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  “Oh,” he says. “He hasn’t mentioned it. I can check with him if you want.”

  I swallow. “Sure. That would be great.” I don’t have Crosbie’s number, and I’ve never given him mine. I don’t know his class schedule, either, so short of skulking around outside the frat house, I have no way to run into him. I know I’m being contrary. It was my plan to forget him, but now that he’s the one who seems to have forgotten me, I can’t seem to think about much else besides getting him to notice me again.

  “Want to watch this with me?” Kellan asks, nodding at the TV. “It just started. I can rewind it if you want.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Thanks, but I have to—”

  “Study,” he finishes for me, giving me a big thumbs up. “Got it.”

  I take my plate to the kitchen. I’m glad I ate most of the spaghetti before our conversation, because my appetite seems to have fled. I rinse the plate and stick it in the dishwasher, then head into my room to grab my jacket and bag.

  “See you later,” I call, heading outside.

  “Have fun at the library.”

  I don’t respond, shivering as the foggy night air greets me. It’s dark and quiet, the air so dense it’s impossible to see more than ten feet in front. I climb on my bike and pedal in the direction of the library, though for once that’s not my destination. Despite my determination to be smarter this year, it has taken me way too long to figure out how to learn what Crosbie Lucas has been up to: I will quite literally read the writing on the wall.

  It’s an antiquated and distasteful tradition and the school puts up a token protest and paints them every couple of years, but the fourth floor bathrooms in the Student Union building are notorious for listing frat house hookups. The more popular the guy, the longer the list. The lists appear in both the men and women’s bathrooms, and for some it’s about the bragging rights, while for others it’s just plain embarrassing. Last year I’d come up here daily in the week after my hookup with Kellan to see if my name appeared on his very lengthy list, but it never had. At the time I’d been a confusing mix of relieved and disappointed; now I’m just relieved.

  At six o’clock on a Wednesday, the building is relatively quiet. I pass a few people as I approach the elevator, but ride up to the fourth floor alone. There’s a girl coming out of the bathroom as I enter, and then it’s just me. I take a breath and study the long row of stalls. If I recall correctly, the third one is dedicated to the Alpha Sigma Phi guys. I’d seen Crosbie’s name on there last year when I checked Kellan’s list, but I hadn’t paid it any attention. Now it’s the only one I’m interested in.

  The stalls are the standard cramped metal affairs with chipped gray paint. The lists are written mostly in black marker, with the guy’s name at the top and his conquests scrawled beneath. A lot of them are dated, too, like a time stamp. It’s a mix of handwriting, some neat, some sloppy, updated by random people with random intel. Out of curiosity, I check out Kellan’s list. There’s a whopping sixty-two names listed on it, dating back to last September when he first started at Burnham. I can’t help it: my jaw drops. I know he’s…prolific, but that’s more than I expected. I had sex with five guys last year and I thought that was a lot.

  I frown as I scan his list. It’s numbered, and there are a couple of gaps on it: numbers four, nine, twenty-two, forty-one, forty-two, and fifty are blank. I don’t know where I fall in, but I take sick satisfaction in learning I’m not the only girl he forgot.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears and study the rest of the stall. There are about twelve guys’ purported hookups documented in here, and the lists range in length from six to sixty-two, which I guess makes Kellan the “winner.”

  I spot Crosbie on the opposite side of the stall. His list has twenty-five names on it, and I feel each one like a jealous little kick to the heart. I know it’s stupid, but I read the names in case I recognize them, so I can see what kind of girls Crosbie Lucas likes. What kind he suddenly starts avoiding. But I don’t recognize any of the “Crosbabes,” and when I get to the bottom of the list, I frown. The final entry is dated June second of this year. He wasn’t on campus all summer, but if he’s the Crosbie Lucas I thought I knew—the one with twenty-five Crosbabes notched into his bedpost—surely he’s messed around with someone since the new school year started. What about the girl in the library? Just to be sure, I check the other lists, and most have entries for September and October. Kellan alone has ten since Labor Day.

