Page 6

T HE NIGHT IS STILL YOUNG by the time the van drops us off at Camden, and I know exactly how I’m spending it. I bypass my room and head up the stairs instead to knock on Salem’s door. When there’s no response, I prepare to bang even harder, but then the door opens and Salem fills the frame, shaggy hair sticking out in all directions. “Skeevy? What has you darkening my door?”

“God, you stink.” The smell of weed emanates from his every pore. “How do you not get in trouble when you’re being that obvious?”

“For one thing, I don’t usually have girls standing in my doorway, loudly declaring that I’ve been smoking.”

“Well normally, this is when a gentleman would invite a lady inside.”

He snorts. “I’m not a gentleman, and you are definitely not a lady.”

“You’re not a gentleman yet, ” I correct him. “But we are going to fix that. And we are going to take our first big step tonight.”

“Which means?”

“Which means you’re going to crawl out of your room and join me at one of the many fine options available to us.” I walk across the hallway and scan the list hanging on the second floor’s communal bulletin board. “How about movie night?” I ask as I shoulder past him into his room, slipping off my shoes and making myself comfortable on his soft flannel sheets.

“Movie night sounds like—”

“A great idea? I know, I think so too. But you should shower first; you smell like bong water. And let’s introduce you to a comb. Also, this music is abysmal. Can we work on that too?”

He exhales sharply, rustling his damp shaggy bangs and proving my point. “This is Phish!”

“I don’t know what that means.” I curl my legs under my butt and take in my surroundings. Matt’s side of the room is pristine, like he makes sure to keep it in perfect condition in case a female visitor should come by. “Where’s he?”

He glances at his wrist, as if there were a watch there. “Hmm, it’s Friday, so… I believe that means Kylie.”

“At least he’s efficient?”

“That he is.” Salem crosses his arms behind his head and leans against the wall. “Now, can we get back to your wanting to give me a makeover? Or actually, maybe we should never, ever get back to that.”

“It’s not a makeover. This is going to be your first time doing an actual social thing. I’m just helping you present yourself decently to the world. This is why you have me. I’m gonna clean you up, hook you up with the hot girls, and impress your parents so hard they’ll lose their minds.”

Do I know how I’m going to do any of that? I do not. But up until my friends betrayed me and I had a little breakdown, I was excellent at parent-pleasing. Craig’s parents certainly loved me. I wonder how they feel about seeing my sister slip into my shoes.

Or maybe they never had to see it, because she probably dropped him as soon as I left and the game stopped being fun.

“And how exactly does this fit into your reign of terror?” he asks as I hop up and start digging through his closet, pushing aside flannel after grungy hoodie after flannel.

“We’ll get to that,” I promise, “but right now, we’re focusing on you. And you can’t pretend you have no vested interest in learning how to become a chick magnet.”

“Did you just—”

“I’ll use whatever terminology I want to use,” I say, cutting him off. “And if you think I haven’t noticed you checking out a certain long-legged redhead, you are dead wrong.”

There’s no smart-ass response, which I take to mean I’ve hit the right nerve. And, almost simultaneously, I hit the right shirt. “Here,” I say, sliding the black button-up off the hanger and tossing it in his direction. “It appears to be your only shirt that doesn’t have a band logo on it.”

“You know I packed that shirt strictly for Parents’ Weekend, right?” He throws it back at me. “I’m not wearing that to watch a shitty rom-com in a room reeking of fake butter.”

We compromise on a zip-up hoodie that looks slightly nicer than the others and a pair of well-worn jeans. Then he kicks me out so he can get dressed, and I tell him to pick me up from my room.

“You do not need me to pick you up,” he says, already sounding tired. “This isn’t an actual date.”

“No, but you need to learn how to take a girl on one, so get practicing. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes. Showered. ” I let myself out, and only then does the panic set in, because I may have helped dress Salem, but who’s going to help dress me? Yes, most of the point of tonight is to get Salem noticed, looking like an actual human, but a tiny part is about people seeing me out and about with an actual boy, rather than fifty ~lovers~ they’ve made up in their minds.

Salem is only a couple of minutes late, but he looks fresh and clean, and the jeans are, admittedly, excellent-ass jeans, literally. His hair isn’t neat, but it looks more rock-star disheveled than stoner mess. All in all, I’d give the cleanup a seven out of ten on the “Am I taking this seriously or just humoring the annoying girl downstairs” scale.

“Are you ready?” he asks on a sigh that sounds way too exasperated for the fact that our night is only just beginning.

