing a bit of a stir in this suit. I've seen boys wear sport coats to finals, but maybe I should've taken Raksmey's advice with a grain of salt.

When we get to the gym, people are already seated in the rows of desks that fill the room. Kids from the local public school are also here to test, so it's going to be a full house. I take a seat in the middle and practice my cleansing breaths. My palms are clammy, and my clothing feels a bit constricting. I don't dare remove my blazer for fear that this facade of control I have will immediately crumble.

Just like last time, the test supervisor does the introductory spiel, followed by the proctors' handing out the test booklets and pencils. “You may begin.” I break the seal on the booklet and keep my head down until time is called, thrilled that I had a chance to run through my answers a second time.

During the break I walk around to get my blood pumping and clear my head, my high heels clicking conspicuously on the wooden floor. But I still don't talk to anyone. I know myself. I'd get too anxious comparing answers or talking about how difficult or easy we found that first section.

I see Elizabeth gabbing with Lila. Opal, Jess, Leo, and Whitney were happy with their scores from last year, so they're not here. How I envy them.

When the break ends, we file back into the gym. The next four hours both drag and zip by, and then we're done.

I stand up and unbutton my blazer, stretching and cracking my spine. I have no sense of how I actually did, and I'm more than a little grateful that results won't be available until after Thanksgiving break. But there's no doubt that I felt more on top of it than last time. Maybe it's limited progress, but I think it counts.

I
stumble out of the gym, squinting and shielding my eyes against the bright sunlight. I feel like I've been in a cave for several days.

My toes feel pinched inside my high heels, and all I can think about is taking them off. I'm starving and stare longingly at the Canteen, trying to determine whether I have enough time to run back to Abbot and change before lunch closes. I decide I can make it and turn toward the dorm but end up smacking into someone and knocking her over. After helping the girl up and profuse apologies on both sides, I notice Declan sitting on the steps of Porter Hall, looking at me, shaking with laughter. Other students crowd the steps, elbow to elbow in fleece jackets or thick wool sweaters, but no one else seems to have noticed.

Declan and I haven't spoken since Halloween, not even during film class. As much as I hate to admit it, what Bettina said made me think twice about being overly friendly to him. Even though Leo and I are now definitively over and my pride could probably use a little restoring, I wouldn't do that to someone. Despite what Bettina may think of me.

Still, his laughing at me seems like a reasonably good icebreaker. I walk over and stand beside him until he slides over to make room. I sit down and slip my heels off. He's still laughing. “Let me know when you're done,” I say.

“I'm sorry! It wasn't even that funny.” His face buried in his arms and quivering shoulders would suggest otherwise. “But you're so tiny and look all fancy, and then you take some chick out….Okay, it was pretty funny.”

I roll my eyes. “Did you already eat?”

Declan nods and stands, finally collecting himself. “But come on. Let's get you a sandwich.”

“I should change. I've gotten my fill of weird looks for the day,” I say, gesturing down at my suit.

“Skylar Hoffman, shy away from being noticed?” His tone is mocking but not mean. “Unheard-of.”

“Ha ha.” But I decide he's right. So I stand up.

Inside the Canteen, I do, in fact, get a record number of looks. “You'd think they'd never seen a suit before,” I grumble.

“If it was from Brooks Brothers, you wouldn't be having this problem,” he says after a glance at me.

“It's my mom's,” I say, like that should explain everything.

He starts down the deli bar, piling veggies and cold cuts on a plate. “You vegetarian? Allergic to anything?”

“Oh, that's for me?”

“I already ate, remember?” he says. I watch as he toasts the bread, then assembles a delicious-looking sandwich, which he cuts in half and wraps in napkins. “Let's go.”

“We're not eating here?”

Declan shakes his head. “That suit is attracting too much attention.”

We walk out of the building and back to Porter Hall. I'm just about to point out that it's kind of chilly for a picnic when Declan motions for me to follow him to a side entrance into the building. Our footsteps echo in the deserted hall. He takes the stairs two at a time all the way to the third and top floor.

“Are we even allowed to be in here on a Saturday?”

“Probably not.” At the far end of one wing, he opens a door, and we go up yet another set of stairs. Judging from the cobwebs and musty smell, this one is seldom used.

“How did you know these were here?”

“I used to babysit a fac brat. They know every inch of this campus.” I try to picture Declan babysitting some teacher's toddler and can't stop the smile that threatens to consume my face.

“What?” he asks, exasperated. “I like little kids. And it's good money.”

“No, it's cute. It's just, I don't know, you wear a lot of black.” I'm completely joking, and to my great relief, Declan smiles.

We get to the top of the stairs and climb out onto the wooden attic floor. The space is completely empty and spans the entire length of Porter Hall, with a ceiling that slopes under the gables. Shafts of late-afternoon sunlight stream through the tiny windows, giving off a dusty, low level of light.

“This is amazing,” I whisper.

“You haven't seen the best part,” he says.

We walk toward the center of the building. Declan spots an old skateboard and jumps on it, kicking off and riding it to the other side. He looks unexpectedly comfortable on it, even while holding a sandwich.

There's a lone couch facing an enormous stained-glass window that overlooks the quad and the Field. I curl up on it while Declan rolls back over. “This was a pain in the ass to get up here,” he says, tapping the couch with his foot.

“You put this here? What for?”

He gestures out the window. “This is the best reading spot on campus.”

From the outside you almost can't tell the window's here. Or maybe I just haven't spent enough time gazing at the tops of these buildings.

Declan's right. Winthrop never fails to impress me with its beauty. Even now, though its trees are bare and the grounds no longer have the deep green of early fall, it's still breathtaking. From up here you can see just how far the campus extends, and everything feels possible.

“Can you teach me to skateboard?” I ask.

He answers me with a shrug, so I get up and wait next to the board. Exhaling a loud sigh, Declan comes toward me. “Let's try standing on it. Baby steps.”

“Your confidence in me is overwhelming.” I put one foot on, but when I try to lift the other, the board slides out from under me. Declan holds his arms up so I can hang on to them for balance. I manage to do this without looking him in the eye. When he tries to move away, I immediately start wobbling and jump off. “Try again,” he says, holding his hands out. So I do.

After a minute of me just standing and balancing, he says, “I don't actually skateboard.”

“Then why am I up on this tiny piece of wood, entrusting you with my life?” I ask, jumping off. Declan steps hard on the back of the board, flipping it up and catching it from the top. “You look natural enough.”

“I used to snowboard. And do BMX biking.”

“You mean, like tricks and things?” I ask. Declan nods. “And you don't anymore?” Another nod. “Why not?”

“I decided I was done competing.” He says it with such finality that there doesn't seem to be more to the story. At least nothing that he's willing to get into with me.

“How long have you been coming up here?” I ask.

“Since sophomore year. That was the year I did a lot of thinking. Like, too much thinking.”

I wonder if he's going to say anything about getting busted, but he doesn't. I lean against the wall, my head resting against the window frame, watching life below. “And they've left your couch here all this time?”

“I doubt anyone even knows it's here.”

Gazing out the window, I feel peaceful and removed, like I'm finally getting to catch my breath. The adrenaline that carried me through the exam seems to get sucked from my body all at once, leaving me heavy and sluggish.

I move to the couch to sprawl out next to Declan. “I thought I knew all there was to know about this place,” I say.

He nudges me with his knee. “Guess you were wrong.”