180 Seconds

  I should feel better now that I’ve asserted myself and shut down some of the drama surrounding the video. Instead, I feel like crap. Utter crap. I got what I wanted, right? No Esben, no connection, no one talking to me. World order has been restored.

  This should feel better than it does.

  I hear a familiar voice call out my name. “Allison! About time! I’ve been sitting here for twenty-five minutes, and I gotta pee like nobody’s business.”

  I jerk my head up and stop in place. My heart soars; my emptiness washes away. “Steffi!”

  Perched on the front step of my dorm is my best friend, looking for all the world like a rock star in her red leather pants and sleeveless black shirt. She’s got a small suitcase next to her. I can’t tell if I want to burst into tears or start laughing.

  She stands and opens her arms wide. “Come to Mama!”

  I run the short distance between us and hug her fiercely. “What are you doing here? Oh my God!”

  “What am I . . . doing . . . here? Right now, I’m trying . . . to breathe . . .”

  I release my grip on her and step back, laughing. “Sorry.” I shake my head in disbelief.

  Steffi tosses her hair and puts her hands on my shoulders. “I. Have. To. Pee.”

  “Okay, okay!” I unlock the front door, take her to the ladies’ room and then to my suite, all the while hurling questions at her.

  “For real, what are you doing here? I cannot believe this!” There is genuine happiness flooding from me right now. I automatically set the latest care package on top of the others in the spare room. When I turn back to Steffi, she’s making quite the face. “What is it?” I ask.

  She gestures behind me. “Um, are you building an oversize game of Jenga in there? What the hell is up with the boxes?”

  “Oh.” She’s got a point. The box tower is a little weird looking. “They’re from Simon.”

  “I see.” She flashes a curious smile. “We’ll get back to that later. I did not take a red-eye to Boston and then rent a car to drive a million hours because you have a hoarding problem.”

  We both sit down on the couch. “So, why come? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  She shrugs. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  I’m still flabbergasted that she’s in front of me. “But, but . . . how did you afford a ticket and a car?”

  “Do you have any idea how much money my scholarship gives me to buy books and stuff? Way too much. I’m not buying every single thing on the syllabi. You know how it is. Half the time, we don’t use a book for more than a day. So, I traded in unnecessary books for a trip.”

  “I’m very glad you did.” I hug her again. As I do, I can’t help but search for the scar that is imprinted on her shoulder blade. A reminder of the challenging childhood she has survived. “And we need to feed you. You’re skin and bones.”

  “And boobs! Don’t forget the boobs!” She smushes her chest against mine, and I laugh.

  “I could not forget the boobs,” I assure her as I sit back. “I can’t wait to hear everything that’s going on with you! You hungry? What do you want to do for dinner?”

  “Tequila,” she states.

  “Could we have a food component, too?”

  “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  CHAPTER 8

  TEQUILA AND THINGS

  The food component turns out to be Italian food from a restaurant down the street that I’d never tried. Steffi inhales her plate of fettuccine Alfredo, and, in between bites, chastises me for never having been here. “I mean, really? Do you now understand what you’ve been missing out on?” Then she stabs one of my meatballs and shoves the entire thing in her mouth.

  A quick pit stop at the liquor store (where Steffi is handed flyers from three different guys for various parties), and we are back in my room, with Steff now pouring us our first tequila shot. I haven’t had a drink since this summer, and the alcohol burns down my throat. I smile. “God, I missed tequila.”

  “And tequila missed you.” She bites a lime wedge and winces. “Know what else missed you?”

  “What?”

  She reaches into the paper bag next to her and raises a bottle. “Gin!”

  “Yay!”

  Her other hand goes to the bag and emerges with another bottle. “And tonic!”

  “Yay!”

  “And yay for my bangin’ fake ID.”

  I pour us strong drinks and get some ice cubes from the minifridge while Steff makes a playlist on my computer and blasts music from my bedroom.

  “Oh, hell. Is today Friday?” she calls out.

  “Yeah, why?” I step into my bedroom and set down her drink on the desk. “Why are you on Amazon?” I squint at the screen. “And why are you buying a roll of cartoon sheep stickers, duct tape, and a nose-hair trimmer?”

