Finding Felicity

  He helped me gather my scattered notebooks and pens, plucking the half sheet of paper containing my schedule from the floor. “You’re trying to find your composition class,” he said—a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah.”

  “The odd numbers are in the side hallway, back there.” He pointed in the direction from which I’d come. “It doesn’t make any sense. Someone should have told you.” He shook his head at the various someones who had failed me on this point, his mouth tightening to reveal dimples on either side.

  And I fell in love with him in that exact second. No one in this school, or possibly the entire state, was on my side, but he was. Mr. Broad Shoulders, Blond Hair, and Dimples.

  “Liam!” some impatient guy shouted from down the hall.

  “I’m coming,” Liam called before returning his attention to me. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  I nodded again quickly.

  He flashed a grin at me. “Then I’ll see you around, Caroline,” he said, moving past me with a wave.

  Hearing my name sent a jolt of surprise through me until I realized he must have read it off my schedule.

  For the first time that day, I’d felt like someone was seeing me, instead of navigating around me like I was annoyingly placed furniture, or whispering about me being the new girl.

  I kept track of him after that, paying attention to his answers in the classes we shared, cheering him on at basketball games—the few I could talk Joanna into attending, anyway.

  Joanna hated it. Hated him. She saw him only as the popular guy with the tight-knit group of popular friends. And he was that, yeah, but he was also more.

  He always, always said hi and asked me how I was whenever he saw me, and then listened patiently, even to the point of holding up his friends, while I stammered out a lame response.

  He made me feel good. Special. And that gave me hope that maybe I could matter. To him, to someone.

  So when it came time to choose a college, a chance to reinvent myself, only one place truly made sense. I had this amazing opportunity to try to become the person I wanted to be, the person who would have those friends, that closeness with someone. Why not start with the guy who gave me the courage to think it was possible in the first place?

  Across the lawn, Liam now laughs at something the guys say, tilting his head back in that unselfconscious way I recognize from years of observation. Then he grabs one end of the sofa, and the other guy scoops up the cushions that have fallen. The three of them make their way awkwardly toward the doors of Granland and then through them.

  I guessed wrong on the dorm, that’s all. Granland, though, is known as the “quiet” dorm, which is weird because I would never have expected Liam to choose it over Brekken. But at least the two buildings are right next to each other.

  The impulse to run after him surges through me. I can see it playing out in my head. I would call his name, and he’d stop. It might take him a second to recognize me, but then he’d say hello and then . . .

  And then he’d go back to his friends. Because Liam may be my Ben, but I am not his Felicity. Not yet, anyway.

  I’m still too close to reverting back to the invisible Caroline I was in high school.

  But seeing Liam helps. It feels like a sign. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  With that reminder, I take a deep breath and march back into Brekken. I’m ready now.

  Chapter Seven

  My first chance to put more of my plan into action presents itself at dinner. Our wing, Four East, minus Lexi, has gathered in the Brekken cafeteria for pizza and (wilted) salad, per Ayana’s direction.

  Two tables have been shoved together for us, and I’ve landed a seat across from Anna and Tory.

  “I’m telling you the view will be way better,” Anna says, twisting her berry-blue hair into a knot at the back of her head and securing it with an elastic from around her wrist. “Plus, my friend says no one even knows the astronomy kids have the key, so the roof will be ours.”

  “Eh.” Tory lifts a shoulder as she dabs at the orange grease on her pizza, the white napkin turning translucent. “It’s just a movie.”

  Anna stiffens. “You have something better in mind?”

  “Hell yeah.” Beaming, Tory drops her napkin onto her paper plate. “PBTs are having a party.”

  “PBTs?” Anna asks, echoing my internal question.

  “Phi Beta Thetas, darlin’,” Tory says. “It’s upperclassmen only, but I can get us in.” She winks. “My brother belongs to the Houston chapter.”

  “Awesome.” Anna’s mouth twists. “Celebrating the patriarchy and the potential for date rape. No thanks.”

  “Oh, come on,” Tory says. “It’s not like that.”

  Anna gives her a skeptical look.

