Going Geek (20 page)

T
he next morning I pass a whooping celebration in the mailroom on the way to my Mandarin exam. Seems that some of the early-action letters have come in. I swallow my rising panic. Some people actually know where they'll be going to college, whereas I still owe Ms. Randall a revised draft of my admissions essay. Which I have yet to start revising.

Saturday morning, before Declan shows up at the squash courts, I practice hitting a few balls. One almost smacks me in the forehead and knocks me out. Who knew those little rubber balls were so deadly? As I'm about to serve to myself again, the door swishes open. Declan holds out a pair of goggles. “You're supposed to wear these.”

“I should probably also be wearing a helmet,” I say, taking the goggles. “And some protective padding.”

He laughs. “Don't worry. I suck too. Why are we here, again?”

I shrug, but I can already feel myself getting defensive. Leo and I never hooked up here, mostly because it's such a cliché. “It's on my bucket list,” I explain, lying through my teeth. I don't actually have a bucket list. “When else am I going to live in such close proximity to squash courts? College campuses are huge, and I'll probably be way too busy to just mess around.”

Declan smirks at my Freudian slip. “Fair enough. Do you even know how to keep score?”

“Let's just rally,” I say irritably.

“Is that what it's called in squash?” he asks.

“Who cares?” I reply, waiting.

We whack the ball around for several minutes. If nothing else, it's a great way to release tension. “I can't believe you actually brought me here to play squash,” Declan says. I start laughing, which earns an appreciative smile. “So what other things are on your Winthrop bucket list?”

I swing and miss the ball. “I don't know. It's not a formal list, exactly. Just a bunch of stuff I haven't done that I should probably do before I leave Winthrop, never to return.”
Which I'm making up as I go along.

“Like what?” he persists.

“Like I've never gone skating on the sanctuary pond, or napped at the library, or—”

“What have you been doing for the last three years?” he demands.

I take another swing. “No idea. Anyway, I'm sure I won't get around to most of it, so thanks for helping me out with this one.”

We're quiet for a bit, which seems to be key in getting a good rhythm going. Squash is definitely harder than it looks. “I…I'm not over my ex-boyfriend,” I say. “Not yet, anyway.” I hadn't planned to just blurt it out, but there it is.

Declan gives the ball another whack. If he's surprised by my spontaneous proclamation, he doesn't show it. “Ah. Well, that's a shame, but I pretty much knew that,” he says. “I won't hold it against you.”

My cheeks redden, and I'm grateful that physical exertion provides a plausible cover. “But can we be friends?” I ask.

He shoots me a quick smile. “Of course. We are friends.”

Friendship notwithstanding, Declan manages to keep his distance over the next couple of days. Since so few students stay on campus, Lower Left is the only dining room that remains open. He must be working overtime to make sure he doesn't run into me.

“I'm sure he's just exhausted, like the rest of us,” Opal says from her bed. Yasmin's curled up next to her, and none of us has moved in hours. My laptop sits on a stack of textbooks piled on the floor so we can all watch a movie together, but we keep falling asleep at different intervals, so we've yet to make it all the way through.

We eventually drag ourselves to dinner and walk to Thatcher afterward. A white frost has settled on top of the frozen ground. Campus is deserted. “Why are we going over there? Are you sure we're invited?” I ask.

“Don't be nervous. Declan will be happy to see you,” Opal says.

“It's not about that,” I say. “I'm still tired, though. I could go to bed right now and be perfectly happy.”

Yasmin looks at her phone. “C.J. says Chris is out for the evening.”

“Don't you think Dr. Murdoch's going to wonder where we all went?” I ask.

Opal smiles. “No. She appreciates how easy we are most of the time. Besides, she told me she's determined to get her shopping done before Black Friday this year. And funny, you don't sound like Skylar Hoffman, resident party girl.”

“Reformed,” I say. “Skylar Hoffman,
reformed
party girl.”

When we get to the dorm, the door opens before we can even knock. “Did anyone see you?” C.J. asks, then exclaims, “Hey! Canteen duty!” when he notices me.

“No, everyone else was smart enough to stay inside,” I say.

“Let's go.” He leads us to the top floor. Once we're there, he holds up a hand to stop and silence us. “Take your shoes off so you don't leave footprints,” he says. We obey.

Just as the eerie quiet starts to creep me out, he nods with satisfaction, then walks to the end of the hall, where there's a recessed window, creating a shelf that's about a foot deep. He climbs onto it, reaches up, and grabs hold of a metal ring that's folded flat against the ceiling. It's painted white to blend in, so I never would've noticed it on my own.

C.J. tugs on the ring, and a panel tilts down. He grabs on to the edge and hops down, bringing a whole set of stairs with him.

Shoes in hand, Opal and Yasmin climb on up, like it's no big thing that C.J. just pulled secret stairs out of the ceiling.