  Steff takes a large swig and then spins in the chair to face me. “Remember the apartment that I lived in last summer? Well, after I moved, I accidentally sent some things there because I forgot to update my address on some websites. Including, I will have you know, a site where I bought a megahot and not-inexpensive dress. The two stupid girls who moved in after me never sent back anything.” She takes another drink. “Or they would just claim things never arrived. Liars. So, every month I send off something addressed to me at my old address. I like the idea that they get all excited, thinking they can steal more of my purchases, and they probably get hyped up, thinking it’s something cool—because I always order cool things, right?—and then they open the package, and it’s striped tube socks and a poop emoji pillow or whatever. So I am punishing them forever.”

  Oh, how I have missed this girl.

  I sit on the bed. “That’s kind of goddamn brilliant. I want to help!”

  “Go ahead. Pick out something. Aside from buying plane tickets, this is also what I do with the extra financial aid money.” She puts her hands behind her head and stretches. “I really am a genius.”

  After some browsing, I add a no-solicitors sticker and a box of poorly reviewed quinoa crackers, and when the confirmation e-mail dings on her phone, telling us that her order was received, we celebrate by slamming down our drinks and both burping at the same time. Soul sisters, we are for sure.

  I’m a definite lightweight, so by nine thirty, I am beyond tipsy, and it feels fantastic. Steffi is doing some crazy dance that is predominately defined by Hula-Hoop hip moves and Superman arms. It’s superodd but rather entertaining. From my spot on the couch, I suck an ice cube and watch my friend move through the common room as she dances off the beat. I am still gobsmacked that she is here, and the smile plastered on my face is a welcome respite from the events of this past week.

  It’s that thought that makes me sit bolt upright. “Hey! Wait a minute!” I yell, my voice garbled from the ice cube in my mouth. “Stop!”

  “Huh?” Steffi pauses her dance. “You cannot handle my sexiness?” She shakes her hips.

  “You!” I thrust a pointed finger her way. “You are not here because you had extra money!”

  Her face drops. “What do you mean? I wanted a long weekend with my best girl. That’s all.” But she reaches for the gin bottle and starts to pour a drink.

  “You are here,” I say forcefully, while repeatedly jabbing my finger at her, “for nefarious reasons!”

  Steff laughs. “Nefarious reasons? Oh really?”

  “Stephanie Elinor Troy! You are sneaky! ’Fess up, right now!”

  But she can barely talk because she is doubled over, laughing and trying to breathe.

  I frown. “What is so funny?”

  Finally, she answers. “My middle name is not Elinor!” Then her fit of hysterical laughter continues, and she sits beside me.

  “It’s not?” There is the beginning of a slur in my voice. “Why do I think it is? Who is Elinor?”

  The poor girl might hyperventilate, and it takes her forever to answer. “Remember that weird family I lived with in Watertown? Elinor was the name of their Jack Russe
ll terrier.”

  “Oh.” I grab her cup and take a drink. “Who names a dog Elinor?”

  “A proctologist and a psychic who live in Watertown and wanted a fake daughter for five months.”

  “Do you even have a middle name?”

  She takes back her cup and shrugs. “Not that I know of. I don’t even know how I have a last name. That’s weirder than a dog named Elinor. Remember, I got dropped at one of those safe-harbor haven thingies where you dump off babies without any questions, so I doubt there was a sticky note on my head with a full name. Hey! So, who named me? Who named us? You were left at a hospital, too!”

  She’s right. This has never occurred to me before. “Yeah! Who named us? We should have been able to pick our names!”

  “But you took Simon’s last name, so now you are Allison Dennis, and it suits you.” Her eyes light up. “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s play care-package Jenga!”

  “Stop it.” I giggle.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun. I take out a package near the bottom and hope the tower doesn’t tip.”

  “We are not playing care-package Jenga!”

  “Then you take one, then me . . . honestly, why haven’t you opened any of ’em? Simon probably got you good stuff. Ramen and cookies and lice treatment.”

  “I don’t have lice!” I shriek.