  “It isn’t,” Tory insists. “It’ll be fun.” She gives Anna a pouty look. “You’re not going to make me go by myself, are you?”

  “I’ll go.” The words surprise me as much as Tory and Anna. They glance across the table, as if noticing my existence for the first time.

  “Really?” Tory asks as Anna makes a disgusted noise that I think, I hope, is directed at the idea of a fraternity party and not me.

  “Yes,” I say, even as my stomach shifts queasily. This is the opportunity I’ve been looking for. I never went to parties in high school. And Liam probably won’t be there tonight, but it sounds exactly like his kind of thing. Which means it’ll be a good start to meeting the right people, the ones who are better at the whole social thing than I am. I want my friends to be Liam’s friends. Our friends. I need to be someone in his circle, or at least someone who could be. That’s the only way he might one day—next year, next month—see me as more. That’s ultimately the goal of Phase II: to become Liam’s friend, and then, eventually, once he’s broken up with Stella, to become his Felicity, just as he is my Ben.

  I can picture it now: the slight tilt of his head, the happy bewilderment on his face. I don’t know when it happened, Caroline, but you’re my best friend, and I think I might be in love with—

  Tory eyes me, considering. “Stand up.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Up!” She flaps her hand in a summoning gesture.

  I get to my feet reluctantly, and she sweeps an evaluating gaze over me, from head to toe. “Oh, definitely. I can work with this.”

  I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest.

  She taps her index finger against her lower lip in thought. “You have that skirt from earlier?” she asks.

  “You want me to wear that?” I ask, confused. It’s not the kind of outfit I pictured for a party.

  “No, I want to borrow it.” She grins slyly at me, revealing perfect white teeth, made even whiter by her tan.

  “Okay, sure,” I say. I’m missing something, but I’m not sure what.

  “Perfect!” Tory claps her hands together. “I’ll help you find something to wear and do your makeup.” But then she frowns at me. “Do you have base? Because I don’t think I have anything that pale. Unless I use some of the contouring . . .” She squints at me. “We should go upstairs and get started,” she says. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  • • •

  “Come on,” Tory urges, as she leads the way across campus. Greek Row is a couple of blocks of fraternity houses, just past the northwest edge—that much I know from our orientation packet.

  She’s wearing a white button-down shirt tied off right below bra level, and her hair is in two pigtail braids. Her skirt—my skirt—is rolled up at the waist so it flares out with every step, flashing the bright red cheerleader bloomers she has underneath. “The schoolgirl look,” she told me earlier. “Always super hot.”

  So, it turns out there are a couple of pieces of information that Tory neglected to share at dinner.

  First, it’s a theme party.

  Second, the theme is apparently Pimps and Whores. That’s a thing, I guess?

  The top of my max
i skirt is rolled down for that “exposed midriff look,” according to Tory. My shirt, a blue button-down from my own closet, is tied below my bra like Tory’s. The black lace bra, most of which is on display through the unbuttoned top half of the shirt, is Tory’s. My makeup—smoky eyes, bright red lips, and false eyelashes—feels like an itchy mask. I’m also wearing fake glasses—another of Tory’s accessories for some reason—and the scratched-up lenses make the world seem slightly foggy. But Tory nodded in approval, surveying her work with satisfaction. “PBTs are going to wish they spent more time in the library,” she said with a wink. (“Library” in her accent comes out like “lah-brarry.”)

  I am, theoretically, a sexy librarian.

  The thumping bass reaches us first, from conflicting sources in the distance. People ahead of us on the sidewalk are laughing and talking as they drift toward the party. Or parties, plural, it seems.

  My palms are damp suddenly, and I’m longing for my yoga pants and T-shirt. I could be in my room, curled up in my bed and watching Felicity on my laptop. That’s where I want to be.

  But . . . that’s a cop-out. I need to be someone who would go to a party without hesitation or fear.

  Not only go, but enjoy it. Like Tory. Like Liam.

  And the only way I’m going to become that person is to try. And staying in and watching the show pilot for the hundredth time—God, that scene when Felicity reads what Ben wrote for her!—isn’t going to do it.

