Going Geek (2 page)

I click my phone off and clutch it to my chest, staring into space. Around the edges of the phone, my fingertips grip and release my T-shirt.

Jordana sits up straight. “Will you please blink? Are you having a heart attack?”

“Pretty much,” I whisper.

“But, I mean, how big is the campus?” she asks after I tell her. “It's not like you'll be miles away.”

“I could be a mile away, I could be next door. But that's not the point. It's my
home.
I've lived in Lincoln since day one. All my friends are there. We do everything together—study, watch TV, share beauty products. I barely know any girls from other dorms.”

“Really?” Jordana wrinkles her nose. “How's that possible?”

I glare at her. “Because. Anyone worth knowing lives in Lincoln!”

She holds up her hands in surrender. “Okay, but can't you still do those things together?”

I sigh. “It's not the same. There's something special about living next door to your best friends or down the hall from them. Someone's door is always open. We don't have to go through the chore of scheduling and picking a meeting place.”

“Learn to make plans like the rest of the world.” Her tone is flat, but I hear the accusation there. “Anyway, maybe the worst is that you'll graduate with two sets of friends.”

Jordana has no idea what she's talking about, and I'm about to tell her as much when my mom pokes her head in. “How's the packing going? It feels like you never unpacked, so you must be almost done.”

“Mom, good, you're here. I need you to leave a strongly worded voice mail.” I get my game face on.

Her brow furrows. “Really? And where shall I leave this strongly worded voice mail?”

“At the school housing office. They're trying to tell me that I'm not in Lincoln this year!” Just saying it aloud makes me want to burst into tears.

My mom's expression turns from quizzical to anxious. “Well, honey, I'm sure they wouldn't have done it unless there was a very good reason.”

“No. Uh-uh. I don't need reasonable, keeper-of-the-peace Mom. I need badass producer Mom. Get-shit-done Mom.”

“Language.” She glances meaningfully toward Jordana, who's busy plucking at my bedspread, pretending she's not here. “I'm sure it has to do with the change in circumstances.”

What she's trying not to say in front of Jordana is that maybe Winthrop Housing shafted me because I'm now on financial aid. She feels like they're doing us a favor and is therefore hesitant to rock the boat.

“I don't care,” I say. “I'm not going to be treated like some back-of-the-bus, second-class citizen no matter what the circumstances are. Honestly, I can't even believe you'd suggest that. You know, now that I think about it, they wouldn't do this to a senior. I'm sure they meant to shuffle around some first-years or sophomores.”

My mom's eyes widen. “I'm not saying it's right, but it might be the reason. I don't know if it'll do any good, but I'll leave a message in the morning.”

“No, can you do it now? I want it to be the first thing they hear when they get to work in the morning.”

“Fine, Skylar.” She gives me that look she gets when she's mad but too worn out to fight me.

When the door closes, Jordana flops over. “Are you always so hard on her?”

“What? It'll be good for her to get in there and ruffle some feathers.”

But when I get downstairs the next morning, my mom is on the phone with housing, and I can tell by the tone of her “mmm-hmm's” that the only feathers getting ruffled are hers. Guess I'll have to put this fire out on my own when I get to school.

A
few days later my airport shuttle van turns onto the main road that runs through Winthrop, which is creatively named Main Street. When Winthrop Academy comes into view, my sigh of relief is so loud that my fellow passengers turn and the driver glances at me in the mirror. Oh, how I miss the days of car services and taxis.

Winthrop looks like an Ivy League college, all redbrick buildings, stretches of pristine green lawn, and huge, centuries-old trees. In the tradition of East Coast prep schools, it's elegant, staid, and just the teensiest bit pompous. I love it so much.

My plan is to go straight to my advisor's office. If anyone can bust heads in housing, it's Ms. Randall. I get out of the van, and the driver helps me haul my suitcases onto the sidewalk. I scurry away, putting as much distance between the van and me as possible.

As he pulls away I truck down the central path through the academic quad wearing a super cute straw fedora and black leather shorts with a slouchy tee, towing two designer suitcases behind me. Scores of people pass—each one more preppy and drab than the last. Sorry, but I could never date a guy who felt the need to wear anything with whales on it.

They all step off the path to avoid getting run over by me. I always feel very conspicuous on this campus, but it's important to have a brand, and mine is definitely LA Fabulous. It's kind of hilarious.

