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“So stop agreeing.”

“We’re not agreeing.” Koda drops onto the end of my bed, uninvited, and opens his chips. “We just both hate Raygoza more. And he’s got that little girlfriend who waits for him after skates. I bet she’d love to hear what a rat looks like up close.”

“Berwyn is going to kill all of us.”

“Berwyn can’t practice us for a month,” Rafe says. “What’s he going to do, stare?”

“Yes,” I say. “For an hour.”

Koda eats a chip. “He can stare at me. I’ve been stared at.”

Rafe is on his bed with his cracked stick and his mean smile. Koda is on mine, getting chip dust on my comforter, still red along the jaw. Neither of them likes me, and they’ve both made that clear. They also both spent dinner finding out which one of our teammates ratted and what he drives.

“Get off my bed,” I tell Koda.

“No.”

“Crumbs.”

“The brunette left crumbs.”

“Friday,” Rafe says. “Ten minutes.”

“Twenty,” Koda says. “Rafe timed it today.”

“You two talk about this?”

“You’re a quick fuck,” Rafe says.

I close my laptop. Four hundred and twelve words on organizational leadership, and I’m not writing any more of them tonight. My laundry has been in the dryer since three. I stand up and grab my empty laundry bag.

“Where are you going?” Koda asks.

“Laundry.”

I shut the door behind me, and through it I hear Rafe say, “Twenty bucks it’s the blonde,” and Koda say, “Forty,” and then they’re arguing about something else.

The hallway is quiet. I push the stairwell door open. The step is empty, and I take the stairs down.

5

The Lobby Can Absolutely Get Worse

Kylie

Evan: I’m here. Lobby.

I made it as far as the third-floor stairwell before my stomach gave out. I sat down on the step to catch my breath, and when I looked up, the asshole from the laundry room was standing in front of me. I laughed like an insane person. I couldn’t help it. Now he’s gone, and I’m still sitting here with my phone pressed to my chest.

I wipe my face on my sleeve one more time and go down.

Evan is on one of the couches in the Corvin Hall lobby when I get to the bottom of the stairs, and for one stupid second all I see is that he cut his hair. Just around the sides, close enough that there’s a pale strip of skin above his ears where the sun didn’t get all summer. He’s had the same haircut for years. He always gets it two weeks later than he should, after complaining that it’s getting long, and he doesn’t have time. He must have gone this weekend. After.

He stands up when he sees me, and my chest nearly gives again, because all I can see is his mouth on hers. My hand tightens against my side.

“Hey,” he says.

I stop a few feet away. He looks tired. Any other day, I’d ask how late he stayed up and tell him an energy drink after dinner isn’t healthy. I’d reach up and flatten the piece of hair at his crown that never lies right after a cut, because he never notices it and always ducks his head so I can reach. It’s sticking up now. I fold my arms and keep them folded.