Going Geek (4 page)

“What the hell is a rom-com?” Sid asks.

“Romantic comedy.” I wrinkle my nose at him, implying that any idiot would know that. “It just needs a scorchingly hot leading man attached to it, one who's dripping with sex appeal but also intelligent.”

“Stop. Not interested,” Sid says.

“Actually, you'd be perfect, Remy,” I say, turning to him. “With those quads?” Leo and the rest of the table snicker as Remy mumbles into his ice cream. “What's going on with you and Zoe?” He started dating a cute sophomore from Baldwin at the end of last year.

“She dumped me. Over the phone, right before we came back.”

“She strung you along all summer?” My spoon drops to the table with a clank. “You want me to order a social hit on her?”

“You're the best, Skylar, but no. She's a good girl, it's just not meant to be. Maybe you can hook me up with one of your new dorm mates.”

I stare at him, eyebrows raised. “I take it you don't know where I'm living now.”

Remy shrugs. “Yeah. Abbot. Whatever, I'm equal opportunity.”

“What you are is undiscerning,” Sid says. Everyone laughs.

“You should wait until the season's over. Not many girls are as cool as Skylar.” Wyatt's referring to the team's hectic schedule, which leaves me flying solo for most of the fall.

The conversation dissolves into soccer talk, so I eat quickly, realizing that I still have a lot of unpacking left. Leo follows me as I take my tray back to the kitchen. “Can we keep hanging out after dinner?” he asks.

“Did you miss me or something?” I grin over my shoulder.

“I just want to spend as much time with you as possible before the craziness starts,” he says. I turn to face him, and he brushes a strand of my long black hair behind my shoulder. The way he's looking at me makes my cheeks heat up.

“I'm pretty sure Opal will be back from dinner soon.”

“It's not about that. What Wyatt said is true. You are very understanding about the team and my schedule, and I appreciate that. I hope you know that I want to be with you all the time.” He takes my tray and places the dirty dishes into a bin along with his.

With an argument like that, how could I refuse? “Do your talents extend to unpacking?”

Leo rests his chin on the top of my head. “I mean, I don't want to brag…”

So we walk back to Abbot, linking hands once again as soon as the path turns off the main campus and the foot traffic disappears.

Opal returns to the room soon after we get there, but she seems more than happy to have Leo here as a buffer. As they gab I unpack and survey the contents of my life. Some of the stuff I saved from last year no longer seems worth keeping, so I go out to find a garbage bag.

The kitchenette is on the ground floor and is really nothing more than a sink, fridge, and microwave. I walk in to find a small girl with tawny skin, dark, wavy, shoulder-length hair, and a smile that's way too bright for the late-ish hour. She pulls a bag of popcorn out of the microwave and empties the contents into a bowl. The smell of fake butter overtakes the small space. “Hey. I'm Raksmey,” she says. “Junior.” She's practically trembling, she's so wired. Could be sodium overload.

“Skylar,” I say, extending my hand. I know it's weird that we shake hands like we're about to enter into a business agreement, but it's a thing here. Supposed to build strong character.

“I know who you are.”

“Oh. Are you watching a movie?” I stick my head under the sink and find a roll of garbage bags.

“Nah. I just forgot to go to dinner. So you got booted by the cool kids?”

My head smacks the underside of the counter as I back out from under the sink. “It wasn't just me. There was a reshuffling because of a computer mix-up in housing.”

Raksmey laughs. “They always blame the computers. But seriously. It's not like computers were invented yesterday. What really happened? Did you have a falling-out with your queen bee?”

“Sorry to say there was no drama, only administrative ineptitude and terrible luck.”

“Okay.” Raksmey throws a handful of popcorn in her mouth. She leaves me standing in a cloud of popcorn-scented steam, unsettled, with a fistful of garbage bags.

I go back to my room to find Leo dozing on my bed. Opal is in her pjs (or maybe not, I can't tell) and reading on the floor. “Classes haven't started yet,” I say.

