Page 39

Listen, all things considered, I’m a pretty easygoing person. Do I get mad sometimes? Sure. I live with Audrey. I’m just saying,

it takes a lot for me to reach that feel-it-in-my-chest, can’t-joke-it-off, lava-tidal-wave kind of rage. But, my God, Mark

Rosemann-Long is getting me there.

just like we said we’d be. You know who else said he’d be here? Marky—

Nope. Not even going to dignify him with a nickname.

“I’m calling him again.” I swipe into my contacts. “Actually—here. See if Imogen’s keycard opens this one, too.”

I hand it to her, phone tucked up to my ear.

She dutifully holds it to the key reader; nothing. And Mark “no fucking nickname” Rosemann-Long doesn’t answer his phone.

Downright abominable behavior. A throat-gripping betrayal. Sheer fuckery, to the highest degree. And no one’s entering or

leaving, so we can’t even slip inside while the door’s open. Seven twenty-five p.m. on a Saturday, and apparently not a single

person’s going to dinner. I guess they’re all just blowing off the alumni banquet, whatever the fuck that is. It’s like the

dorm itself is taunting us. Even the scissors are casting mocking shadows as the sun sets.

I exhale. “So he’s just bailing? What a—”

The door swings open, revealing Mark. Except it’s not my usual Marco von Markeline—this one’s more like Prom Mark. Hot Mark.

I mean, it’s not another tux or anything; just dark jeans and a navy plaid button-down. But it fits him, and it lays well,

which gives him this casual sort of elegance.

“Hey. Holy shit,” I say. “Look at you.”

He stifles a self-conscious smile. “Didn’t know the dress code.”

“Well,” I say slowly. “It’s an eighteen-year-old YouTuber at the student center, so.”

“You look like Dad,” Natalie says.

I smile slyly. “I mean, your dad is kind of a—”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare say it.” She stares me down.

I widen my eyes and stare back. “What? Just saying your dad’s a good dad!”

From here, it’s a fairly straightforward walk to the student center, even on the wrong side of sunset. “So, Walter goes on

at eight?” Natalie asks, holding the door with her foot.

“Yup. But I want to make sure we’re early enough to save seats. Zora says they just left Penn Yan, so they probably won’t

get here until right when it’s starting.” I peer around the lobby, taking in the clusters of couches and cushiony chairs,

arranged around tables. There’s a row of vending machines and a bank of elevators, arranged around a wide central staircase.

“Okay! Fourth floor.”

I feel a little strange, almost lightheaded. Here I am, staring at the rows of numbered buttons. Normal elevator, normal building,

normal ding when we reach the fourth floor. The elevator stops moving, but I guess my stomach missed the memo. Highly possible that I’m pregnant with at least one or two beehives and a fully operational roller coaster.

I can’t seem to talk my brain into believing this is real.

What am I even supposed to say to him? Hi, I’m Amelia, the girl who definitely, probably didn’t tag you in a singing promposal video this week!

Walter freaking Holland. Honest to God, he could pop up at any moment. He could literally be standing there as soon as the

elevator doors open.

The elevator doors open, revealing a modest landing area. Empty.

I exhale.

“How are we doing?” asks Nat; I shoot her a wordless thumbs-up.

There are a few doors off the landing, but only one is wide open; Walter’s flyer is taped right in the center.

“This is it.” I stop at the threshold, peering inside. The room’s not tiny, but it’s cozy. Linoleum floors and painted cinder

block, and there’s a mural of the New York City skyline on one of the side walls. In the front of the room: a navy-blue sofa,

flanked by small wooden end tables. Someone arranged blue plastic audience chairs into welcoming, slightly curved rows.

Also, we’re the first ones here.

I only pause for a second before sitting down right in the front.

“Okay, listen.” I glance around quickly, lowering my voice to a murmur. “You can give me shit later. All night. All day tomorrow.

The whole ride back home. Whatever you want to do. But. Not in front of Walter, okay?”

“Oh! Okay.” Natalie, queen of all shit-stirrers, turns to me with wide shit-stirring eyes. “So, like—you don’t want us to talk about the Walden shippers?”

“Absolutely not. Guillotine.” I smack the side of my palm into my fist.

“What about the Hayters?”

“Natalie! No! That’s not even—like, that literally isn’t even relevant. I was never —”

“But we can say you have a crush on him, right?” Mark chimes in, leaning forward to have a deeply unsubtle glance exchange with Natalie. Right in front of my face.

“No, you may not ,” I explain, “because that? Would be misinformation.”

“Oh, okay.”

“In fact”—I raise a finger—“it would be DISINFORMATION!”

The elevator bings, and I freeze. The doors slide open.

A moment later, a trio of girls in Blackwell hoodies file through the doorway. “This is the Drama Clash event, right?” one

of them asks.

“Yeah. It’s—I mean, it’s Walter from Drama Clash,” I say, gesturing at the empty couch for absolutely no reason.

“Cool.” She looks around. “So, we’re early, huh?”

But, before long, more people start trickling in—mostly students, as far as I can tell. But there are a couple of outliers—a

pair of bearded middle-aged men holding hands, and a group of kids with dyed hair and lots of rainbow-striped enamel pins,

who look like they’re probably in middle school. There’s even a little kid in a Drama Clash T-shirt who looks like she’s Audrey’s

age.

No Zora and Edith, though—and Imogen, Tessa, and the others haven’t shown up either.

“Still seven minutes,” Nat says, when she catches me eyeing the doorway.

“I’m not worried! I’m—”

A chatty group shuffles in, commandeered by a girl who’s literally just Tessa with an extra five inches of hair. She surveys

the chairs for a second, before sliding into one of the empty back rows. A woman with reddish-brown hair scoots in beside

her, followed by a balding guy with a tweed suit and glasses. Then: a bunch of dudes, one of whom is definitely the graduating

brother. By the time Imogen and the real Tessa come through, I feel like I’ve lived through an entire Thanksgiving parade.

They wave and start to veer toward us—but quickly slink back to their seats when a second door opens beside them. It’s so

well hidden by the mural, I didn’t even know it existed.

A student organizer in a Grad Committee T-shirt steps out, sets two water bottles and a pair of handheld microphones on the

tables, and disappears. But a moment later, she reemerges to run a quick sound check.

Thumbs-up from Tessa’s dad in the back.

The organizer nods and lifts the mic—but before she even gets the word hello out, Edith and Zora rush in.

I lean past Mark to smile and wave at them, but I’m pretty sure time’s folding in on itself. Because the next thing I know,

the organizer’s vanished, and everyone’s clapping, and Mika Hiyashi’s throwing down a wink to someone in the audience.

And then there’s Walter, barely even five feet in front of me—one leg tucked up onto the sofa like the ridiculous, life-changing

bisexual he is.