“Of course.” She rolls her eyes and steps across the room; it falls into darkness as she flips the switch. “And for the record…”
I know what’s coming.
“I told you so.”
“Uh-huh. It means nothing. He’s just being nice because he’s my brother’s—”
“Why didn’t your brother show up?”
“He’s mad.” I sigh. “When Joe’s mad, he stays away.”
“You’re kidding yourself, Becks. I’m right about this. Wait and see, young grasshopper. Wait and see.”
Young grasshopper? WTH?
4
Becklyn
Deena was wrong.
I waited. I didn’t see a thing. Not Lucky. Not Joe. Nobody. Not for three weeks and counting, because it’s been three weeks and two days since my March 17 humiliation. Rest assured, my ankle healed even without the wonderful doctoring of one Lucky Ganetti. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. Take using the bathroom. It was a nightmare hobbling down the long hallway to the one and only bathroom on our floor. Luckily, one of the women who lives on the floor, a volleyball player, loaned me a pair of crutches. Good thing they were adjustable, because that girl istall.
My ankle is better now. Except for a twinge of pain every once in a while, I’m once again a fully functioning college student. It was touch-and-go there for a while. I was this close to renting one of those motorized lark things that you see in the grocery stores, but I decided that’d be bad form. Those scooters are for people who really need them. Besides, I can’t afford to rentanything.
“I decided I’d like to have the room to myself this weekend.”
And here I was thinking Denna forgot about our wager. Guess not. “Saturday, I presume.”
Deena giggles like I just said something hilarious. “Youpresume—” She giggles again. “—correctly. There’s going to be a rager at the Kappa Kappa Sigma house, and I’m not coming home empty-handed.”
What she means is, she’s bringing a guy home.
If that’s the case, I’ll be glad to stay away. No way do I want to be in the same room when she has one of her one-night stands here. Nuh-uh. “Okay.” I sigh, wondering where I’m going to go.
“I’ve got ageniusidea.” She’s playing with her ponytail and tapping her foot.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Next, she brings her hands up in front of her and taps her fingers together like she’s diabolical or something. “You should totally call your brother. You could stay at his place.” Winking, she adds, “With you-know-who.”
Diabolical. Yes. Genius. No.
“Uh, that’s not going to happen.” Where would I sleep? There are three bedrooms and three guys. All that remains is his spidery basement and the couch, and I can only imagine what’s on that. I shiver, because that thought alone is frightening.
“Just call your bro. He’s talking to you again, right?”
I guess she’s right. He sent me a text message about a week after the “incident” asking me if I was okay. I responded posthaste that I was, which resulted in his final text. Oh, wait, I guess he sicced my mom on me. He must’ve called her and told her I was at his party and that I’d gotten myself hurt.
I scoff at the memory. I gotmyselfhurt?
I think not.
That’s all the fault of that exceptionally tall guy.
Anyhoo, my mom wasn’t pleased. But, after I explained that Joe did nothing to help me afterwards and that it was all Lucky, she turned her irritation back onto Joe.
Joe-Schmo:You suck. Mom’s pissed at ME now.