“This is the
Yoga Sutras,
” she says.

“Is that a sex thing?” I glance at Leo. Still dozing.

Opal smiles. “No. It's a yoga thing.”

I start tossing things, keeping an eye on the clock so Leo can be out by curfew. “It's ironic that LA's, like, land of a thousand yoga schools, yet I've never taken a class.”

“But those classes with plinky music, incense in the room, and an instructor who took a five-week training course? That's not real yoga.” She doesn't even bother to look up from her book as she belittles the billion-dollar industry that she just described. But since I really don't care about yoga, I let it slide.

Leo rolls onto his side, and I decide it's time to put him out of his misery. I place my hand on his hip and give him a shake. “Hey, why don't you go home? You have a big day tomorrow.”

He groans and stretches before opening his eyes just a sliver. “Why'd you let me sleep? This was supposed to be quality time.”

“It was. I love watching you sleep.”

“You look very peaceful,” Opal chimes in from across the room. I ignore her.

“Come on. I'll walk you out.”

With another groan Leo lets me pull him to his feet. We stop by the table in the entryway so he can sign out. Dr. Murdoch doesn't appear to be nearby, but the door that connects the dorm to her apartment is open.

On the front step I duck out of the light, pulling Leo with me. What comes next is without a doubt the most action this porch has ever seen. “I'm so glad summer's over,” Leo says, his forehead resting against mine.

“What? You had a fantastic summer.”

“I did. But I'm ready for a fantastic year. With you.”

With that and one last kiss, I trudge back to my room and my gloomy new life. Opal turns as I walk in. “I'm sure you already know this, but Leo has a very special soul, and I hope you treasure it.”

Even though she has the same serene, spaced-out look that she's had all night, her words feel pushy and invasive. Maybe it's my guilty conscience over not being completely honest with him. Or maybe my roommate's just annoying.

T
he Willow Tree is one of the first storefronts on Main Street, going into Winthrop's adorable center. They probably put it here as a strategic reminder that whatever fun we're about to have in town, we really should be doing homework. With my class list in hand, I enter the white clapboard cottage.

Inside is all light wood, gleaming windows, and nubby upholstery. Bookshelves with regular books line the walls, while student textbooks stand in tight stacks on a few large tables in the center of the room. I haven't even had my coffee yet, but the place is already bustling.

I stumbled here shortly after waking up, partly to escape the slightly musty, sauna-like smell in my room. Opal was already long gone. Of course I get paired with an early riser.

I grab a tote bag and proceed to fill it with all the books I'll need for the term. My physics book is a tome, and I have a flash of anxiety when I note the price. It's a shame to spend so much money on a subject I'm sure to hate. Though, in all honesty, I don't love any of my classes. I do just well enough in all of them but don't excel at any. Ms. Randall has explained to me, “Being a mediocre generalist is not going to capture the imagination of any college admissions officer.” My first official meeting with her is next week. Can't wait.

I exchange nods and smiles with a few people before continuing on to the second floor. Elizabeth, one of my Lincoln friends, stands in front of a display of journals. “You're back!” She comes over to hug me.

“I had to come a day early to deal with the whole moving debacle. You're still in Lincoln?” Her entire family, going back four generations, has gone to Winthrop, and I think her mom lived in Lincoln.

Elizabeth bites her lip and gives me a sympathetic smile. “It's unconscionable, really. I asked my brother, and he said he'd never heard of a senior getting transferred unless they specifically requested it.”

“My new roommate is totally odd, and my house counselor is a bit eccentric, but I'm trying to embrace having a new experience.” Apparently, Ms. Randall has succeeded in implanting her word into my subconscious.

“Ugh. Sounds grim. Which journal do you think I should get?” She holds up a brown leather-bound one and one with a pretty floral fabric cover.

I try not to show my hurt over the abrupt subject change and inspect the choices. “They're both beautiful. But seventy-five dollars seems like a lot to spend on a journal.”