  My eyes drift back to Crosbie’s list. I have no more information than I came in here with—or do I? I’m scared to hope what I’m hoping, that he hasn’t had sex with any girls since we met, but that’s ridiculous. I know his reputation. I’ve seen him in action. I see his history scrawled right here on the bathroom wall. He’s not a monk, and he certainly doesn’t suffer from a lack of female attention.

  I leave and grab my bicycle, but I don’t go to the library. Instead I just pedal around, my feelings as murky as the thick fog. I can’t afford to care about Crosbie Lucas, but I can’t seem to stop, either.

  * * *

  On Friday I have a two o’clock progress meeting with Dean Ripley. He and my father had been roommates thirty years ago, so he has an unfortunately vested interest in my progress.

  I have two classes on Fridays and normally hang out at the library in between instead of biking home. Today, however, I want to change out of my standard uniform of jeans and a T-shirt so I look upstanding and presentable when I meet with Dean Ripley. The last time we met was after my arrest, and I’m pretty sure I was wearing that white dress with the leather straps and a pair of Marcela’s platform boots. This time when he calls my father with an update, I want “leather” to have no role in the conversation.

  I groan and fish around in my closet until I find the blue dress with the Peter Pan collar. I pull it over my head, pair it with some flats, and twist my hair into a high bun. Stray strands flutter out, but I think I look kind of wholesome and sweet—not easy to do when big boobs and a tiny waist make everything I put on look anything but wholesome.

  I pace back and forth as I imagine the upcoming discussion, and I’m halfway through my mumbled declaration about learning from my mistakes and channeling them into a newer, better version of myself when I hear the front door open and the raucous laughter of approximately half the track team. I freeze. I have to leave in ten minutes and I’d really rather not explain why I’m home in the middle of the day, or where I’m going. Or why I’m dressed like this.

  Shit shit shit.

  Maybe they’ll leave. Maybe Kellan just dropped by to pick up a game or something.

  But ten minutes later, they’re still here. I can hear the telltale explosions of Fire of Vengeance and non-stop shouts and curses. When I can’t wait anymore, I take a breath, plaster on what I hope is a pleasant and not at all irritated expression, and step out of my room.

  Absolutely everyone falls silent. Even the game takes the hint and things stop exploding.

  “Nora,” Kellan says, standing abruptly. He looks guilty. “I—You’re—”

  “Going out,” I say. “Stay. Play your games. Have fun.” That’s when I notice Crosbie straddling one of the dining chairs. Everyone else is clustered in the living room, sitting on either the couch or the floor, but he’s slightly apart. I’ll have to walk within six inches of him to get to the stairs.

  Kellan glances at his friends as though he’s worried what they might think if he cares too much about what I think, but I don’t care about any of them. It’s been two and a half weeks since I last saw Crosbie and he looks good. He’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt that strains against his biceps. His hair needs a trim and sticks up like he’d just run his fingers through it, but it’s the look on his face that gets me. Just for a second, I’d swear I see something that looks a lot like…longing in his eyes. Then it’s quickly replaced by his usual cocky grin and a full-body once over.

  I hear whispers of, “Dude
, who is that?” and “That’s your roommate?” and then, even though I know I should just call out, “Sorry, gotta run!” I stop when Kellan says my name.

  My face stretches with a polite smile and I turn to greet the room. There are ten guys piled onto the couch and the floor around it, and maybe half look familiar. “Hi,” I say.

  “Nora.” Kellan comes to stand at my side and gestures to the group, rattling off names as he points, finishing with, “And you know Crosbie. Everyone, this is my roommate, Nora.”

  “Hey, Nora,” they chorus.

  Kellan points a stern finger in their direction. “Nora’s a very good student and a very good influence,” he says. “No one try to corrupt her.” To me he adds, “If any of them tries to corrupt you, tell me right away.”