  She nods very seriously. “Not yet. But college campuses are notorious breeding grounds for lice.”

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe Simon has sent me true necessities that I didn’t even realize I need. God, Steffi doesn’t have anyone sending her care packages, and she really deserves it. And maybe there are cookies in there . . . I should consider opening them. Or maybe just one.

  I’m a little wobbly when I stand and start pouring a gin and tonic. Halfway through making it, I spin around and slosh gin on the carpet. “Heeeeeeey! Wait a minute. You are trying to distract me from the crucial subject at hand.”

  “Which is crucially what?”

  “The reason you are here.” After I manage to make my drink, I sit back down next to her. “Let’s have it.”

  She gives me a blank look and says nothing.

  I lightly shove her shoulder. “Do you have fabulous news or something? Oh, did you apply for that magazine internship you mentioned last summer? Did you get it? Oh, oh! Or there’s a boy. It’s a boy, isn’t it? Tell me, tell me!”

  Steffi grins and claps her hands together. “Well, yes. There is a boy.”

  I’m about to burst. Despite numerous and entertaining flings, Steff hasn’t had a true boyfriend in ages. “Tell me everything!”

  She is still grinning and stares at me for way too long, and it’s only when I throw my arms up in frustration that she answers me. “The boy’s name is Esben Baylor, and you sucked face with him, became an Internet sensation, and you won’t talk about it. Something major happened! Something wonderful! This was totally unlike you and totally awesome. Cheers!”

  I cross my arms with irritation and sneer. “No, no cheersing! We are not cheersing!”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “Whatever. I thought you had good news about yourself or something. I thought we were celebrating. This is totally disappointing. You’re actually here to make me talk about that Esben boy and the stupid thing I did?”

  “Yes.” Steffi takes out her phone, taps the screen a few times, and faces it my way. “Look. Just look.” It’s a freeze-frame of Esben and me.

  “It’s nothing.” But my denial sounds weak, and I take the phone in my hand and study the image.

  “It is not nothing.”

  I snap out of it. “He made my life hell this week! Do you know how many people were bothering me about this on campus? Wanting gory details and being all probing and whatnot? Ugh. It was awful. I finally got it to stop.”

  She practically snorts. “Well, the Internet hasn’t stopped.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The tweets, the comments on every site that picked it up . . . people are still loving it.”

  “There are comments?”

  “Yeah, dummy! Like, thousands.” She squints at me. “We need to do something about your makeup. And hair.”

  “Huh? Who cares about my makeup and hair? Thousands of comments? How are there thousands of comments?” The gin is not helping me feel less freaked out, and I barely notice Steffi pulling my hair loose or reaching into her purse to retrieve a makeup bag.

  She has me close my eyes, and I feel her brushing eye shadow on my lids. “Sweetheart, Esben has over four hundred seventy-five thousand followers. And that’s just on Twitter. Then there’s Facebook, where he’s got over three hundred thousand. Plus, his live blog.”

  I open my eyes and ignore her irritated expression at my interrupting her crash makeover. “Hundreds. Of. Thousands. Oh, Steff . . .”

  “If you’d pay attention to the online world, you would’ve known. Esben Baylor is a social icon! And he’s right here on your campus! I’m so jealous I could scream.”

  Yeah, I could scream, too.

  She goes to her phone again and taps around. “Here. Read. These are the comments under his original Twitter post.”

  Silently stewing, I begin what could be an endless process of scrolling while Steffi lines my eyes with dark-brown eyeliner, dusts blush over my cheekbones, and then turns on a big curling iron and starts fussing with my hair while I read.

  Stunning. Heartfelt. Touching. Keep doing what you do, Esben.

  You go! The entire montage is extraordinary. Thanx for sharing.

  Showed this to my mom, and we both cried, lol!

  Who’s the girl? She’s a babe! Right on, brother! Not a bad start to a romance, huh?

  Plz come to Chicago! We want u! I’ll volunteer to do whatever u want! Kiss me!

  Is the girl on Twitter? Want to follow her.

  Now THAT was a kiss. But . . . then what? Did she come back? Have you talked to her?

