The Mistake

  When my father helped me move my stuff to Hartford House yesterday, Daisy’s side of the room had been empty, but I got back from lunch today to find boxes and suitcases all over the place. So now I’m waiting for her to show up because I want to get the awkward nice-to-meet-you’s out of the way.

  The fact that I’m getting a new roommate brings an unwelcome pang of sorrow. I haven’t spoken to Ramona since April, when I informed her I was done. Maybe we’ll sit down and talk one of these days, but right now, I’m looking forward to starting my sophomore year without her.

  As exasperating as my mom’s ambush makeovers were, she taught me several valuable lessons this summer. First and foremost—be confident. Second—be spontaneous. Third—the only opinion that matters is your own.

  I plan on incorporating Mom’s advice into my Sophomore Plan, which involves having fun, making new friends, and going out on dates.

  Oh, and not thinking about John Logan. That’s a critical component in the plan, because ever since I ran into him at the park last week, I haven’t been able to get him off my mind.

  I’m proud of myself for standing my ground, though. I was surprisingly anger-free when I saw him, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to trust him again. Besides, I’m Sophomore Grace now. I’m not easily dazzled anymore. If Logan is serious about us going out, I need a lot more than a gruff apology and a crooked grin. He’ll have to up his game, that’s for sure.

  The door swings open, and my back tenses as I turn to face my new roomie for the first time.

  She is…adorable. Except I’m fairly certain that not only is “adorable” the last word other people would use to describe her, but that if she heard me say it, she’d kick my ass. Nevertheless, it’s the first adjective that comes to mind, because she’s a tiny pixie of a girl. Well, if pixies had black hair with pink bangs, a multitude of piercings, and wore cute yellow sundresses paired with Doc Martens.

  “Hi,” she says cheerfully. “So you’re Grace, huh?”

  “Yep. And you’re Daisy…?”

  She grins as she closes the door behind her. “I know. The name doesn’t suit me. I think when they named me, my parents thought I’d grow up to be a Southern Belle like my mom, but much to their chagrin, they got this.” She gestures to herself from head to toe, then shrugs.

  I do hear a trace of the South in her voice, though, a very subtle drawl that adds to her easygoing attitude. I like her already.

  “I hope you don’t mind all the boxes. I flew in from Atlanta early this morning and haven’t had a chance to unpack yet.”

  “No worries. Do you need help unpacking?” I offer.

  Gratitude fills her eyes. “I’d love that. But it’ll have to wait until this evening. I just popped in to grab my iPad, and now I’m heading to the station.”

  “The station?”

  “Campus radio station,” she explains. “I host an indie rock show once a week, and produce two other ones. I’m a broadcasting and comm major.”

  “Oh, that’s cool. I was actually going to check if there are any available student jobs there,” I confess. “I was thinking of joining the school paper, but the guy I spoke to said their freelancer list is a mile long. And I don’t have an athletic or musical bone in my body, so sports and music is out, and all the other clubs I looked into sound insanely boring. Or plain nuts—did you know the environmental activist group on campus spends their weekends chaining themselves up to trees to protest all the townhouse developments that are being built in Hastings? And last year some chick got struck by lightning because she refused to unchain herself during a thunderstorm—” I stop abruptly, feeling my cheeks heat up. “For the sake of full disclosure, you should know I’m a babbler.”

  Daisy bursts out laughing. “Noted.”

  “You might find it endearing one day,” I say helpfully.

  “Don’t worry, I’m on board with the babbling. As long as you promise to be on board with my night terrors. Seriously, it’s brutal. I wake up screaming my lungs out and—kidding, Grace.” Her laughter is out of control now. “God, you should have seen the look on your face. I promise, no night terrors. But I have been told I talk in my sleep sometimes.”

  I snicker. “That’s fine. I’ll babble during the waking hours, you’ll babble in the sleeping hours. Match made in heaven.”

