Going Geek (3 page)

Before things can take a turn for the truly maudlin, I hear a squeal and spin around just as Whit body-slams me and wraps herself around me. I get a mouthful of her perennially sun-streaked blond hair and a whiff of bergamot and rose, her signature scent. “Tell me the whole thing was just a hideous dream!”

I spit some hair out and rest my chin on her shoulder. “No. You're looking at the newest addition to Abbot House.”

Whit's arms fall to her sides, and she pulls away to look at me, her nose wrinkled. “Abbot? You couldn't even get Baldwin?” She's referring to the dorm across the quad from Lincoln. It's a very distant runner-up. My distress swells again. “Never mind,” she says. “If you're going to live someplace different, it might as well be really different, right?”

I nod, unsure about her logic. Also, her seemingly easy acceptance of my predicament unnerves me.

“I'll sleep over sometimes so you won't be lonely,” she says.

“I have a roommate.”

She inhales, sharp and surprised. “This just keeps getting worse. Who is it?”

“Opal Kingston.”

“Who's that?”

“I have no idea.” Whitney and I privately refer to everyone not living in the main quad as “extras.” Even most quad people are only vague acquaintances. People know us. Not the other way around.

“Why didn't you have your mom call?” she asks.

“I did.” Saying much more would be hard without publicizing the fact that my mom might not have as much influence as she once had. “Who else had to move?”

“I'm not sure. You still have to eat with us.” Whitney grabs my hand and says this with an air of generosity, even though it hadn't occurred to me that I'd be eating anywhere else. “And come to Thursday-night common room hangs.”

My eyes well up again. I'm turning into a damn faucet. “It won't be the same. I won't be just padding down the hall in my bare feet and pjs. I'll have to
sign in.
”

Whitney looks aghast and gathers me into her arms. “I hadn't thought about it like that.” She doesn't let go of me. “This could be our last year together. It's not supposed to be this way.”

“It definitely isn't,” I say as I hug her back, holding on to hope that this housing thing is just a blip before everything goes back to normal.

T
wo hours later, with Leo's help, I have everything moved into Abbot. He texted me right after Whitney left, saving me from another fit of despair.

I smiled as I tapped.

My roommate still hasn't appeared, so we're getting cozy on my new bed. I'm distracted by the hum of the air-conditioning. There are no voices in the hall, no signs of human life coming from outside the window. Even the bed creaks differently. The door is shut (at least I still get one perk of being a senior), but I can't relax. “This is weird,” I whisper.

“Not for me it isn't.” Leo nuzzles my neck and pulls me closer.

I laugh. “I mean, she could walk through that door at any moment, and I'd have no idea who she is.”

Leo props himself up on his elbow and peers into my face. “You don't know who Opal is?”

“No. Should I?”

He shrugs. “I guess not. We had English 200 together. She's kind of the opposite of you. She wears cotton and doesn't like makeup.”

“Are you saying I'm high maintenance?”

“How many boxes did I just carry over from Lincoln?” Leo straightens and bends his arm, pretending to be sore. I put my hand on his chest and shove. “Oh, come on. You know I wouldn't change a thing about you,” he says, laughing.

Leo's phone rings. “My mom.” He answers. “Hi. I'm helping Skylar move into her new dorm….Yes, I'll invite her….Classes don't start tomorrow, so curfew isn't until eleven-thirty….Okay, don't wait up.” He rolls his eyes as he hangs up. “You're invited for dinner next weekend.”

“I'm in!” I snuggle back onto his chest. “It's so cute that she misses you.”

He sighs. “I was gone all summer. You'd think she'd be used to it.” Leo taught soccer at a camp for underprivileged kids in Maine. I didn't even know they had underprivileged kids in Maine. His entire Instagram feed was pictures of him with his players—on the field, splashing around in the freezing ocean, going for ice cream…Like I said, he's pretty much perfect.

“She just doesn't want your bad LA girlfriend taking advantage of you.” I lift my head and bite his earlobe.

“Yeah, let's stop talking about my mom now.”

We're in full-on make-out mode when I hear someone clearing her throat. Loudly. Leo sits up so fast he pushes me off the bed. We both leap to our feet. “Hi! How are you? You must be Opal.” I hold out my hand. She shakes it even though she has this spacey, unfocused smile.

“I am indeed.” She shifts her gaze to my boyfriend. “Leo Diaz. Welcome to my dorm room.”

“Technically he's in my dorm room, but whatever. Semantics.” I don't know why I'm bothering with the territorial act. Leo's description of her was generous. A little mascara would go a long way on this chick—her eyelashes are practically transparent, but stand out in the worst possible way against her naturally ruddy skin. Her hair is in two French braids like she's in fourth grade, and she's wearing some unattractive, shapeless caftan in an Indian print with matching pajama pants.