“What is this?” I ask, staring up through the hole. Opal and Yasmin have disappeared into the dark, and I can't hear anything.

“Don't ask questions.” C.J. follows right behind me and pulls the stairs up after us. A round window lets in just enough moonlight to make out what looks to be a collection of broken, neglected dorm furniture. Then he walks over to the far side, gesturing for me to follow before he knocks on the wall. A panel opens into a room where a few guys from the dorm sit. Declan is stretched out on a beanbag. We exchange smiles, but then I quickly look away.

“Pretty awesome, yes?” C.J. asks, sweeping an arm around the room, which is big enough to comfortably accommodate about ten people. “This is the sacred space that's passed down from graduating seniors to rising seniors at the end of every year.” We all contemplate that with the solemnity C.J. appears to want.

There are a couple of mini fridges and an actual bar with bottles of hard liquor sitting on top of it, with speakers set on either side. Judging from the shag carpet, lava lamps, and Grateful Dead posters, this space has been in use for at least a few decades.

Pizza boxes from Andrea's are stacked on the floor. I raise my eyebrows as C.J. cackles, hoists himself over the bar, and holds up a bong. “Herb delivered.”

The bong makes its way around the circle a few times, but I pass every time it gets to me. Paranoia and lowered inhibitions are the last things I need. Yasmin waves it away when it reaches her. “No thanks. Bongs are so unladylike,” she says. I notice that Declan doesn't partake either.

“What's going on with the petition? Are you getting your election?” C.J. asks. He's sitting on the floor, leaning back against a beanbag with his eyes closed.

“God, I hope so,” one of the other guys says.

I sigh. “We almost have enough signatures. We had to take a break for finals, but I think we'll be able to get it wrapped up next week.”

“What about the other petition?” Declan asks. It's the first time he's addressed me directly all night.

“I haven't heard any more about it, but if our petition gets approved, it won't matter,” I say.

“If we have the election and don't win, they'll be able to push Abbot off the schedule then anyway,” Opal says.

“Exactly,” C.J. says. Everyone looks at him and laughs. He's stoned out of his mind. “Wait, what?” He sits up. “I'm saying, I wouldn't be too blasé about it.”

“That's not what it sounded like you were saying,” Declan says.

“And besides, there's nothing we can do about it anyway,” Opal says.

“I'd start thinking of a plan B. Just in case.” C.J. lies back down.

Declan and I talk with everyone else in the room but don't even look at each other. I feel like everyone can tell that our awareness of each other is heightened. Finally it gets to be so much that the air actually feels thick. I have to leave.

“I'll walk you back,” Declan says.

“No!” I practically yell. “I mean, stay. You're having fun. I'm totally fine.”

C.J. walks me back to the stairs, listens with his ear to the crack of the trapdoor, then lets the stairs down. “Thanks,” I say.

“Yas brought you, so I assume you can be trusted. She's special. Even the underclassmen who live here don't know about this place.”

“Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me.” I walk down the steps.

Even though I'm nowhere near Thatcher on Thanksgiving, weight lifts from my shoulders when noon arrives and I know that Declan's parents have come to pick him up.

“You're a total mess,” Opal observes.

“Not anymore. Let's go do something!”

That turns into walking downtown and wasting time in CVS, which is the only store that's open. We end up buying a ton of stupid stuff we don't even need—chocolate turkeys, dreidels, playing cards, mini flashlights, and a neon-green, miniature die-cast BMX bike in a bright orange package that says
STUNTZ
on it. I buy this last item while Opal's distracted. I tell myself that it's just for fun, but I know better.

Dinner that night might be the best Thanksgiving meal I've ever had. My mom makes a valiant effort, but Martin's cooking skills put her attempts to shame. “If I'd known what I was missing, I would've stayed on campus every Thanksgiving,” I say.

Opal rolls her eyes and pretends to enjoy her salad, glazed carrots, and roasted Brussels sprouts. Dr. Murdoch seems especially cheerful, and Yasmin says it's because it's usually just the two of them on shorter breaks. Still, she seems more than ready to escape to the faculty table while we take our plates to the kitchen.

I stab my fork into a slice of Martin's decadent pumpkin pie and let myself consider a possible election. I've been careful to avoid thinking about it in depth, not wanting to wind myself up for no reason. Pitting myself against Whitney in such a public way has some very obvious downsides. My dorm mates' reassurance is nice, but at the end of the day it will be me, either failing or humiliating my former best friend.

I'm really not ready for break to end.

W
e've finally collected enough signatures to hold an ad hoc midterm election. My name and Opal's name are listed as candidates for president and vice president, respectively.

“This is insane!” Whitney screams at me, waving her copy of our petition in my face. I'd submitted it just hours before, but I'm not surprised it's already in her hands. Though I am surprised she actually set foot in Lower Left just to tell me off. “You and Opal Kingston do not have what it takes to run this school!”