No, I am not ready. I’d put on my black jeans and a silky green top and I realize now I look way too overdressed for a freaking on-campus movie night. But I was already running late and I had to apply eyeliner three times before I got it right, and how am I still a disaster? “One sec—I just need to change my shirt.”

His gaze flickers over me. “You look fine, Skeevy.”

“Just gimme one minute. You can wait inside. I’ll change in the bathroom.” I grab a T-shirt that’s admittedly plain but has a very flattering (read: low) neckline and hang it on the grab bar by the toilet while I remove the fancier top.

“Where’s all your stuff?” Salem calls. “You seem like someone who’d have pictures all over the place.”

I make a mental note to hang up some random garbage so people will stop asking me that. The thing is, he’s not wrong; I was that person, once. My room at home was full of silly portraits done by Claire and my mom’s favorite inspirational sayings in shades of purple and silver. My bookcases were packed with candy-colored romance novels, and there were cute little cactus candles dotting the shelves and strings of fairy lights brightening my walls with a soft glow.

But it was in that soft glow that I used to make out with the boyfriend my sister stole. And all the best-friend magic of those paintings faded the moment I came crying to Claire and she admitted she’d known for a while. My parents bought me those candles and sayings, and I didn’t need to bring any reminders of the people who responded to every shitty thing Sierra did with some variation of “She’s just acting out; move on.” As if breaking into all my social media accounts and posting a picture of me in my underwear in response to my making the debate team as a freshman when she didn’t is equivalent to a toddler drawing on the wall in crayon.

So no, I don’t put pictures all over the place anymore, or anything else I used to do back when I was “Sierra Riley’s little sister.” Having bare walls is a small price to pay for finally being allowed to put up any walls at all.

“I’m a minimalist,” I lie as I slide on the T-shirt and fluff out my hair before emerging from the bathroom. “Better?”

“Also fine.”

“You’re supposed to be helping,” I remind him.

“How is this any less than you did by telling me to change and smell less bad?”

I take a dramatic sniff of him and note that the stench of weed has been replaced by something pleasantly woodsy instead, a little stronger than the pine-scented soap the other day. Like he might actually have ventured into the world of cologne. “That’s two tips! And you took both!”

“Okay, well, you already smell fine, so I have no other advice.”

“Nothing? I look boring, Salem! A T-shirt and jeans screams ‘nice girl.’”

“So add a leather jacket,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Do I look like I own a leather jacket?” I ask, and as I’m saying it, I realize. “ You look like you own a leather jacket. Lend it to me?”

“What if I don’t have one?”

“You do.”

Another deep sigh, and then he slogs up to his room and brings it down. It’s too long, and the sleeves are definitely too long, but with the addition of a couple of long necklaces, I actually kind of love this look. “What do you think now?”

“I think we should go before the movie ends and you made me get dressed for nothing.”

“I’ll take it.” I swipe on some lip gloss and off we go to make our debuts as the Sociable Athlete and the Tough Hot Girl.

Salem completely ignores me on the walk to the Student Center, opting instead to listen to music so loudly I can make out lyrics through his headphones. But when we arrive, he seems to remember that he’s supposed to be picking up some chivalrous skills, and he holds the door open for me.

Of course, he sweeps into a low bow and says “Milady” in a dry British accent as he does it, but it’s a start.

“Why thank you.” We follow signs to the auditorium, where they’re showing the movie, and I could swear I feel a couple of eyes on us as we pass. It’s exactly what I need to turn to Salem and say, “Remember when you asked how this fits in for me?”

“I do.”

“Great! Hold my hand.”

“I’m sorry, hold your what now?”

I hold out my hand. “Take it. Obviously we’re not going to let people think we’re really dating, but it’s good for us both if people see us as the kind of people who can get dates. We just want people talking.”

“I literally do not ever want people talking. I’m perfectly happy with the entire world shutting the fuck up, always.”

I should’ve known he’d be impossible about this. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

Salem sighs. “I am going to remind you that all of this stupid planning was your idea, okay? Remember that before I do this.”

Curiosity officially piqued, I promise.

Before I can even process what’s happening, a surprisingly muscular arm wraps around my shoulders, that deliciously woodsy scent fills my nostrils, and I realize Salem is steering me toward a romantic seat in the back with a casually possessive arm that draws a surprising number of gazes. Even Isabel and her friends, lounging in the corner of the room, drink us in with curious eyes.

It’s perplexing and, I have to admit, weirdly thrilling.

I don’t even care when I realize Lucas and Heather are right in front of us, and it’s highly unlikely they missed our entrance.

