My insides clench, but I raise my glass as well and do a silent salute to Pen for sticking with me.
One corner of Coach’s lips curls and he raises his glass higher. “May this chicken be the last one you dance with.”
At that, Rhodes tosses me my feathered bride. I catch it with one arm while the guys cackle and “Rocket Man” starts playing on the speakers. Jelly produces a purple fur coat from somewhere and drapes it over my shoulders. Up until now, they haven’t fully razzed me about the incident, and I suppose I’m due.
So I laugh. Because itisfunny. It’s also expected of me. I can’t let them see the panic stirring in my chest. I didn’t fully consider this end of my arrangement with Pen. March is completely right on one account: When it comes to Penelope, I stop thinking clearly. My focus has become her—being with her, getting to know these new facets of her personality. She makes me forget my worries and responsibilities.
Even now, when I’m shepherded to a seat and plied with pink cupcakes—honestly who did this??—and treated with slaps on the shoulders, and good-natured jokes, some part of me is still thinking about Pen. I’ll tell her about this, show her the selfies I’m taking with my crew—ridiculous crown tilted on my head—just to watch her smile, hear her laugh. I want that. I want that as much as I want to win the title.
Even as we take off, the force of it pushing me back in my seat, soaring up and heading home, part of me is already on the ground in LA. With her.
Logic tells me that should be concerning. But the only thing floating around in my head is:I can’t wait.
I can’t fucking wait.
Pen
Expect the unexpected. Isn’t that what they say? The phrase never made much sense to me, since how are we supposed to suspect something that never enters our minds? Or maybe it’s that we should always be on the lookout for surprises?
Either way, Ishouldhave expected attention after August’s postgame presser. He warned me my life would change. Tempting fate, I shooed that concern away as though it were a fantasy, something that would happen to other girls. Certainly not me.
Fate must be having a good laugh right about now.
It takes me a bit to notice. Ordinarily a walk across the quad on my way to class soothes me. The Romanesque architecture of UCLA’s four original buildings are all a little different in style but share a similar fairy-tale beauty, with their soft pinkish bricks, mullioned windows, Moorish and Gothic touches. I could be anywhere—a merchant’s stronghold in Milan, an ancient library in Spain, a basilica in Florence. It stirs my imagination every time.
It does today too. Only, while I’m strolling along, mentally prepping for my first day of class, others are turning their heads and watching me pass. At first, I only notice on the edges of my consciousness, little prickles of warning that something isn’t right. It takes accidental eye contact with a guy lifting his phone in my direction to take a picture for me to truly feel the change.
The first thought:What am I doing that warrants a photo?
Surreptitiously, I glance down at myself, the horror that I might have forgotten to put on pants making my heart thud. But, the pants are on—soft drapey gray trousers paired with a burgundy knit sweater T because I like to dress professionally for class. Maybe that’s it? I’m too dressed? But no, I always dress like this. Why take a snapshot now? I can’t check my face, but I desperately want to.
Picturing a gargantuan zit on my forehead or perhaps lipstick that somehow migrated all over my face, I duck my head and hurry to class.
This is my final semester and I’ve taken it easy on myself, saving interesting classes to fill out my requirements for last. This class, History of Classic Film, should be fun.
Should be.
Only... as soon as I make my way to an empty seat, everyone—except a girl in back who hasn’t lifted her face from her phone—looks my way. Eyes follow me as I walk. I feel like Tippi Freaking Hedren creeping past a murder of crows inThe Birds.
Holy crap, whatisthe issue?
August’s warning turns over in my head even as I sit and have a quick glance at my face using my phone’s camera. Face clear and the same as always, I know with the certainty of a rock sinking to the bottom of a lake that he’d been right.
A guy takes the desk directly in front of me and promptly turns in his seat to gape. “You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Her?”Playing ignorant will work, right?
“August Luck’s girl.”
Man, that sounds so strange.
“It’s her,” another guy says, holding up his phone like he has proof. I guess he does. I can see the flickers of August and me holding hands in the clip he’s been watching. He gives me a triumphant look. “I recognized you as soon as he said your name.”
This class is made up of seniors and juniors all in similar majors. I recognize most of them too. But I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t know their names. I’ve always simply attended class, listened to the professor, done the work, and left.
Phone guy, with his mop of brown curls and oversize Rams sweatshirt might be Brian or Brad. Definitely aBname. Doesn’t really matter. Mr. B and his friend... Dwight? Dwayne?—look at me expectantly.
“I . . . ah . . . I’m Penelope.”