Elizabeth shrugs. “It goes on the account. My parents will assume it's for school.” She tucks the leather one into her shopping tote.

“I'm going to be a few more minutes, but I'll catch up with you at the Calendar meeting.”

“Okay, fun! Whit said she's going to ream us if we don't bring at least five good ideas.”

“I better get on that.”

“She already knows you're a slacker. I wouldn't worry too much.”

Her offhand comment stings even though I know I've earned it. The Calendar has to approve and facilitate every single on-campus social activity for the entire year. It could be a campus-wide formal or a one-woman improvisational dance/poetry reading. It does not matter. Anything that is put forth for consumption by the greater Winthrop student body must be approved by the Calendar.

I love being on the Calendar, but I mean, it's not like any of our events get written up on Page Six or in
Variety.
And since Leo tends to lie low during soccer season, I don't get involved in the actual events as much as I should. But it's the only extracurricular on my college apps, and Whit made me vice president this year, so I have to be more engaged.

Elizabeth leaves me to finish shopping. I pick out a few of the novels assigned for my Gothic Lit class and then go downstairs. To my dismay, she is still paying. “Six hundred seventy-three dollars and eighty-five cents,” the cashier says. “Last name?”

“Ames.” Elizabeth signs her name on an electronic pad and scoops up her bags of books. She notices me at the end of the line. It's not long enough to deter her. “I'll wait for you,” she says.

When it's my turn to pay, rather than sign my name and have my book expenses fly out into the ether, to be taken care of by dear old Mom and Dad, I produce my debit card. Elizabeth cocks her head, puzzled, but doesn't say anything. The vast majority of Winthrop kids have accounts. I asked my parents if they could keep my account open and I'd reimburse them, but my mom mumbled something about cash flow. My total's almost as much as Elizabeth's. More than a week's pay at Hayward. My breathing goes shallow as I punch in my PIN.

We don't say much on the walk back to campus, and I hate that she can tell something's amiss. But Elizabeth's a Boston Brahmin, which means really old family with really old money. It also means she'd never bring up anything impolite or potentially embarrassing. Instead, we make small talk about college visits and classes and Leo. She's never been enamored of the Hollywood thing like a lot of others are, and I respect her for that.

We stop in front of Lincoln and hesitate at the door. “Do you want to hang out for a while?” Her tone is too cheerful and makes me want to melt into the ground. I can't bear the indignity of it all.

“Sure. I've got time to kill before the SoCal social.”

Elizabeth opens the door and holds it for me. We go through another set of double doors, up the stairs, to Whit's room. She didn't answer her phone when I called earlier, and she's not in now. I scribble a note on the whiteboard outside her room, use an overabundance of underlining and exclamation points for emphasis, and text her for good measure before we continue down the hall to Elizabeth's.

It's a perfectly appointed room, the kind that makes you nervous just to be in. Her floral bedspread matches the throw rug, and rather than posters stuck all over the walls, one framed Impressionist print hangs in the center of the largest wall. I sit on her bed, careful not to mess it up, while she arranges her new purchases on the bookshelf.

Olivia Woodward, who grew up in Hong Kong as an expat, stops in. She's Caucasian and went to American schools but is fluent in both Mandarin and Cantonese thanks to her Chinese nanny. We're in the same Mandarin class, but her accent is way better than mine, which amuses her to no end. “Hey, Skylar, you camping out here in protest?” she asks.

“If you're offering up your room…?” I say.

“Girl, you know I'd let you hide out,” Olivia says. “Is there any chance of you coming back?”

“Not unless someone volunteers to move out.”

“Well. That seems unlikely,” Elizabeth says.

“Yup,” I agree. Awkward silence. “So how many people transferred in?”

Elizabeth and Olivia exchange a look.

“What's up?” I ask. “Come on, you guys know something. Was there a mass exodus from Baldwin because of Megan Taverna?” Megan is one of those loud, abrasive girls who are feared more than liked.