“So you won’t hold my hand,” I whisper with a smirk, “but—”

“Shut it. Holding hands wasn’t the right move. That was. Trust me.”

Weirdly enough, I do.

A chill settles over my shoulders as Salem takes his arm back, or maybe I’m just missing its warmth. Either way, the instinct to curl into him is strong, and for the first time since that awful night with Lucas, I wonder if maybe I should try to find another guy.…

No. I make bad choices with boys. Craig was a bad choice, and Lucas was a bad choice, and if I’m going to make good choices in the future, I need to hold a lot more power than I currently do. Eyes on the prize, Evie, I tell myself, as if I’ll know the prize when I see it.

I can only hope that I do.

I glance at Salem, but his eyes are firmly on the screen, and I catch the light flickering on his sharp jawline instead. If it weren’t for the slight tic indicating he was clenching it, I’d almost think he was actually enjoying the movie we just entered ten minutes late.

Tomorrow, I’ll make this up to him, I vow. I may not be able to deliver Isabel yet, but a weed-free study session to help his slacker ass? That I can definitely do.

Salem can’t wait to bolt when the movie’s done, and I have no reason to linger, so we leave the second the closing credits roll, and promptly bump into Matt. He’s got an arm around a girl I don’t know while deep in conversation with a couple of guys I recognize from basketball tryouts, and he lights up when he sees us. “Roomie! Dormie!” he says cheerfully, holding up his free hand for Salem to reluctantly slap and me to much more enthusiastically follow up. He gives me a once-over, complete with a slow whistle. “Looking good, Riley.”

I’m not yet at the point where I’m cool enough not to blush at that, but I try to cover it up with a joking hair flip anyway.

“Me and these guys were just gonna go shoot around in the gym for a while. You in?” Matt asks Salem.

We both know Salem’s gonna turn down the offer before he even opens his mouth, but I refuse to let him. If this is what the basketball players do, then he’s gonna follow their lead, and he’s gonna like it. “Go ahead,” I tell him, as if I’m what’d be standing in his way, and not his general misanthropy and loathing of all things recreational that can’t be smoked or blasted from speakers. “I’m gonna go see what your sister’s up to.”

Those stormy gray eyes narrow, but I just squeeze his arm and whisper, “Good boys are joiners who practice their sports.” Then I say my goodbyes and am pleasantly surprised to see that Salem doesn’t put up any further fight about being dragged off to the gym.

The campus is unusually quiet as I walk through the quad alone, with most of the students either still lingering around the Student Center after the movie, or at game night in the library, or, like Matt and Salem, throwing balls at things in the gym. There are a few kids scattered on the grass, though, tossing Frisbees and picnicking on blankets, and there’s something about the serenity of it all that overwhelms me. I close my eyes, inhale the scent of grass and pine, and let the evening breeze ruffle my curls.

In this moment, I am so, so glad I came to Camden.

And then I remember that while I may be heading to Lockwood, what awaits me at the end of the night is a solo room in a building full of boys who, with a few exceptions beyond Matt and Salem, either glare at me, leer at me, or pretend I don’t exist.

As I enter the girls’ dorm, I’m not sure whether I hope Heather is already back or still out of sight—both seem like bad options—but I do hope that Sabrina, at least, is in their room. Sure enough, I hear the faint drifting of music down the hall as soon as I enter, and only one person on the first floor of Lockwood listens to emo covers of sea shanties.

“Sabrina Grayson!” I rap on her door, loudly enough to be heard over wailing about whaling. “Hang out with me!”

The door flies open, revealing my favorite goth in black sweatpants and a matching long-sleeved tee, an undeniable smirk on her face as she registers my presence. “I thought you were at the movie. On a date. With my brother. Which I cannot even begin to fathom.”

“God, how fast does gossip travel around here? You haven’t even left your room.” I let myself in and am relieved that Heather hasn’t somehow beaten me here. “And obviously we were not actually on a date.”

“Okay, well if you’re here to pick my brain for how to turn hanging out with my brother into something more, I have zero advice for you except to fully equip me with barf bags any time you two plan to be in my presence.” Then her expression twists into something more serious. “For real, though. I really, really hate to be lied to.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You’re literally wearing his jacket, Evie.”

Oh, right . It was so surprisingly comfortable, I’d forgotten I even had it on. “I asked to borrow it,” I admit. “I needed something to make my outfit more interesting.”

She looks like she wants to say something else, but thankfully, she thinks better of it and slides back down onto the fluffy pink rug instead. “Well, how was the movie?”