  Daisy unzips one of the suitcases on her bed and fishes around inside until she pulls out a bright pink iPad case. She tucks it into the khaki-green canvas bag that’s slung over her shoulder and glances at me. “Hey, if you’re serious about the extra-curricular thing, we actually are looking for people to help out at the station. There are a couple of open hosting slots, but I don’t think you’ll want them—it’s the graveyard shift. And if on-air stuff isn’t your style, we also need a producer for one of the talk shows.”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “It’s a call-in advice show. Monday evenings and Friday afternoons. You’d be screening calls, doing research for the hosts if they plan on talking about a specific topic, that kind of stuff.” She gives me an earnest look. “You know what? Why don’t you come with me right now? I’ll introduce you to Morris, the station manager, and you guys can talk.”

  I think it over, but it doesn’t take long to reach a decision. Daisy seems cool, and it wouldn’t hurt to talk to her station manager. Besides, I wanted to make new friends, right?

  Might as well start now.

  *

  Logan

  It’s good to be home. Not to rip off Dorothy or anything, but there really is no place like it. The irony doesn’t escape me, though—technically the house I stayed in all summer and just left last night is home. But I was never half as happy in Munsen as I am here in Hastings, in the house I’ve only been renting for two years.

  My first morning back, and I’m in such a terrific mood that I start the day off right by blasting Nappy Roots in the kitchen while I scarf down some cereal. The loud strains of “Good Day” draw the others from their bedrooms, and Garrett is the first to appear, clad in boxers and rubbing his eyes.

  “Morning, Sunshine,” he mumbles. “Please tell me you made some coffee.”

  I point to the counter. “Go nuts.”

  He pours himself a cup and plops down on one of the stools. “Did cartoon chipmunks dress you this morning?” he grumbles. “You’re scarily chipper.”

  “And you’re scarily grumpy. Smile, dude. It’s our favorite day of the year, remember?”

  AKA the first day of open tryouts for freshmen who weren’t recruited out of high school. The upperclassmen crash every year to scope out the prospective talent, because sadly, losing talented players is a fact of life when you play Briar hockey. Guys graduate, drop out, go pro. And since the team roster changes each year, we’re always eager to check out the incoming freshmen.

  Hopefully there’ll be some gems on the ice today, because the team’s in a world of trouble. We lost three of our best forwards—Birdie and Niko, who graduated, and Connor, who signed with the Kings. Our defense lost Rogers to Chicago, and two of our senior defensemen to graduation, which means Dean and I will likely be playing longer shifts, at least until some of the younger D-men get their shit together.

  But the biggest hit we took?

  Losing our goalie.

  Kenny Simms was…magic. Pure fucking magic in that crease. He was a freshman when Coach named him a starter, despite the fact that two senior goalies were already on the roster—the guy was that good. Now that he’s graduated, the fate of our team rests in the hands of a senior named Patrick, unless this freshmen crop somehow produces another Kenny Simms.

  “We should’ve bribed Simms’ profs to fail him,” Garrett says with a sigh, and I realize I’m not the only one worrying about Simms’ departure.

  “We’ll be okay,” I answer, rather unconvincingly.

  “No, we won’t,” comes Dean’s voice, and then he enters the kitchen and heads for the coffeemaker. “I doubt we’ll even make it to the post-seas
on. Not without Kenny.”

  “Ye of little faith,” Tucker chides, waltzing through the doorway.

  “Holy shit,” I blurt out. “You shaved the beard.” I glare at Garrett. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve thrown us a party.”

  Dean snickers. “You mean thrown him a party.”

  “No, he means us,” Garrett replies for me. “We’re the ones who had to stare at that ghastly thing for half a year.”

  I smack Tuck’s ass as he breezes past my stool. “Welcome back, Babyface.”

  “Fuck off,” he grumbles.

  Yup, it’s good to be home.

  An hour later, I rest my forearms on my knees, clasp my hands together, and lean forward to analyze the slap shot of a stocky freshman with curly red hair poking out the back of his helmet.

  “That one’s not bad,” I remark.

  “Who? Mullet Man?” Hollis calls from the end of the bleacher row we’ve congregated at. “Naah, he hasn’t impressed me yet.”

  Down on the ice, Coach is running a simple skate-and-shoot drill with the freshman hopefuls, who are decked out in either black or silver practice jerseys. And yeah, I know it’s only day one, but so far, I’m not too impressed either.