  So I keep walking.

  Tory leads us with confidence to the second house on the left with big Greek letters attached to its siding. The images in my mental file marked FRATERNITY/SORORITY are influenced by old movies on Netflix like The Skulls, Legally Blonde, and Accepted. (I studied up this summer, watching every college-based movie I could find.) In other words, big, imposing houses that scream “wealth” and “exclusivity.” With, like, pillars and stuff.

  But this? This is not that.

  With stone on the bottom and beige siding on the top half, this house looks more like the Brady Bunch home, except smaller and more run-down. The blinds hang at drunken angles in the front windows, the music pours out the propped-open front door, a dozen or so red cups are already strewn about the yard, and a cluster of smokers and vapers chill on the front porch. There are a few guys barbecuing on a small grill in the gravel drive next to the house, but it seems to be producing nothing more than an awful burning smell.

  Oh . . . and there’s a naked mannequin strapped to a mattress on the roof.

  I hesitate at the bottom of the porch stairs. But Tory marches up to the front door and says something to a big blond guy wearing letters on his shirt. Seriously, he’s at least three times her size, like Colossus, the solid-metal guy from the X-Men movies.

  He frowns, confused, then he laughs and pats her on the shoulder—almost knocking her over—and gestures for her to go inside.

  Tory summons me with an urgent wave, and I hurry to catch up.

  Once inside, we’re stopped by the sheer force of collected bodies in the entryway. A girl in lingerie, like an actual red lace thing, slithers by me. Another girl has turned a dance leotard into a Playboy bunny outfit with ears on a headband.

  I look like a real librarian—as in, fully clothed—by comparison. Which is a relief.

  Some of the guys are wearing suits or suit jackets. One guy has a powder-blue tux that has to have come from an attic trunk somewhere—he even has a cane to go with it—but most of them have simply donned fedoras, both real ones and plastic. So, in other words, not that much different from what they might normally wear. It seems unfair.

  “Come on, this way,” Tory says, reaching back to grab my wrist and tug me along.

  Wooden paddles bearing Greek letters hang on the left wall. And on the right, the wall opens up to another room, where two ancient sofas lean resignedly against each other. Large framed class pictures dominate the decorating scheme, if one can generously call it a “scheme.”

  A huge flat-screen TV is on, flashing too-bright scenes from a video game, and three or four guys with controllers are shouting at one another. A dozen or so scantily clad girls cheer them on. They seem very comfortable here and with how they’re dressed.

  “Who are all these people?” I ask, having to shout to be heard. Guess I won’t have to worry too much about making conversation.

  “Upperclassmen, remember? Freshmen are invite only, darlin’,” Tory says with a laugh.

  Talk about starting in the deep end.

  The hallway is darker than the entryway, and the smell of stale beer knocks me back a step. Every few feet there’s another closed door on the right or left. Most of them have nicknames that sound Seven Dwarfs–like scrawled across them. Patchy. Scratchy. Bounce. Pubes.

  Gross.

  At the end of the hall, Tory twists sideways to fit through a doorway crowded by guys wearing fedoras. And one in a green Saint Patrick’s Day hat.

  “Hey, baby, wanna hit me one more time?” a fedora wearer asks as she scoots past.

  It takes me a second to place the reference. I guess Tory does look like an old-school Britney. Before Vegas. Before the head shaving.

  He makes a grab at the edge of Tory’s skirt. She smacks his hand away with a laugh. “Oh, no,” she says, waving a finger at him. “Toxic.”

  That makes them laugh.

  “What are you supposed to be?” the guy in the Saint Patrick’s Day hat asks me.

  I swallow hard, wanting to run from the attention. “I . . .”

  “Librarian, obviously,” the guy who talked to Tory says. “The glasses, duh.” Then he turns his attention to me. “Want to charge me for my late fees?” he asks me with a leer.

  “No,” I say, the first thing that comes to mind.

  That makes them laugh that much harder. “Burned, Jake!” the one in the green hat shouts.

