She glares. “First thing my momma told me was to never take a drink from a frat boy at a party.”
I shrug. “Good job I’m not a frat boy.”
“Where you from?” she asks as she takes the cup and puts her nose right in it to give it a sniff.
“Germany. And I don’t think Rohypnol has a scent.”
With a raised eyebrow, she dumps the contents of my drink into a poor, unsuspecting rubber plant.
Good, she’s saved me a job.“How about you?”
“Huh?”
“Where are you from?”
“Oh. Guess.” She grins.
“The south.”
The eye roll is so dramatic, I wonder if it hurts. The cup has been deposited on a nearby table and a slow clap follows. People turn to look, but my new friend doesn’t seem to care.
“Are you from Texas?” I ask.
She huffs. “South Texas,” she says. “But you ain’t getting points for that. Everyone thinks of Texas when they think of the south.”
“Do they?”
“Yes.”
“What about Mississippi and Alabama? Actually, I think one of my teammates is from Texas …”
“A jock, huh? Glad I dumped that beer now.”
“What do you have against jocks? I thought your boyfriend plays hockey?”
“He does.” Her face lights up. “But he’s already been through the screening process. He’s just a big, cuddly bear with a heart of gold.”
Listening to her talk about her boyfriend makes that sensation arise in my chest—the one I feel whenever someone gushes about my brother’s talent and success and the fact he’s marrying a supermodel next summer.
“I’m Joelle, by the way.” She holds her hand out for me to shake, exposing chipped, blood red nail polish and big rings with colorful stones.
“Elias.”
She repeats the name like it’s the first time she’s ever heard it.
“So, you got your eye on any frat boys?” she asks.
“They’re not really my type.”
“Oh? What is your type?”
I shrug. “I don’t really know. I just know it’s not frat boys.”
I ask Joelle about her courses and discover that she’s taking Introduction to Psychology like me. She has a nice, melodic voice and a good sense of humor. To my surprise, I realize I’m not having a terrible time.
Across the room, Ben is talking to a few other guys from the tennis team. He’s holding a cup of this piss that passes for beer here but he’s not drinking—which isn’t strange, considering how it tastes. But what is strange is how he keeps looking over at Nate and his boyfriend with this sad, kicked puppy dog expression on his face. Something clicks, and I can’t stop myself from saying “oh” out loud.
“What?” Joelle asks.