A warm, calloused hand closes over mine and takes one of the suitcase handles from me. Leo. I know it's him even before I turn to smile up into his handsome face. “Hey.” He gives me a quick peck on the lips. It takes all of my self-restraint not to launch myself at him. My hat gets knocked to the ground when I hug him, but I don't care. I feel him smile against my hair as I refuse to let him go. We haven't seen each other in nearly three months, but boarding school can feel like a fishbowl, so we're forced to be chaste in public. That's Leo's idea, not mine. I don't care, but Leo doesn't like to make people uncomfortable. It's not like we have a choice; we're constantly surrounded by people who know us—after school, weekends, breakfast, doesn't matter. So if they have to deal with a little PDA once in a while, so be it.

Leo has some distance because he's a day student. He might spend most of every day and night on campus—even a good part of the weekend—but at the end of every night, he gets to brush his teeth without an audience.

“Did you come just to see me? Classes don't start for two more days.” I scoop my fedora off the ground and loop my arm around his as we resume walking. Leo's now wheeling both suitcases like the sweetheart that he is.

He chuckles. “Yes. I wanted to see you, but I'm also a Winthrop Key, remember?” he asks, referring to the new-student orientation committee.

“Of course. You're such a do-gooder.” I grin.

Leo kisses my cheek. “You should try it sometime.” He ducks out of my reach, laughing as I swat at him. “So you ready for Ms. Randall?”

“Ready as I'll ever be.”

Poor Leo endured about a dozen phone calls during which I schemed ways to get reassigned to Lincoln. He was definitely concerned, but unfortunately, since he has obviously never dealt with housing, he didn't have much to say, other than that I should talk to Ms. Randall. I've been trying to minimize my panic, because I don't want to stress him out when he's so busy with school and soccer.

We approach a wide building with steps that span the front and four sets of glass-paned double doors. I reach for my suitcases. “Let me bring these in. Maybe she'll take pity on me if I seem really pathetic.”

He looks both doubtful and worried. “I don't see her going for that. Better to go in strong.”

“Okay, yeah, you're right.” I try to discreetly wipe my hands on my shirt. Leo gives me a quick hug and turns back down the central path that cuts through campus. I watch him go. His easy, athletic gait, strong calf muscles, and broad shoulders sweeten the view.

With a groan, I pull my luggage into Parsons Hall, Winthrop's administrative building. I take the elevator up but leave my things in the hallway before knocking on an old wooden door with a nameplate that reads
KIM RANDALL
, then
HEAD OF COLLEGE COUNSELING
underneath. My faculty advisor is also my college counselor. Double whammy.

“Yes.” It's a deceptively soft voice that somehow manages to penetrate through the closed door.

I push it open. “Hi, Ms. Randall.”

She's really not a scary-looking woman. She has rich brown skin, shrewd eyes, and light, springy curls, cut in a way that gives her head an almost heart shape. Despite her pleasant voice and appearance, nobody who's met her more than once would underestimate her ability and fondness for cutting people to the quick. “Ms. Hoffman. Welcome back. Was your summer productive?”

“Yeah. I read scripts for my mom while working on my tan by the pool. It wasn't a terrible way to spend the summer.” This is what I've been telling everyone. Waitressing would destroy my cred with this crowd.

Ms. Randall eyes me, unimpressed. “I see. Do we have an appointment so early in the year?” She slides her rolling chair back slightly from her desk and peers at me over the top of her reading glasses.

“Kinda sorta,” I begin.

“Try to be more precise, please.”

I take a breath and start over. “I received an email about housing—”

“Ah, yes. Thank goodness. I am not ready to discuss colleges with
you
yet.”

Ouch. But I smile, like I think she's joking, even though I'm already dreading our first college counseling meeting. I didn't do half the things she wanted me to do over the summer. Oh well. First things first.

While she scrolls through her inbox, I resist fidgeting. She scared the habit out of me when I was a first-year.

“Yes, due to a technical error, too many students were placed in Lincoln. The problem was discovered only last week, and, as a result, Housing had to move people without any input. You've been reassigned to Abbot House, where you'll share a room with Opal Kingston.”

The floor drops out from under me. “What?” My voice comes out shaky. There are twenty girls' dorms at Winthrop, and I get stuck with Abbot House?

Ms. Randall gives me a cool stare. She's waiting for me to collect myself, to say something more eloquent, but that's not likely to happen. “Your keys should be downstairs in your mailbox. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes. Help me find a way to stay in Lincoln. That's where my life is. After three years of being at the center of everything, Abbot would be way too removed, not to mention bleak and depressing.” I'm aware that I'm babbling, but nobody with a brain would've made this recommendation.

