said, turning away.
“Doesn’t it always?”
He stopped mid-stride to look over his shoulder at me, mouth lifted in a half smile. I’d struck the mark with my little barb, and I lifted my eyebrows to acknowledge the hit.
When Boone handed out the syllabuses or syllabi—or whatever the plural form was—he made a point to give me the bottom one.
A Western Case Copperheads football sticky note fluttered on it. Blocky handwriting, from a pen about to run out of ink said, “Pregame party on Saturday? Text me.” And his cell number.
I tried to act like senior guys I’d been crushing on asked me out every day , while inside, July 4 th fireworks zinged through me until my fingers went numb. With my best “whatever” expression, I fumbled to move the sticky from the first page to the fourth page of the syllabus (four pages!).
I hardly heard a word the prof said.
Mia lounged back on her bed . She applied black eyeliner with one hand while she held a cracked magnifying mirror with the other. Her first class started at eleven, probably for the better. I didn’t mind getting up in the morning. She couldn’t handle it. At all.
“So, you saw Hotness?” she said as she perfected the swooping line coming off the outside of her right eye.
“Oh, man.” I flopped into the round red chair we’d found on a curb last spring when the seniors were getting rid of everything not matching their new lives.
“Did you talk to him?” she asked.
“Better. So much better.” I showed her the note.
“La!” She grinned. “Smitten. Simply smitten.” She flapped the yellow paper in my face. “You oughta knock the bottom out of that,” she said, reverting to the profane and hilarious Mia I loved.
“Mia , we’ve never even held hands. I can’t jump him in the stadium.”
“Who said anything about making it to the stadium?” She rolled her eyes at me then planted a kiss on her mirror, leaving a bright red smooch. “Hey, is breakfast still open?”
By breakfast, she meant the cafeteria in the Snokes Student Center.
“Only ’til 10:30,” I said.
She tucked her phone into the pocket of her long fitted shorts and grabbed her thermal cup. We strolled across the quad like we had all the time in the world. At 10:29, Mia grabbed an egg sandwich and filled her cup to the brim with coffee, black. Mia not only didn’t do cream and sugar, she abhorred the lattes and macchiatos our entire generation craved. I’d already eaten so I picked up a banana for a snack.
Down in the Case Study, the world’s most stupidly named student lounge ever, the huge TV showed a satellite image of the Gulf of Mexico, where a white swirl the size of a pizza pan dominated the home theater screen.
“I hope that S.O.B. doesn’t hit land.” Mia stared at the screen, her foil-wrapped sandwich in one hand and her ‘Good Morning Beautiful’ cup in the other. “I saw what Hurricane Sandy did to Jersey , and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. Hold this a sec.” She shoved her cup of unadulterated bitter reality at me so she could unwrap her food.
S he ate without losing a smudge of red lipstick to the soggy English muffin. I chewed my banana, more interested in the clusters of people in the room than the weather. Twyla, with her gaggy preppy friends, dominated the area between the TV and the bathrooms, the most travelled path of the room, not by coincidence, I’m sure. The five junior girls wore matching sorority shirts. Each head sprouted sleek hair straightened to glossy perfection in dyed, highlighted colors ranging from sunny blonde to auburn. They strived to suck in unsuspecting freshman girls. Come join our cult. We won’t kill you, we’ll just make you into copies of us.
TG I met Mia before pledge week last year ’cuz I’d been close to joining the lunacy. Not Twyla’s, of course. Nope, not rich or pretty enough for that fruit punch. There’d been another sorority for more athletic girls, which meant everyone thought they were
“Doesn’t it always?”
He stopped mid-stride to look over his shoulder at me, mouth lifted in a half smile. I’d struck the mark with my little barb, and I lifted my eyebrows to acknowledge the hit.
When Boone handed out the syllabuses or syllabi—or whatever the plural form was—he made a point to give me the bottom one.
A Western Case Copperheads football sticky note fluttered on it. Blocky handwriting, from a pen about to run out of ink said, “Pregame party on Saturday? Text me.” And his cell number.
I tried to act like senior guys I’d been crushing on asked me out every day , while inside, July 4 th fireworks zinged through me until my fingers went numb. With my best “whatever” expression, I fumbled to move the sticky from the first page to the fourth page of the syllabus (four pages!).
I hardly heard a word the prof said.
Mia lounged back on her bed . She applied black eyeliner with one hand while she held a cracked magnifying mirror with the other. Her first class started at eleven, probably for the better. I didn’t mind getting up in the morning. She couldn’t handle it. At all.
“So, you saw Hotness?” she said as she perfected the swooping line coming off the outside of her right eye.
“Oh, man.” I flopped into the round red chair we’d found on a curb last spring when the seniors were getting rid of everything not matching their new lives.
“Did you talk to him?” she asked.
“Better. So much better.” I showed her the note.
“La!” She grinned. “Smitten. Simply smitten.” She flapped the yellow paper in my face. “You oughta knock the bottom out of that,” she said, reverting to the profane and hilarious Mia I loved.
“Mia , we’ve never even held hands. I can’t jump him in the stadium.”
“Who said anything about making it to the stadium?” She rolled her eyes at me then planted a kiss on her mirror, leaving a bright red smooch. “Hey, is breakfast still open?”
By breakfast, she meant the cafeteria in the Snokes Student Center.
“Only ’til 10:30,” I said.
She tucked her phone into the pocket of her long fitted shorts and grabbed her thermal cup. We strolled across the quad like we had all the time in the world. At 10:29, Mia grabbed an egg sandwich and filled her cup to the brim with coffee, black. Mia not only didn’t do cream and sugar, she abhorred the lattes and macchiatos our entire generation craved. I’d already eaten so I picked up a banana for a snack.
Down in the Case Study, the world’s most stupidly named student lounge ever, the huge TV showed a satellite image of the Gulf of Mexico, where a white swirl the size of a pizza pan dominated the home theater screen.
“I hope that S.O.B. doesn’t hit land.” Mia stared at the screen, her foil-wrapped sandwich in one hand and her ‘Good Morning Beautiful’ cup in the other. “I saw what Hurricane Sandy did to Jersey , and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. Hold this a sec.” She shoved her cup of unadulterated bitter reality at me so she could unwrap her food.
S he ate without losing a smudge of red lipstick to the soggy English muffin. I chewed my banana, more interested in the clusters of people in the room than the weather. Twyla, with her gaggy preppy friends, dominated the area between the TV and the bathrooms, the most travelled path of the room, not by coincidence, I’m sure. The five junior girls wore matching sorority shirts. Each head sprouted sleek hair straightened to glossy perfection in dyed, highlighted colors ranging from sunny blonde to auburn. They strived to suck in unsuspecting freshman girls. Come join our cult. We won’t kill you, we’ll just make you into copies of us.
TG I met Mia before pledge week last year ’cuz I’d been close to joining the lunacy. Not Twyla’s, of course. Nope, not rich or pretty enough for that fruit punch. There’d been another sorority for more athletic girls, which meant everyone thought they were
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