–Mom: I’ll see what I can do. I have some friends in Napa.
I hope she isn’t making empty promises. She does that often, then claims she “forgot.” I don’t care if she can’t give me sympathy, but I need results.
Just as I put the phone down, Heath and Will erupt.
“All right! So we’re all in!” Will says with glee, looking at me and Heath.
“In what?” I ask.
“The bet to see who can sleep with Aspen before the semester’s over.”
“Aspen who?” My mind immediately goes to my Culture and Music in History partner. But she’s probably too smart to bother with these two.
“Aspen Hughes,” Will says, pointing at the bandage on Heath’s face. “The girl Heath wanted to bang but crashed and burned with.”
Well, well.My esteem for her goes up several notches. Heath has the manners of an orangutan when he’s around a girl he wants to screw. For some inexplicable reason, he believes that’ll get them to give it up.
“She should’ve been grateful I bothered. She’s just a cheap bitch! Ask anybody,” Heath grouses.
Well. If he asks me, I’m going to say she’s worth more than both his balls and his prized Porsche put together. But he doesn’t ask.
He continues, “Like I said, I got a new angle going, and it’s solid.”
I’m glad I wasn’t paying attention. His “angle” has to be moronic. Besides, if you need an angle to get chicks, you’re already doomed.
“I doubt either of you will be able to fuck her before the semester’s over. She’s a real ice queen.” His tone says there’s no way we’re better than him.
I shrug. It’s not worth the effort to tell them I’m not interested in the bet, especially with Will and Heath looking at me like pulling out isn’t an option. None of us are going to sleep with her before the semester’s over—and a week from now, none of us will even remember this conversation.
Chapter Three
Aspen
After my lunch shift ends at the café on Sunday, I head to my dorm. I got lucky this year and managed to grab a single room at Howell Hall—no sharing with anybody! Having another roommate like Sadie would make me want to mix myself an industrial-strength bleach cocktail.
Of course, hearing that I live there makes most of the kids wince in sympathy…or snigger. Howell Hall is at the edge of the campus and was built when the college was founded. And it shows in the old, crumbling exterior. Moss actually grows on the shaded side. Everyone calls itHovelHall, and some frat boys filled in the second V in the W in the engraved hall name over the main door, so it reads HOV ELL. They were probably too drunk to remember how to spell “hovel” and so left the second L. The administration never fixed the name, but they updated the security on the door, so people who don’t live there can’t just go in and out.
I take the stairs to the second floor, where the girls’ rooms are. There’s a common lounge with a kitchenette for everyone on the floor. Three worn couches in sage and purple—the school colors—sit flush against the gray tiled walls. A big window wraps around the corner, providing natural light, and a table that can accommodate five or six students is in the section opposite the window.
I wave at Suyen, who occupies the room directly across from mine. Currently she’s reclining on one of the couches and reading a huge paperback. She prefers to spend as much time as possible in the lounge because of her claustrophobia. Our rooms are just big enough for a twin bed, a small wardrobe with a single drawer underneath and a desk. Having two guests over would violate the fire code for overcrowding.
Suyen was the first real friend I made on campus. Her family moved to San Jose from Datong, China when she was seven. She got into Yale, but turned it down to come here. The move apparently didn’t go over well with her parents, who expected her to become a doctor or a lawyer. If all else fails, she might opt for engineering. But that would be a last resort—her dream in life is to run a vineyard.
Her phone pings. She doesn’t bother to check it.
“Hey, girl. You done at the café?” she says, putting the book down on her flat belly, the pages still open.The Enchanting History of Champagne.
“Yup.”
Her phone pings three more times. “You working again later?”
“No.” Her phone pings a fifth time. “Shouldn’t you answer that?”
“Nope. It’s just my parents, wanting to see if I’ve course-corrected. I don’t have to read their texts to know what they’re saying.” She puts her hands on her hips and frowns exaggeratedly, her shoulders raised in mock indignation. “‘Suyen-ya, we aren’t spending hundreds of thousands of dollars so you can be a grape farmer!’” She shakes her head. “It’s so clichéd, it’s embarrassing.”
“They probably just want the best for you.” I met her parents a few times last semester. They seem strict but caring. And incredibly worried that she’s starving because her mom brought four giant Tupperware containers full of food, while Suyen protested she’d gained five pounds since she started college.
Her mom, wisely, didn’t believe her. I wouldn’t have, either. Suyen could make a chopstick look fat.