“Stupid. Mostly.” I close the door behind me and join her on the floor, where a pile of tarot cards sits next to a can of Dr Pepper and a laptop. “Do you read these?”

“I’m learning.” She gestures at the computer screen, and I see it’s open to a page on card readings. “Want me to read for you?”

Do I? I’m not in the best state of mind to hear I have a bleak future ahead, but given I’m here to turn my life around, I am impatient to know what the cards hold for me. “Please! But if it’s bad, can you lie to me a little? I have not had the best luck with, uh, this entire year.”

The best thing about both Grayson twins is knowing you can say something like that and neither one will express even the tiniest bit of interest in digging any further. Sabrina just nods and shuffles the cards.

I don’t know why I hold my breath when she draws the first one; it’s not like I know the first thing about tarot, or what any of the cards suggest. But when she places it down in front of me, I wanna gag.

The Lovers. Fantastic.

Sabrina, meanwhile, is delighted. “The Lovers! This card represents relationships, connections. This bodes well for you partnering up, if you’re so inclined.”

Orrrr it knows I already partnered up and it was a terrible idea. The pair on the tarot card looks like Adam and Eve—the ultimate couple of mass destruction. That sounds about right. “Next.”

She rolls her eyes, but puts down the second card. “Ooh, the Nine of Wands. This means you’ll have to work hard to get with this lover—”

“Stop saying ‘lover.’”

“To get with this lover,” she repeats, louder, “will require much self-improvement, sacrifice.”

Oh, I sacrificed. And I’m working on self-improvement. But I would not like to return to any of my past “lovers” anytime soon, thank you. “Is there a ‘win the lottery’ card in there somewhere? I’d like to hear something good.”

“This isn’t about bad or good,” says Sabrina, tapping the deck. “We’re just gaining some insight into your life, maybe helping guide your choices for the future. And you’re not even old enough to play the lottery, smart-ass.”

She flips over the third card and breaks into a huge smile. “The Knight of Cups. This card symbolizes creativity, romance, maybe a slow burn… man, this deck really wants you to get laid, ideally by an artist.”

“This deck needs to mind its own business and gets its own social life.” I fold my arms behind my head and lie back on the floor, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Boy drama is such bullshit.”

“Yep.”

There’s a note in her voice that suggests I’ve struck a nerve, and I rise up on an elbow. “Got some experience in that department, do you?”

“Literally none, in fact.”

“Come on, do you really never have any? Like truly any ?”

“Never,” she says flatly, and I get the feeling even my question is somehow disappointing her. I’m so wrapped up in my own ridiculousness that it takes me a minute of awkward silence to figure it out.

“You don’t like boys, do you.”

“Nope,” she replies, just loud enough to be heard over the shuffling of the cards.

“You’ve had some girl drama, haven’t you.”

“Yep.” The p pops like a verbal gunshot. She turns to put away the cards, and I take the moment to try to decipher whether to keep asking questions or just change the subject.

The ping of an incoming text spares us both, and she scoops up her phone and snorts.

“Your brother?” I just know he’s checking in to make sure I’m behaving myself.

“He’s such a moron.”

“And a loser,” I chime in, even though right at this moment, I feel slightly, mildly, a tiny bit friendly toward him. But Sabrina doesn’t need to know that.

“Hey—only I get to call my brother a loser,” Sabrina says as she taps back a text, but the corner of her mouth is curved up enough for me to know she’s only half-serious.

“Well tell the loser I said hi, then.”

She does, and thirty seconds later, she says, “He says this is a very sad idea of a cool night, and that you’ve downgraded Graysons. Hey! I think I’m offended.”

“Tell him I said to bite me.”

“With pleasure.”

She sends off a text, and the reply comes quickly and makes her snort. “I will spare you his reply. But also, I have got to get out of this room; I can’t look at these walls anymore. You wanna go up to the lounge? There’s gotta be something to do there.”

I shrug and together we head up to the third floor, which houses the dorm mom Mrs. Fletcher’s apartment, a computer room with exactly one desktop and printer, and a cozy lounge area full of couches arranged around a large coffee table and facing a TV. One wall holds a kitchenette, which is really just a long counter, a fridge crammed full of labeled food, a sink, and a microwave. There’s also a bookcase with a few scattered titles people have dumped here after reading, a couple of old board games, and a little gold-tone statue of a Camden cougar.

“God, this is so much cleaner than the Rumson lounge,” I observe as I walk over to the kitchenette and start opening up the cabinets, suddenly ravenous for the microwave popcorn I didn’t get to have at the Student Center tonight. “Boys are disgusting.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

“Ah, got it!” I spot the box of popcorn and grab a plastic-wrapped packet. “So, as long as I’m staying, how about you tell me more about your girl drama.”