  I scoff and keep scrolling and reading. The tweets are, by and large, raving and supportive of the video. There are, of course, mean tweets, too: That girl doesn’t deserve you. Glad she bolted, and I hate all your lame stuff and UR a moron, and This is so corny and schmaltzy. Get a life.

  They all make me sick.

  Steffi gets the iron too close to my scalp, and I let out an “Ouch!” then take the last now-watery drink from my cup. “You know what?” I say too loudly. “What he did is not okay! I didn’t ask for this attention. Fine, if he likes being at the center of the universe, that’s his prerogative, but how dare he suck me and other unsuspecting people into his crap, right? He’s a horrible, horrible person!”

  “Oh, well, yes. Horrible.” She pauses. “You should tell him that, don’t you think?”

  I slap the phone down on the couch. “I should! I should, dammit!”

  “Yes, right now!” Steffi is on board with this. She must be coming around to sharing my anger. “Let’s find out what dorm he’s in. The student directory is online?” she asks.

  “I dunno. I guess. I haven’t looked anyone up before.”

  We log on to the Andrews student portal, and it takes Steffi only seconds to learn that Esben lives in Wallace Hall, which is a dorm not far from mine. “Bingo!” she says before zooming in on his profile picture. “Good Lord, that boy is easy on the eyes . . .”

  “Hey! Knock it off!”

  “I mean, he’s still a very bad person, of course, but he is one hot piece of ass.”

  “Now you’re making me hate him more.”

  “Well, then you need to go tell him how awful he is right now.”

  “Right now?” I hiccup.

  “Yes. Seize the moment!” Steffi leaps up, pulling me with her, and runs a hand through my now-curly hair. “You go watch that video with him and point out all the jerky things about it!”

  “Aren’t you coming with me? As backup? You know, you can yell, ‘Yeah, good point!’ and ‘Buuuuurn!’ when I say smart things.”

  She pull
s a red lipstick from her tight pants pocket and freshens her color. “I’m gonna pop over to one of those parties we got invited to. There are some damn cute boys on this campus. Text me when you’re on your way back.”

  “I’m gonna go kick some Esben ass!” I sing out proudly. “Like a vigilante!”

  “Esben’s ass, drunk vigilante, yes, yes. Now, let me just throw a bit more lip gloss on that pouty mouth of yours . . .”

  CHAPTER 9

  MACARONI AND VIDEOS

  Steffi and I part ways in front of Esben’s dorm, and I march confidently (if a bit clumsily) up the stairs. At his room, I do not hesitate before slapping the door with the flat of my hand. I mean business tonight.

  The door opens, and I am momentarily taken aback, unable to ignore that we are again only a few feet from each other. And also unable to ignore that his shoulders are broad, but not too broad, and that I know what it’s like to be crushed against him, feeling him hold me. I literally shake my head and look up at the obviously startled boy in front of me. “You and I need to have a conversation, buster!” I push past him and find myself in a single room, with barely enough space for the bed, desk, and dresser. His bed is unmade, a navy comforter scrunched over plaid sheets; his laundry is strewn around; and his desktop is so beyond cluttered that I verge on having a panic attack. “You’re a slob,” I say without thinking.

  He takes a second to reply. “I . . . am. Sorry. I didn’t know you were coming by. Obviously.” There’s a beat of silence before he says, “Allison.”

  It’s the first time I’ve heard him say my name, and I’m moderately shaken. “Ohmigod, I’m sorry. You’re not a slob. I’m awful.” I look around the room. “But you’re not a neat freak. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s a style choice. Very relaxed.”

  “Here, let me just . . .” Esben sidles past me and begins furiously straightening the sheets and comforter to give some semblance of order to the room. “Would you like to sit down?” Without looking at me, he gestures to the bed.

  “Fine.” So, I do, and he sits in the desk chair. Automatically, I begin smoothing the comforter with my hand and watching the way the fabric ripples as I skim my hand over it. Eventually, I look around his room. I can barely make out the small microwave propped up on milk crates because it is so covered with clothing, notebooks, and discs. I also spy a video camera on a shelf, and I look away.