“Really.”
“Yes,” he says before looking at his watch. The order of these actions should’ve been reversed, no?
“There is a catch, though.”
His eyes shift. Probably wary of me. Who wouldn’t be? I’m a strange upperclassman dressed as Santa and smelling of Smirnoff. I hold my hands up. “It’s not a weird catch. I promise. I left my phone here last night and I, uh, don’t exactly remember where I put it.”
I should probably be offended when he snorts at me before saying, “Sure, yeah. I’ll help you.”
Inside, I lead cute, curly-haired Quinn through the original dining room and downstairs to the basement taproom. To fill the space, I tell Quinn about our affinity groups, which hold meetingsweekly or biweekly in the clubhouse. Black and Ivy. Latin y Ivy. “Queer and Ivy,” I say. I’m being deliberately leading. I glance back over my shoulder to catch his reaction.
“Cool.” He smiles to himself. Eyes focused on the stairs beneath him. “I’d probably join that one.” I turn back so if he does look up, he doesn’t catch the unbridled glee that has cracked open my expression. My heart weirdly feels like a harp being plucked.
It’s not until we’re on the second floor, digging around in the TV room, that I get a bright idea. “Hey, do you have your phone on you?”
He pulls it out of the pocket of his well-worn, mauve-colored tweed coat. It’s ratty at the elbows. “Yeah. Why?”
“Can I call myself on it?”
As the call connects, a ring emanates from the couch. I fish my hand between the cushions. That’s when I remember that I came up here last night with the long-haired freshman to make out.
The memory embarrasses me. Heat floods my cheeks. I’m hit with two wishes. One, that I looked and felt better so Quinn wasn’t seeing me like this. Two, that I hadn’t found my phone just yet, so Quinn had a reason to stay.
But finals are coming up. I have nothing left to show him. I severely need a shower. And probably a strong swig of mouthwash to boot. Ultimately, I escort him back outside into the cold.
“Glad you found your phone.”
“Glad you were outside to help me.”
He nods. He smiles. It’s charmingly crooked.
“Guess I’ll see you during Street Week?” It’s the official time when sophomores do meet-and-greets before bickering. I find it both hectic and fun. It would be even more so if Quinn was there.
“Definitely,” he says. He wishes me good luck on my finals before turning to go in the opposite direction.
I’m overrun with this urge to call after him and suggest we renege on our obligations while the day is still young. We could spendthe next twenty-four hours together getting to know each other like I want to.
But again, I have a mountain of work waiting for me back in my residence hall. There’s also a new text in my inbox reading,Hey Santa. Where’d you disappear to?From the long-haired freshman I fled from this morning.
I don’t take a chance or call after Quinn.
Instead, I make a U-turn, hopelessly ponderingwhat could have beenthe whole walk back to my dorm.
4IF YOU CAN’T STAND THE HEAT…QUINN
1 DAY ’TIL CHRISTMAS
It’s after nineP.M.on Christmas Eve. I should not be at war with a ham.
“Can you believe I have to bake this ham the night before we even eat it?” I ask Veronica, my best friend and fellow second-grade teacher. She’s on FaceTime with me as I try to make heads or tails of this maple-glazed baked ham recipe Patrick’s mom sent me without much guidance. There are too many steps, and I’m scared I’m going to do it wrong and ruin Christmas like Patrick said. “I didn’t read the instructions early enough to do this at a reasonable time. This is my longest break of the year, and I’ve spent it vacuuming, dusting, decorating, and now I’m making a whole damn feast. If this was a school night, I’d be winding down already. Instead, I’m cosplaying Ina Garten!”
I’ve already removed the rind on this ham, which involved a knife, some peeling, and a whole lot of cringing. This poor pig. My poor hands.
“Why can’t you do all this tomorrow? It takes a few hours but it’s not like you’re slow-cooking it.” Veronica is Jewish, so Christmas preparations are always confounding to her. Her family’s Hanukkah celebrations are small—latkes, lighting the menorah, a gift or two—and her Christmases are spent watching all the pending Oscar contenders at the mostly empty movie theater with hermom. “I’m genuinely asking. I know nothing about ham. I don’t eat it.”
“Apparently if I want tobe a present host,I should do it tonight so all I have to do is reheat it tomorrow and baste, baste, baste!” I find it hilarious that Mrs. Hargrave’s handwritten instructions read so much like her speaking voice, right down to her love of repetition. “I feel so nineteen-fifties.”
“It doesn’t help that your house is practically that old,” she jokes. On the other end of the call, she’s crocheting an olive-green beanie for the woman she likes who tends bar at our favorite haunt, the Loose Nail. We’d usually be there on Christmas Eve sharing a pitcher and wings while a drag queen in a Mrs. Claus costume sings “Santa Baby,” but alas.