  “Bye, boys.” Tory pulls me past them and into what turns out to be a stairwell. “Freshmen,” she says to me with a delicate shudder of distaste as soon as they’re out of hearing range.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, the space opens up into a large basement. The music is even louder down here.

  The room is divided into two sections by a flimsy wall that’s been punched through with fist-shaped holes. On the side closest to the stairs, there’s a keg in the corner, a small but actual disco ball spinning overhead, and people dancing, waving red cups in the air. Some of the girls are dancing on and around the metal support poles, to shouts and whistles from the guys.

  On the other side, through the doorway and any number of holes, I can see three or four beer pong tables. As I watch, a player at the end of the table closest to me sinks a Ping Pong ball into a cup on the opposite end, and his side of the table explodes in cheers.

  Tory spins around to face me. Drinks? she mouths exaggeratedly, tilting her head toward the keg in the corner, where some guy is handing out cups.

  “Uh, sure.” This is, like, breaking every rule established in every Lifetime movie I’ve ever seen. But none of the other girls here seem worried about taking beer from a complete stranger. Most of them have cups in their hands, and I seriously doubt they brought their own.

  Tory leads the way, and I follow more slowly, dodging the flailing limbs of the dancers.

  I can always take the beer and not drink it.

  To my surprise, though, the guy operating the keg turns out to be someone I know. Jordan. The guy who helped me with the boxes.

  Tory bumps up next to Jordan, touching his arm as he pumps the keg. “Thanks,” she says, head cocked flirtatiously.

  But his gaze is fixed on me. “I met you today, right?” he asks. “Fourth floor, Brekken?”

  Tory answers for me. “Yeah, we’re both fourth-floor Brekken,” she says, moving even closer to him.

  He gives a brief smile in her direction, but then shifts his focus back to me. “You’re roommates with Lexi. How is . . . How is that going for you?” His expression seems too serious for the question,
and I have no idea how to answer.

  Tory’s gaze flicks back and forth between us, and then, with an overly loud sigh, she takes her now-filled cup and flounces off toward the beer pong side of the room.

  “Fine?” I say uncertainly. I’m not getting into the whole “we’re not going to be friends” thing with him. And how does he know Lexi already?

  “Good.” He hands me a filled cup without asking anything else—though it feels like he wants to—and I take it and quickly tag along after Tory.

  It’s quieter by the beer pong tables, or maybe my hearing has adjusted.

  Tory waves from the far corner; she’s obtained seats in a roughly constructed wooden booth.

  “Do you know that guy?” she asks after I sit down.

  “Just from moving in. He helped me out.”

  “I bet,” she says, winking.

  “N-n-not like that,” I stutter.

  “I know. I’m teasing, sweetie.” Tory pats my arm. “But nice eye—he’s gorgeous. And at least a junior.” She points to the cup clutched in my hands. “Drink up. You’re stiffer than a dead armadillo.”

  I blink at her.

  Then she straightens abruptly as the music shifts. “Oh, I love this song!” Tory shouts. She pushes me out of the booth ahead of her. “Come on, let’s dance!” She tries to tug me along with her.

  Dancing? Dressed like this? With actual people around to witness it? “Oh no.” I pull free. “How about we stay here and—”

  “Okay, see you in a bit!” she says.

  “Wait, Tory!”

  But she dances away, shaking her hips so her skirt—my skirt—flares out. Right up to Jordan, who has left his post at the keg to hit the dance floor.

  She left me. She actually left me here, by myself. I wrap my arms around my middle and lean against the wall. I feel like a spotlight is shining on me, highlighting my left-behind status.

  A couple, fiercely making out—hands up shirts and moaning loud enough that I can hear them over the music—stumbles into me and then half sits, half falls into the booth.

  I shift away from them, closer to the corner of the room, hating the sense of vulnerability settling over me. Tory is out of sight now, and I’m trapped in a suffocatingly crowded room with a bunch of people I don’t know, most of whom are very drunk or on their way to it. Why is this supposed to be fun again? I can’t help but think of what Wegman said at our first meeting: My concern is that you seem to want a version of yourself that has little grounding in who you actually are.