Chapter
4
After more heaving and hauling, we manage to get allthree of my bags up to the third floor. Dev insists on going first this time.
“Huan!” Dev yells down the hall. A boy turns and waves. His black hair is short and spiked and he’s wearing a shirt with the lettersKRNFXon it. No clue what that means, but I’m thrilled to see his welcoming expression.
“Where’ve you been?” Huan asks, coming toward him. “I thought you got lost.”
“Ellie decided to block the stairs with her freighter-sized bags, so I helped her out.”
Huan blinks at me before the shine of recognition sparks in his eyes. “Oh, hey.”
He cuts a glance at Dev and it’s clear Huan has seen the infamous video too. My stomach clenches.
“Uh, how’s it going?” he asks as he takes one of my bags and continues up the next set of stairs. “Did you have a good flight?”
I hesitate, but he smiles encouragingly at me and I feel slightlybetter. Just because people saw what happened at Andy’s party doesn’t mean they’re all going to have a snarky comment.
“I’m so jet-lagged,” I reply. “I stayed up watching movies.”
Huan nods at Dev. “We did too. Didn’t sleep at all. I know we have the same ones at home but it was still awesome. I don’t know the last time I watched movies nonstop like that.” He chuckles. “But I’m dying now.”
“Worth it. We had to live it up while we could,” Dev chimes in.
I notice he’s perfectly capable of lifting my bag up the steps now. He must have been struggling before just to goad me.
“That’syour definition of living it up?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Yep. I don’t think we’re going to have another seven-hour stretch here that doesn’t include studying or sleep.”
“Huh.”
There’s a reason why I never talked to Dev or Huan or anyone else on this trip at Waterford. These are the kids vying for a tenth of a point advantage in their GPA and deciding if they want to apply to both Harvard and Yale. I wasn’t close to meeting the academic criteria to come here—3.75 GPA minimum and honor roll for the last year—but it turns out that the program director was willing to take an underprepared student as long as it meant more tuition money.
“We better have some free time around here,” Huan says to Dev. “If I don’t practice every day then I’m never going to get better.”
“Practice what?” We finally make it to the fourth floor and I’m so worn out I have to force myself not to lie down on the floral carpet.
“Huan’s a part-time rapper,” Dev replies with the same Cheshire grin from before.
“I don’trap.” Huan shoves Dev good-naturedly. “I beatbox.”
“What’s that?”
Dev groans. “Annndthat’s all it takes...”
Huan loudly clears his throat. Then he starts making music with his mouth. He’s not singing—it’s more like the beats in the background of a rap song. Some students in the hallway turn, a few smiling like they were expecting it, and he waves and keeps going. My mouth drops into an O. It’s the coolest freaking thing I’ve ever heard.
“Whoa! How do you do that?”
“Practice,” Dev explains when Huan doesn’t stop. “All. The. Time. It’s like walking around with your own unwelcome soundtrack blaring.”
Huan stops and someone down the hall claps. “I started when I was young. It helped my anxiety to have something to focus on.”
“Well, it’s awesome.”
“Thanks. So, what room are you in?”