  Two at a time, the guys need to skate past the blue line, take a shot at net, then turn up the outer lane and skate hard through the neutral zone, where one of the ACs releases a pass that the skaters need to connect with. It’s not complicated at all, yet I’m seeing way too many dropped passes for my liking.

  The goalies are decent, at least. They’re not exuding any of that Simms magic, but they stop more pucks than they let in, which is promising.

  Beside me, Garrett whistles softly. “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  The next skater in the line takes off, and sweet mother of God, he’s fast. A dizzying streak of black against a backdrop of white as he tears toward the net. And the shot he releases—perfectly timed, perfectly executed, perfectly perfect.

  “He could fluke out,” Tucker warns, but twenty minutes later, the kid is still rocking the practice like Ozzy fucking Osbourne in a packed amphitheater.

  “Who is that?” Garrett demands.

  Hollis peeks over from the far seat. “No clue.”

  Pierre, a Canadian who joined us last season, leans in from the row behind us and taps Garrett’s shoulder. “Hunter something-or-other. He’s a rich kid from Connecticut, big star on his prep school team.”

  “If he’s that good, then why wasn’t he recruited?” Tucker asks dubiously. “What’s he doing at open tryouts?”

  “Half the colleges in the country tried recruiting him,” Pierre answers. “But apparently he wanted to quit hockey. Coach twisted his arm and convinced him to practice today, but even if he makes the cut, there’s a good chance he won’t wanna join the team.”

  “Oh, he’s joining the team,” Dean declares. “I don’t care if I have to suck his dick to get him to agree to it.”

  Laughter breaks out all around him.

  “Sucking dick now, are we?” I ask pleasantly.

  An evil gleam lights his eyes. “You know what? I won’t just suck it,” he says slowly. “I’ll suck him off. You know, give him an orgasm.”

  The other guys exchange mystified looks, but Dean’s mocking look tells me exactly where he’s going with this. Jackass.

  “I’m not sure if you all know this, but an orgasm is the point of completion in the pleasure process.” Dean gives me an innocent smile. “Men and women achieve it in different ways. For example, when a woman reaches completion, she might moan or gasp or—”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Garrett interrupts.

  Mr. Innocent bats his baby-greens. “I thought you guys might need a refresher course in orgasms.”

  “I think we’re good,” Tuck says with a snort.

  “You sure? Nobody has any questions?” He’s grinning at me as he voices the question, and when the guys turn their attention back to the ice, I jab him in the ribs. Hard.

  “Jeez, John, I’m trying to be helpful. You could learn a lot from me. No woman has ever been able to resist my natural charm.”

  “You know who else had natural charm?” I retort. “Ted Bundy.”

  Dean dons a blank look. “Who?”

  “The serial killer.” Oh Jesus, I’ve jumped on the Bundy bandwagon. I’m turning into Grace.

  Great. And now I’m thinking about Grace. I’ve been forcing myself not to since she shot me down last week, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get her out of my head.

  Is it an ego thing? I keep asking myself whether it is, because I honestly can’t remember the last time I obsessed this hard over a chick. Am I only interested in her because she’s not interested in me? I like to think I’m not that arrogant, but I can’t deny the rejection stings.

  I want another chance. I want to show her I’m not some heartless asshole who was just using her for a little B&B, but I have no idea how to change her mind. Flowers maybe? A big public groveling?

  “Hey, ass-hats!”

  We bolt to our feet when Coach Jensen’s commanding voice snaps toward the bleachers. Our fearless leader—the only Briar faculty member who can get away with calling students “ass-hats”—glares at us from the ice.

  “Is there a reason your lazy asses are up in those seats when you should all be in the weight room?” he booms. “Quit stalking my practice!” Then he turns to scowl at the trio of freshmen who are snickering behind their gloves. “What’re you ladies laughing at? Hustle!”

  The players speed forward as if the ice behind them is cracking to pieces.

  Up in the stands, the guys and I hustle just as fast.

  20

  Grace

  As the first week of the semester comes to an end, I finally hear from Ramona again. And after months of ignoring her, I finally pick up the phone.