To her credit, Opal smiles and doesn't take the bait. An older couple steps into the room. They're dressed just like Opal. They must belong to a cult. “This is my mom and dad.” She turns to them. “This is Leo. He's the star goalie on the varsity soccer team. And my new roommate, Skylar.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Mrs. Kingston says.

“I've read a bit about your yoga school,” Leo says. “I'd love to check it out one day.”

“You do yoga?” Opal asks, sounding way too excited.

Leo shakes his head. “No. But I keep thinking it would be good to keep me from getting injured. Your school's pretty famous, right?”

The Kingstons collectively beam. “We'd love to have you visit. Next time you're in New York, look us up,” Mr. Kingston says. He seems to be extending this invite to both of us, but I know he really means Leo. My boyfriend could charm a doorknob.

“We're going out to dinner. Feel free to, um, carry on,” Opal says, a beatific smile on her face. Now it's my turn to beam while Leo goes red with embarrassment.

Once they're gone, Leo turns to me. “See? She's not horrible.”

“I'm not making any snap judgments,” I say. “Now, where were we?” I pull him back down onto my bed.

Some time later, we come up for air and decide we should probably feed ourselves. We hold hands until we get to the main campus. “When does preseason practice start?” I ask.

“Team's already been here a week. Tomorrow I have more Winthrop Keys stuff to do—meet with my group, give the ‘unofficial' tour, and then we have team wars. So I'll be around all day. What do you have going on?”

“Catch up with Whit, maybe go to the Southern California social, buy my books.” Leo nods, and there's absolutely no skepticism on his face, but I can't help noting the differences between our two schedules. Leo's applying early to Harvard, and in my unbiased opinion they'd be crazy not to grab him. The thing is, he's not some resume-building drone; he genuinely loves everything he does. I admire him so much, even as I'm just the tiniest bit envious of him.

We walk into the Canteen, a two-story Neoclassical-style building (as they tell you on the tour) consisting of four dining rooms, each with its own distinct feel and named for its geographical location within the building. They all look the same and have the same food; it's more about who hangs out in each of them. Lower Left is arty, and Lower Right is brainy. Not that I've ever eaten in either one of those. Leo and his friends hang out in the jock dining room, Upper Right. My crowd hangs out there too sometimes, because a lot them are also athletes. We're most likely to be in Upper Left, where people who work on the Social Calendar can be found.

The Social Calendar is like Yearbook, Prom Committee, and Cheerleading all rolled up into one and injected with steroids. We have Yearbook and Prom Committee (not Cheerleading), but the Calendar rules the school. This year, at long last, Whitney's president.

“You want to sit with your fraternity brothers?” Leo asks. That's my affectionate nickname for the soccer team guys. I catch a glimpse of Whit and some of my other Lincoln friends heading into Upper Left. I'm about to tell Leo that I'll meet up with him later, but Whit makes a shooing motion, indicating that I should enjoy my time with Leo. So I grab a tray and resign myself to an evening of soccer trash-talking and boy buffoonery.

When we show up at the table, the guys give me a once-over. Suddenly my leather shorts seem really small. But I brush it off and sit down.

“Hey, Skylar. Ready to see our boy break the record for killer saves this fall?”

“Hey, Skylar. When's Whitney going to give in and go out with me?”

“Hey, Skylar. Diaz had such a good summer he said he wants five kids. Hope you're fertile.”

I nod and smile along through all of it. Over the last year I've learned that the only way past it is through it. They get bored eventually. And the truth is, they love and respect Leo so much that they'd never say anything seriously out of line.

“Guys, take it easy. We have a whole season for you to torture my girlfriend.” Leo smiles at me.

“Whatever. You're not the only one who's excited to see her.” Remy, one of the midfielders, leans down for a hug on his way to the dessert table.

“So did you discover the next script that will define our generation?” Wyatt, a defender, asks.

Okay, so I haven't even told my friends the real story. Not Leo, not even Whit.

“Not quite,” I manage to say. “There's a lot of really bad material floating around out there.”

“You have the coolest life,” Sid says. He's starting center forward and has the attitude to match. This might be the warmest thing he's ever said to me, and I guess it's true. I did have the coolest life.

“What's the best thing you read?” Remy asks, returning with a bowl of ice cream.

Everyone's paying attention. For some reason, even people outside LA are really fascinated by Hollywood. I scramble for a way off this topic. “I read a super cute rom-com,” I say. Groans all around. Bingo.