  I’m not entirely sure he’s kidding.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, even though I instantly forgot everyone’s names.

  “Are you coming to the Halloween party?” one guys asks.

  “Ah…what?” I want to take the words back as soon as I say them. Who doesn’t understand the words “Halloween” or “party?”

  “Alpha Sigma Phi,” another guy clarifies. “We host a Halloween party every year. It’s invite only, but for Kellan’s roommate, we’ll make an exception.”

  Marcela got an invite last year and I actually went to this party dressed as a slutty mermaid, and it was pretty amazing. They turn the place into a haunted house—complete with spiked punch with fake eyeballs and rubber spiders frozen in ice cubes—and only “real” costumes are allowed to enter, no writing “book” on your forehead and trying to convince people you’re Facebook.

  “Oh, thanks,” I say, trying to hide my interest the way a junkie, three days clean, might pretend she’s not craving meth. “But I have to work that night.” That’s not true at all; Beans closes early on Halloween to prevent drunk college kids from coming in and wreaking havoc, which has happened in the past. Costumes make people daring; I should know. After my sorta-boyfriend and I broke up last year, the Halloween party was where I had my first one night stand with a guy dressed as a plastic army man. I had green paint in too many crevices to count for a full week afterward. Lesson learned.

  Sort of.

  “Call in sick,” Crosbie suggests, and for a moment, it feels like the whole room falls silent, the simple suggestion hanging in the air like a challenge.

  One of the guys pipes up before I can respond. “He’ll make it worth your while,” he adds, jerking a thumb in Crosbie’s direction. “Last year he went as an underwear model.”

  Because he’s an obnoxious attention whore, I’d noticed Crosbie last year but immediately dismissed him. Now that it’s pointed out, however, I recall him wearing a pair of Calvin Klein underwear and strutting around, drunkenly shouting, “Where are you now, Mark Wahlberg? Huh?”

  I smile as I recall it. “What about this year?” I ask him.

  “I’m going as Clark Kent,” Kellan interrupts. “Crosbie’s going to be Superman.” He grins at me, his eyes lighting up. “You should be Lois Lane!”

  The room explodes in approving cheers and applause, and I laugh dryly. A woman torn between two men? Not part of the “better Nora” agenda. “We’ll see,” I say, though we most definitely will not be seeing this.

  “She’s in!” someone cries.

  I wave and head down the stairs. “I have to go.”

  Kellan leans over the rail to watch me put on my coat. “You look hot,” he says, nodding at my dress. “Big date?”

  “Something like that,” I tell him. At the last second I spot Crosbie behind Kellan, listening.

  “Have fun,” Crosbie says, holding my stare just a little too long.

  chapter nine

  Nothing about enduring a forty-five minute sex talk—with Dean Ripley’s ninety-year-old secretary called in to “witness” the lecture—is fun. I stop reliving that horror, however, the moment I hurry into Beans for my evening shift and feel like I’ve walked right into a freezer.

  I toss my coat into the storage closet and pull on an apron over my prim blue dress, but the second I step foot behind the counter I can almost see my breath fog in the air. “What the…?” I look around, perplexed. It doesn’t take long to find the source: the shop’s large front window is missing, several sheets of wood resting against the wall. Despite the damage and the cold, the business is still open, patrons sitting at tables with jackets on, steaming cups in hand. When people want coffee, they want coffee.

  “What’s going on?” I exclaim when Nate hustles through the front door, coat zipped to his chin, wool hat tugged low over his ears.

  “Freak accident. They had a couple of guys working on the power lines out front when one of their ladders fell over and smashed through the window.”

  “Was anybody hurt?”

  “Nope. It was just Marcela and I at the time, and we were both in the back.”

  “That’s lucky.”

  “Yeah.” But his face is grim and his jaw is set, and Nate’s just not a guy who really looks angry a lot. It’s worrisome.