Olivia clears her throat. “I think there's only one new senior this year.” Their shared look is nervous this time.

I'm dumbfounded. “One?” They nod. “So it wasn't a whole reshuffling? It was just me getting booted?” Raksmey's words come back to me.

“Some sophomores and juniors moved. I don't know if they requested or not,” Elizabeth says.

“It makes no sense that you'd be reassigned,” Olivia says. “You've lived here the longest. Well, you, Elizabeth, and Whitney.”

“I'm sure they pulled a name at random,” Elizabeth says.

“Yeah. Probably.” I know Ms. Randall says it wasn't the financial aid thing, but I'm starting to doubt her.

Whitney bursts in, flings her bag on the floor, and throws herself on the bed, not caring if she ends up on top of me. “You rang?”

“Where have you been?” I ask.

Then a pretty girl with porcelain skin and green eyes, wearing an expensive-looking navy sheath dress, appears in the door. She's not wearing pearls, but they're implied. I don't fully recognize her, and I'm suddenly aware of how my boho chic ensemble could read as homeless. “Hello,” she says, looking only at me.

Whitney jumps up. “Hey, Li, this is Skylar. Remember? From LA? Her mom produced
Over It
?”

I shoot Whitney a questioning look. Not because she mentioned my mom's movie but because she's using an uncertain, tremulous tone I've never heard before.

“You're kidding me,” the girl says. “That movie changed my life.” She looks at me with slightly more interest than she had a second ago.

“They're working on a sequel!” Olivia chimes in.

I neither confirm nor deny. “Sorry, what was your name?”

Whit nudges me. “This is Lila! My best friend from New York? She's taking a postgraduate year here. Skylar was supposed to come to the Hamptons this summer, but she was too busy interning at her mom's production company and getting ready for the sequel.”

“That's so exciting,” I say. “Welcome!” I've heard a lot about Lila over the years, and most of it isn't good. That all seems to have been forgotten, however. She reaches into Whitney's bag like it's her own and pulls out a tube of lip balm. I can't exactly feel jealous. If Lila's taking a PG year, things were definitely not picture-perfect at her prep school in New York. “Where will you be living?”

Lila finishes smearing the balm on her lips and tosses it back into Whitney's bag. She looks at me, puzzled. “Here. Whit said this is the only dorm to live in.”

The room tilts sideways. “In Lincoln?”

She cocks her head and continues looking at me like she's unsure whether I'm hard of hearing or just stupid. “Of course.”

Whitney does seem to understand that this bitch stole my room, and she won't make eye contact with me. I stand up. “Excuse me. I have a meeting. It was nice to meet you, Lila.” My self-possession makes an appearance just in time for me to return Lila's long, appraising look.

Outside, I hear someone running behind me. “I know what you're thinking, and I can't stand you being mad at me,” Whitney says. I turn to face her. “I thought they'd toss out a junior or something.”

“How long have you known that she was coming here?” I ask.

Whit shrugs. “Since the spring. I was shocked when she got in and even more shocked when she said she was coming. She's literally changed her mind at least two dozen times since she got the letter. Of course I told her she had to live here, but I didn't think she'd actually come.” She makes pleading eyes at me.

“Did your dad get involved?” Mr. Lambert is on the Winthrop board of trustees.

She looks over her shoulder. “Well…yeah. But it wasn't just him. Lila's parents called too, and they know absolutely everyone in the art and finance worlds. I'm sure they had to call in a million favors just to get her in. I had no way of knowing it would affect you.”

“Well, even if it wasn't me, it would've been one of our friends. It hardly seems fair to create all this turmoil for someone who's just here for a year.”

“There was nothing I could do. Her parents totally peer-pressured my parents. They want me to be a good influence on her, so she has to live in my dorm. Otherwise they were going to let her rot in community college for a year.”

I wonder why, exactly, I'm supposed to care about Lila. But it's clear that Whitney does. More than she cares about me.