When she turns to leave, I tell her to wait. To my surprise, she does, but I lose the courage to ask for her number — the first girl I’vewantedto ask in awhile. But she’s waiting for me to say something, so I scramble to find something else to say.
“Welcome to Halden,” I say.
Stay away from her,I tell myself, as I walk away.
I’ve got the Shelton paper, Gavin to deal with, a sister I need to make sure has arrived in one piece, and a freshman I just talked off a ledge. And that’s just the items at the top of the list, because there’s always more, so there’s no time for dating.
But I can’t help but replay the laugh, that one second before she caught herself, bright with the ridiculousness of it.
I smile at the thought.
three
SLOANE
The student sectionis already a full-contact sport and the puck hasn’t even dropped yet.
I’m wedged between Ivy and a boy in a Halden Hockey beanie who has very strong opinions about how terrible the team’s backup goalie is. As Ivy and I try to have a conversation, The Den hums with noise and energy, and even though it’s a pre-season practice game, it feels like a playoff game.
“You are so overdressed,” Ivy says happily. She’s in a vintage Halden Ravens navy hoodie that’s two sizes too big over a skirt I could fit in a pocket. “Like, depressingly.”
“I’m not overdressed.” I look down at my outfit, pretend I don’t, and ultimately concede that I am overdressed. “This is a casual sweater.”
“A cashmere casual sweater…”
“It’s a blend.”
“Uh-huh.”
A group of boys behind us starts a Ravens chant, but it doesn’t catch.
“We should have sat in the upper rows,” I say, turning to look at them. “It feels a bit… overzealous… down here.”
Ivy scoffs like I’ve proposed attending mass. “It’s the student section. We’re students. This is where we’re supposed to be.”
“Hey, I can make my own decisions.” I bristle at her. “I don’t always need to go with the crowd…”
“Okay.” Ivy turns to me with the expression of someone about to deliver a performance review. “Let’s recap the week,” she says.
My brain serves up the courtyard boy again — Monday, the whole blue-eyes-and-chiseled torso combo, and two minutes of conversation. The moment has flashed back countless times this week, and I still don’t know what to think about that.
“Let’s not,” I say instead.
“Number of clubs joined, Sloane?”
“Four.” I set my jaw. “Which is a reasonable number.”
“Four in four days.”
“Spread across my interests.”
“Your interests.” She’s grinning. “Swimming… garden club… literary magazine…”
“I like plants… and books… and water…”
“Pre-law club.”
“I like… structure.”