“Your name will still be on the ballot,” I say. “You have a completely fair shot at keeping your position.” We have the entire room's attention.

“Awww. Well, the election is so not happening. Marshall buried your pitiful, ridiculous petition!” Whitney whirls away and storms out of the dining room. There's a low rumble of nervous laughter after she leaves.

I send Marshall a text:

He responds with one word.

At least he doesn't make excuses.

I type back:

“Karma needs a nudge,” Opal says

“Have they never heard of democracy?” Bettina asks.

“Maybe we should boycott,” I say. “We convince people to stop going to the ‘big' Calendar events and only attend those that typically stay under the radar, like the Harry Potter lunch.”

“Omigod, that's brilliant! When is that happening?” Jess asks.

“Already happened,” I say. “But that's exactly what I'm talking about. We find a way to publicize those events more widely so that students actually get to experience what this school has been trying so thanklessly to offer them.”

“Yes! A boycott is a genius idea. Low attendance is like the ultimate form of suffering for the Calendar,” Opal says.

“Are you even a real yogi?” I ask. Even though I'm kind of enjoying it, this more aggressive Opal takes some getting used to.

She huffs. “We're attempting to restore some balance in the universe. Shiva would fully approve.”

“Okay, so how do we do this? I'm sure we can get a few people who don't normally go out to show up, but introverts don't just stop being introverts, even for a good cause,” I say.

“True enough,” Opal says, nodding. “Any type of big event would be introvert repellant.”

Jess chews on a corner of her lower lip, deep in thought. “Using the Harry Potter thing as an example, what would've happened if all seven of us showed up?”

“Assuming we all went as Hermione, we'd probably make a lot of boys happy,” I say. They all give me a look. “Uh, well, we would've doubled the attendance, probably.”

“Great! Let's do that,” Opal says.

“I know at some point she mentioned that it already happened,” Jess says.

“No, but Opal's right,” I say. “If we pick some worthy but unpopular event to support one weekend, they at least might not get to kill it outright. And who knows, maybe we could convince a few more people to come with us. Remy would come, and Yasmin could get her buddies from Thatcher—those guys barely even qualify as real introverts.”

Opal pulls up the schedule for the coming weekend. “There's another dance—yawn, the Deadlies are playing.” The Deadlies are Winthrop's preeminent hippie jam band. For reasons I cannot understand, they have a huge on-campus following. I'd always wished our school could've produced a really cool band, like Melbourne. Opal keeps reading. “Theater Club's doing
Rocky Horror,
a poetry slam at the Study sponsored by the Spoken Word Society, a student exhibit at Albright, and First Snow—weather dependent, of course.”

First Snow is a sledding party sponsored by the Physics Club. It's on the calendar every weekend starting in November, so it's always a bit of a crapshoot. No one from the Calendar or the
Times
ever covers it, citing unpredictability and failure to realize that snow was falling. Therefore it's constantly on the chopping block. “Didn't we kill this thing last year?” Whitney whined when she saw the proposal a few weeks ago.

“Only a handful of people go, but those who do, like it,” Guthrie said.

“Ugh, the Physics Club is always trying to come up with these real-world applications for physics that are supposedly fun,” Whitney said. “When will they get a clue that
physics fun
is an oxymoron?”

I happen to agree, but now I'm crossing my fingers for snow, otherwise we'll be stuck applauding bad rap disguised as poetry. The forecast on my phone looks promising but changes almost hourly. The only drawback to choosing this event is that many of the Thatcher guys will already be there, so we won't really add much in terms of attendance numbers.

I pick up the toy bike I bought for Declan at CVS, which has been sitting on my desk since break, and speculate whether I'll actually have the guts to give it to him. I try not to read into the fact that I haven't seen him since school started and wonder if he'll be at First Snow.

The more I think about the weekend, the more I feel that just blowing out one event won't make enough of an impact.

“Then we should refocus on boycotting a big event this weekend. It'll be such a strong statement,” Jess says.

“Maybe the dance?” Opal asks.

“ ‘Boycott the Dance' just doesn't have any bite to it,” I say. “Especially since there's one every weekend.”

“Maybe not, but it is the one that will hit Whitney and Lila the hardest,” Opal says.

But even after we start spreading the word, not showing up at the dance feels far too easy, like it won't cost anyone anything. Also, if no one but the quad crew shows, will anyone even care?

As the weekend approaches I become more convinced that it's not going to work. If we want the Calendar's attention, it has to be dramatic. Only a complete, weekend-wide fail will get them to take us seriously.

Opal and I meet with the producers and stage manager of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
We tell them that they don't need to change anything about what they're doing but that their attendance might be sparse this weekend.