  “Isn’t it?” I try. “I mean, despite the damage.”

  He sighs. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

  “Where’s Marcela?”

  “I sent her to the hardware store to pick up a couple of space heaters.”

  I glance around. The ladder’s gone and the glass has already been swept up. “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Almost two hours.”

  “And she’s still gone?”

  A curt nod.

  “Did you look for her?”

  “I don’t need to look for her.”

  I frown. “Are you sure? The hardware store is three blocks down. I know Marcela likes to shop, but two hours is a lot, even for her.”

  Nate sighs and runs a hand over his head, knocking the hat askew. “We had a…disagreement.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m dating someone.”

  I do a double-take. He could have admitted to smashing out the window in a drug-fueled rage and I wouldn’t have been so surprised. “Come again?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You—I—But—Who?”

  “Thanks, Nora. That’s really great.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, I’m just surprised. I thought you…”

  The look he gives me warns me not to say “loved Marcela,” so I bite my tongue. “I don’t,” he says tersely. “Not anymore. I’m dating Celestia, and it’s going well. And how Marcela feels about it doesn’t factor in.”

  “Celestia?”

  “Yeah. You know her, actually. She comes in from time to time. Blond hair, really pretty…fur coat.” He mumbles the last words into the crook of his arm, pretending to fix his hat.

  I gape. “Did you just say fur coat?”

  He clears his throat. “Maybe?”

  “As in mink?”

  “I don’t know what animal it is.”

  “You’re dating Mink Coat.”

  “I’m not sure it’s mink.”

  “No wonder Marcela’s annoyed! Her drink orders are dreadful.”

  “They’re…specific.”

  “She wears mink year-round!”

  “What’s wrong with—Okay, fine. The fur’s a little odd, but on days like today, you have to admit, it’s perfect.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, Nate. You got me.”

  He smiles a little. “Sometimes you have to accept what’s right in front of you.” He gestures to the window. “And what’s not.”

  “I really don’t think that analogy works.”

  At least, it doesn’t, until Marcela strides up, a boxed space heater tucked under each arm. She shoulders her way through the front door and dumps the heaters on the counter. “Voila,” she says without stopping. We watch her disappear into the kitchen in a rush of particularly frosty air.

  We’re quiet for a moment. “Wow,” I say finally.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d she say
when you told her?”

  He blows out a breath. “I didn’t exactly ‘tell’ her. We bumped into her last night when we were walking home from dinner and she looked startled, but not angry. Then when she came in this morning I tried to tell her I’d been seeing Celestia for the past month—”

  “Month?”

  “And she just froze me out.” A pause. “That was before the window broke.”

  “Life imitating art.”

  “Or just shitty luck mirroring shitty luck.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, if you like Mink Coat, I’m happy for you.”

  “I like Celestia, I do not like mink coats.”

  “It’s too cold for mink, anyway. Fox, maybe.”

  He glares at me and tries not to laugh. “Go do some work. I have to call these glass guys and ask what’s taking so long.”

  I head into the back and find Marcela smearing frosting on a tray of cooled cinnamon buns. “Smells good.”

  “They’re warm, that’s all that matters.”

  “Fair enough.” Because of the ovens and the sanitizer, the kitchen is always hotter than the front. Normally we complain about it, but today it’s a blessing. When Marcela doesn’t say anything else I add, “Nate told me about Celestia.”

  She snorts. “Me too.”

  “And you’re…angry?”

  “That she’s dating him to get half-price drinks? Of course I’m bothered.”

  I watch her massacre a cinnamon bun in the name of caring. “You look more than a little bothered.”

  She sighs and tosses down the spatula. “I was just surprised.”

  “So was I.” I watch her closely. “Are you jealous?”

  “What? No! Look, you should be bothered, too. She’s going to come in here even more now, with her fur coats and her ridiculous drink orders. We’re all affected.”

  “It’s not—”

  She holds up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s not important. Tell me something good.”