She rolls her eyes. “There’s nothing to tell. We broke up. Now Molly’s still at our old school with her new girlfriend, and I’m here with my brother.”

“And me,” I remind her with a sunny smile, unwrapping the popcorn and putting it in the microwave. “Don’t forget me.”

“I could never,” she says dryly.

“So is Molly why you came to Camden?”

Sabrina screws up her face into an expression that narrows her cool gray eyes to slivers. “No. Yes. Maybe.” She exhales sharply. “Salem was coming here, and my parents are very big on things between us being even, so they said if they were paying for him to go to boarding school, they were going to make the same offer to me. The idea of boarding school had never even crossed my mind, but at that moment, the idea of getting the hell away from Molly just sounded so damn good. And I figured if Salem could handle it, so could I.”

“And what was Salem doing here? He didn’t actually tell me why he got kicked out of your old school. Though ‘weed and truancy’ were mentioned.”

“Oh, if only it were that basic. No, my brother is a fucking moron, who was not only smoking on school property, but in the principal’s office. Which he broke into. On a Saturday.”

“Yikes.”

“Yup. I don’t know if one of his loser friends dared him or what, but there’s really no apologizing your way back from that one. I don’t even know if you could buy your way back from that one, not that we have ‘buy your way out of a principal-embarrassing drug scandal’ money. And before you ask, no, we don’t have ‘send two kids to boarding school’ money, either. Camden was the only school that gave us enough financial aid, and that’s with the help from the grandma my parents absolutely hate to ask for help.”

“For what it’s worth, we don’t have boarding school money either.” It’s a fact that still makes my guilt about begging to come here sit like a stone in my belly. Camden’s generous financial aid was definitely a factor in it being the ultimate choice, but if I don’t maintain the terms of my academic scholarship, I’m definitely screwed. “But wow, that’s obnoxiously stupid, even for Salem.”

“I know, right?”

The microwave beeps, and I get to work putting the popcorn into a bowl while Sabrina flips through the channels to try to find something on Camden’s limited cable selection that doesn’t suck. “So what about you?” she calls as I do a final shake for the kernel remnants. “What brought you here?”

“Honestly, same kind of thing,” I admit as I join her on the couch and hold out the bowl. “As you, not Salem.” It’s both weird to open up and nice to feel like I’ve finally found someone I can share with. The hardest thing about Sierra and Craig wasn’t even that they broke my heart—it was easy enough from the outside to see that Craig wasn’t worth it—but that the only person in the world I trusted enough to share my feelings about it with wasn’t even on my side.

Well, the hardest thing was my own sister stabbing me in the back, but at least it was consistent with her personality. Claire turned so fast, I’d swear Sierra had something on her, if Claire had ever actually done anything interesting.

Anyway, talking about it again feels nerve-racking, but I’m sure talking about Molly isn’t one of Sabrina’s favorite pastimes either, so fair is fair. “The boy was sort of the least of it, but we definitely did break up. After I found out he was hooking up with my sister. And my best friend knew about it.”

Sabrina’s hand freezes in the bowl of warm popcorn. “Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Dude, your sister sucks.”

“Yuuup. In so many ways, but that was just the final straw. I couldn’t imagine going back to school with all of them after that. So here I am.” I drop onto the couch next to Sabrina and dig my hand into the bowl for a fistful of popcorn.

“So what’s it like between you and your sister now?”

I think of the simultaneously satisfying and empty feeling of finally blocking her email address, partly because I didn’t want to give her a way to get in touch with me and partly because I didn’t want to feel worse if she never even tried. At least this way, I’ll never know. “It’s nothing. Nonexistent.”

She nods slowly, and I can tell she wants to choose her next words carefully. “That must be really hard. I mean, Salem sucks, but I also don’t know that I could be here without him.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t you dare ever tell him I said that.”

I mime locking up my lips and tossing away the key, even though I have a feeling he feels the same way about her. Meanwhile, I can’t even imagine what Sierra would say if you asked her how she feels about me.

Probably something like “Evie who?”

Sabrina returns to flipping through channels, but turns out Friday-night pickings are exceedingly slim. “Cooking show?”

“Cooking show,” I affirm with a nod, because nothing says comfort TV like watching people make cupcakes flavored like chicken and waffles with maple buttercream.

As we lie back and demolish the popcorn while debating which sounds worse, avocado cream filling or honey barbecue frosting, I feel one of the thousand cracks in my heart seal itself shut.