  It’s time to see her in person. I’m not particularly enthusiastic about meeting for coffee, but I can’t freeze her out forever. There’s too much history between us, too many good memories I can’t pretend aren’t there. But this meet-up is for clearing-the-air purposes only, I assure myself as I walk across campus. We’re not going to be best buds again. I’m not sure we can be after what she did.

  It’s not about her sext to Logan. It’s about what the sext indicates—her blatant disregard for my feelings and her coldhearted dismissal of our friendship. A real friend doesn’t proposition the guy who hurt her best friend. A real friend puts her own selfish desires aside and offers her support.

  Thirty minutes after we get off the phone, I enter the Coffee Hut and join Ramona at a table near the window.

  “Hi.” She greets me shyly. Fearfully, almost. She looks exactly the same as the last time I saw her, black hair loose around her shoulders, curvy body wrapped in tight clothing. When she notices my hair, her eyes widen. “You went blonde,” she squeaks.

  “Yeah. My mom talked me into it.” I sink into the chair across from hers. A part of me is tempted to hug her, but I fight the urge.

  “That’s for you.” She gestures to one of the coffees on the table. “I just got here, so it’s still hot.”

  “Thanks.” I curl both hands around the cup, the heat of the Styrofoam rippling into my palms. I just hiked across campus in eighty-degree weather, but suddenly I feel cold. Nervous.

  An awkward silence stretches between us.

  “Grace…” Her throat dips with a visible gulp. “I’m sorry.”

  I sigh. “I know.”

  A sliver of hope peeks through the cloud of despair in her eyes. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

  “No, it means I know you’re sorry.” I pop open the plastic lid and take a sip of the coffee, then make a face. She forgot the sugar. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, and yet it’s simply another sign that my best friend is attuned to nothing about me. Not my feelings, not even my coffee preferences.

  I grab two sugar packets from the little plastic t
ray, tear them open, and dump their contents into the cup. As I use the skinny wooden stick to stir the hot liquid, I watch Ramona’s expression change from slightly hopeful to decidedly upset.

  “I’m a shitty friend,” she whispers.

  I offer no argument.

  “I shouldn’t have sent him that message. I don’t even know why I did—” She stops abruptly, shame reddening her cheeks. “No, I do know why. Because I’m a jealous, insecure bitch.”

  Again, no argument there.

  “You really don’t get it, do you?” she blurts out when I remain silent. “Everything comes so easy for you. You get straight A’s without even trying, you land the hottest guy on campus without—”

  “Easy?” I interrupt, an edge to my voice. “Yeah, I have the grades, but that’s because I study my ass off. And guys? Remember high school, Ramona? It’s not like I had a booming social calendar back then. Or now, for that matter.”

  “Because you’re as insecure as I am. You let your nerves get the best of you, but even when you’re all nervous and babbly, people still like you. They like you from the moment they meet you. That doesn’t happen to me.” She bites her lower lip. “I have to work so hard for it. The only reason anyone even noticed me in high school was because I was the bad girl. I smoked weed and dressed slutty and guys knew that if they asked me out, they’d make it to at least second base.”

  “You didn’t exactly try to discourage that.”

  “No. Because I liked the attention.” Her teeth dig harder into her lip. “I didn’t care if it was good attention or bad attention—I just liked being noticed. And that makes me really fucking pathetic, huh?”

  Sorrow climbs up my spine. Or maybe it’s pity. Ramona is the most confident person I’ve ever met, and hearing her rag on herself like this makes me want to cry.

  “You’re not pathetic.”

  “Well, I’m not a good friend, either,” she says woodenly. “I was so fucking jealous of you, Grace. I’ve always been the one who goes out with the hotties and asks for your advice, and suddenly you’re talking to me about having sex with John frickin’ Logan, and I was so consumed with jealousy I wanted to scream. And when the Logan thing exploded in your face…” Guilt flashes in her eyes. “It made me feel…relieved. And kind of smug, I guess. And then I got it into my head that if I was the one hooking up with him, there’s no way he would have rejected me, and…yeah, so I messaged him.”