Streaming video lasts forever.
I grab my bag and head for the door as soon as class finishes, but I’m still not fast enough to lose Carrie.
“I want to talk to you.” Her chunky boots echo after me in the narrow stone cloisters. I keep walking. “I said —” She catches up with me, grabbing my arm and pulling me around to face her.
“Don’t.” I hate it but my voice breaks on that single word. I can’t hold it together much longer.
Carrie stares back, unflinching. “I hope you realize what you’ve done. The board should have backed us up right away, but instead they’re taking some time to think about it.” She snorts. “What am I saying? It’s not as if you even care.”
“I care,” I say quietly. “I do, I —”
“Yeah right,” Carrie drawls, mocking me. “As if someone like you could ever understand. You’re too busy f**king any boy who shoves a drink in your direction to even think about somebody else.”
And with a final glare, she stalks away.
I spend the rest of the day holed up in my room, splitting my time between triple-chocolate chunk cookies, vintage Gilmore Girls downloads, and crying. I can’t bear feeling this way again, but the only thing I’ve got on my side this time around is time: just fourteen days left now until I can get the hell out of here. I never figured I’d think of California as a blessing, but being old news back home totally beats being the scandal of the week here. In California I’m just a stupid slut; here I’m a betrayal of the feminist cause.
It’s ten thirty and I’m thinking about rolling into bed when there’s a soft knock at my door. I stay slumped on a heap of cushions on the floor and wait for them to leave.
“Natasha?” I hear Holly’s voice. “Natasha, are you there?”
With a sigh, I pull myself up and open the door a couple of inches. “Hey,” I say listlessly. She’s dressed up to go out, in cute pumps and a fitted magenta top over jeans. I avoid eye contact. “What’s up?”
“We had plans, remember?” Holly’s staring at me expectantly. I blink.
“But . . .” I can’t believe she acting like nothing’s changed.
“But nothing.” Her tone is gentle but firm, and before I can stop her, she’s pushed past me into the room. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week. You’re coming, no questions.”
“No way.” I cross my arms. “You can’t seriously expect me to go out.”
She begins to riffle through my wardrobe. “I’m not letting you wallow in here alone. Have you even left the room today?”
“Yes.” I pout. “I went to my tute, and it was just . . . I can’t.”
“Even more reason to have some fun.” Holly pulls out my favorite blue dress and tosses it to me. “You’ve got ten minutes, and then I don’t care if you’re still in that tracksuit.”
I sigh. “Holly.” She looks at me. “It’s cool you’re doing this, really. But . . .” I give a weak shrug, already feeling tears well up again. “I don’t know if I can face them.”
She’s at my side right away, pulling me into a hug. “Of course you can,” she reassures me, her small frame solid, holding me up. “And if it’s awful, then we’ll leave, all right? But you have to try. You can’t let them win.”
“But I’ll be out of here soon.” I sniffle, feeling super-pathetic. “Why should I even bother?”
“Because I won’t let you stay like this.” Holly’s eyes are usually sweet, but right now they’ve got steel in them. “You made me face what was happening to me; now it’s my turn to do the same for you.”
“You totally won’t leave me in peace, will you?” I realize, already reaching to switch on my flat iron. Holly gives me an impish grin.
“Not at all.”
The club is a short walk from Raleigh, set up over two floors with a tiny bar upstairs and a dark cavern of a dance floor down below. I feel eyes on me as soon as we walk in, but Holly just takes my hand and drags me through the crowd to a free spot by the bar.
“There,” she announces. “Not so bad, don’t you think?”
I don’t answer, slowly taking off my coat and scarf. I wonder how long I can go before making my escape. Fifteen minutes? Ten, maybe? Holly spots some girls from her crew team, and I wind up standing silent while they babble about practice and race times. She keeps turning to check that I’m OK, her face all sympathetic and concerned, so I just fake a smile and nod along. It’s not her fault I can’t be saved.
We’ve been there maybe half an hour when I see a familiar floppy hairstyle looming above the crowd. My heart catches. Will. He winds through the crowd after a couple of other kids in my direction, and I feel like collapsing with relief. He came, like we planned. Even though he must have seen the newspaper, he still came.
“Hey!” I cry out, beaming. He pauses, seeing me for the first time, and then his face twists. He looks away. “Will?” I say, already feeling a sharp pain punch through my chest, but he just lowers his head and keeps moving, passing me and quickly loping down the stairs. I sag against the bar stool, trying to remember how to breathe.
No, not him.
And then my body is moving like I don’t get a say, following him down the stairs and around into the unisex bathrooms. The tiles are dark with strips of mirror, and I wait by the sinks for him to emerge, shaking with nerves. Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe he just really needed the bathroom. I gulp.
There’s a flush, and then he comes out of a stall right in front of me. He looks up and flinches.
“Will?” My teeth are clenched tight to stop me from crying. He steps around me and begins to rinse his hands. “What’s going on?”
“You tell me.” His voice is quiet, and he’s still not looking at me.
I swallow. “You haven’t called me back.”
“No.” Now he’s taking a paper towel and carefully drying each hand like it’s some kind of ritual.
“So what’s . . . ?” I choke. “Why are you being like this?” The door swings open and a blast of music follows a couple of girls in. I ignore them. “Will, talk to me.”
“What is there to say?” Everything about him is shut off: blank stare, hard jaw. And then he softens, just for a moment. “Unless it’s not true. It isn’t, right, Natasha? It’s somebody else. They got it wrong.”