She's still looking at me, completely dispassionate. “Maybe a change of scenery will do you good. I'm not entirely sure three years of being ‘at the center of everything' has brought out the best in you.”

I have no idea what she's talking about. Since she's not exactly approachable, it's not like I've been running to her office every five seconds. Where does she get off acting like she knows me? “Is there anyone else I can talk to about this?”

“I'm afraid not.”

I press my lips together, deciding whether I should say what I'm about to say. “Is this about money?”

Ms. Randall snorts. It's such a condescending sound that my cheeks flush with both anger and embarrassment. “Winthrop Academy has an extremely healthy endowment. One reason I took this job is because that allows us to offer meaningful financial aid. Providing assistance for one more student isn't going to break this place.”

My glance darts to the door, and I'm relieved to see that it's closed tightly. “I can't believe they'd do this to a senior. Why wouldn't they move a first-year instead?”

“If a first-year was moved to accommodate you, you'd have to room with another first-year. That wouldn't work, since first-years and seniors have different restrictions. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to either of you.”

I'd almost be willing to suck it up if it meant staying in Lincoln. “It's my home. I can't believe they can just uproot me like this.”

“You're still here. Abbot is a fifteen-minute walk from Lincoln. You're going to be fine.” She lets that lie sink in.

“How many other seniors got moved?”

“I'm not at liberty to give out other students' information. Now, Ms. Hoffman, I like to end meetings with my seniors on a single word. You should mull this over until the next time we meet. Your word is:
embrace.
”

Dismissed, I trudge to the door and let myself out.

Embrace, my ass.

Down in the basement I go to my mailbox, number 267, which is perfectly situated at chest level, in the center of a wall full of silver-doored mailboxes. I fish the keys out, along with my class schedule, invitations to a bunch of dumb socials, and about a thousand flyers in every color of the rainbow, encouraging me to join clubs like Robotics or Ballroom Dance. I mean, seriously. Those go straight into the recycling.

Twenty minutes later, after numerous consultations of my campus map, I finally locate Abbot House. It's such a long, meandering way from the main campus, past the school cemetery, not near any other dorm, and it feels like it's in the middle of the woods. I'm going to have to start carrying bear spray. By the time I get there, I'm actually fighting back tears.

And then there's the way it looks. It's not a grand brick structure like most of the buildings; it's an off-white wooden house—small, rickety, and utterly sad. I have literally never laid eyes on the place even one time in the years I've been at Winthrop. They should have razed it decades ago.

Inside, I go up carpeted stairs to find my room. Of course, there are two beds, two desks, and a window, which serves as a natural divider. Luckily, the room is empty, so I sit down on one of the beds and cry my heart out.

There's a faint knock on the door. I quickly wipe my face with my hands and stand up. A woman with frizzy hair, ashen skin, and a pilly cardigan enters. “Hi there,” she practically whispers. “Welcome. I'm Dr. Murdoch, your house counselor. Classics department.” Saying those few words seems to have taxed her—she looks like she's about to fall over from exertion.

“Skylar Hoffman. Disgruntled, displaced senior.” My biting remark has absolutely no effect on her.

“Wonderful. I think some of the others are already out and about. We're a small group here, only seven girls and me, but we're a family. I'm usually available if you need anything.” Great. One of the other selling points about Lincoln was the Blums, house counselors who were so consumed with raising their actual family that they hardly bothered with us. They looked the other way more than once when Leo was over and my door was less ajar than it should have been.

“I still have to get my things from Lincoln,” I say. Dr. Murdoch blinks at me, her eyes big and owl-like behind her thick lenses. She's like a cat lady without the cats.

I slip past her, run downstairs, and let the screen door slam behind me, then hike through the forest and back into civilization. The urge to cry has left me, thank god. I wouldn't want anyone to see me in this state of disarray. I keep it together until I walk through the doors of Lincoln.

Processing that this is no longer where I live seems impossible. I grasp at the reality like a little kid trying to catch a balloon that's accidentally slipped off her wrist and is already flying away. Everything about this building feels comfortable and right—more like home than the house I grew up in. Even the smell (bleach with a hint of sawdust) overwhelms me with nostalgia.

Anything important that's ever happened to me has taken place in this dorm. I met my best friend here. My friends cheered me on and took turns bringing me coffee when I left a term paper until the night before it was due. I had my first kiss and my first breakup here.