Rites of Spring (5 page)

I waited a few seconds before opening the door, so they wouldn’t realize I had been right behind it. “Yes?”

“Brandon called.”

I blinked. I hadn’t known what Lydia wanted with me, but a phone message from my ex-boyfriend and ex-friend-with-benefits (if not ex-friend, full stop) was not at all what I’d expected. Brandon never called. In fact, the last time I’d spoken to him at any length, he had said the ball was in my court as far as future contact went.

It was a ball I’d dropped, as Brandon’s Amy-free life seemed to make him perfectly happy, and Brandon’s very non-Amy girlfriend was beautiful, accomplished, crazy about him, and singularly unimpressed with me.

“What did he want?” I asked, or rather, croaked. My mouth had gone inexplicably dry in the last two seconds.

“Um…to talk to you?” She pointed at the phone. “You still have his number, right?”

Yes, I still had his number. And I still had a lot of baggage to lug around regarding our broken relationship. After sleeping together for several months last spring, Brandon had finally talked me into becoming his girlfriend for real, only to discover that I was no more committed to him than I’d been when I hadn’t called him my boyfriend, and he broke it off.

I’d been more hurt by the loss of his companionship than by anything else. He’d mostly kept his distance ever since, but every time we did see each other, the air was charged with unfinished business.

My hand hovered indecisively over the phone, as if each of my fingers had taken a vote, decided that calling Brandon would be a poor plan, and mutinied. “It’s probably too late.”

“It’s barely eleven,” Lydia replied. “Early evening in college time.”

I willed my fingers to retrieve the phone then beat a hasty retreat into my bedroom.

“See what I mean?” I heard Lydia say as I shut the door.

I’d show her. I dialed his cell phone from memory, and Brandon picked up on the first ring.

“Hi, Amy.”

I was so unprepared, I couldn’t think of a response. “You rang?” Ugh. Well, that was rude of me. Not even a
Hi, Brandon, how was your Winter Break?
No wonder his girlfriend thinks I’m a bitch.

“Yes, I did, though I should have known you wouldn’t be home. It’s Sunday, after all.” He chuckled. Everyone on campus knew that Sunday nights were secret society meeting nights.

Time to get back on subject. “So, what’s up?” I kept my tone light. “Have a good break?” There. I could be polite.

“Wonderful. Felicity and I went to Tahoe.”

“Oh,” I said, and dropped onto my bed. “Nice.”

“Her family has a house out there. I was worried that I’d embarrass myself on the slopes, since she’s been skiing since birth, but…you’d never believe it. Did you know I’m a naturally talented skier?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“I had no idea.” But it didn’t surprise me. Brandon was a natural at whatever he put his mind to. It was one of the things that made him so attractive. That and his complete lack of pretense. He was brilliant, but didn’t brag, popular, but not cliquish, comfortable in his skin, and utterly forthright about his needs and desires.

I know what you’re thinking:
You idiot, Amy.
It’s okay. I think that often enough myself.

“What were you up to?” he asked.

“The usual: family, carols, tree, stockings, too much fruitcake.”

“Any fruitcake is too much.”

“Agreed…I went to a party with some friends in Manhattan for New Year’s.”

“Nice. Anyone I know?”

“Maybe,” I said coyly. It was indeed possible he knew some of the Diggers in a barbarian capacity, but I wasn’t about to name names.

All in all, I was starting to feel okay about the conversation. Maybe we could move beyond our shared past and be friends, the way we used to be before we’d made the mistake of sleeping with each other. Once upon a time, he’d been among my closest college chums. But that was before Rose & Grave. Now I wasn’t sure anyone could take the place of my society brothers in my heart.

“So…” He hesitated. “I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch sometime soon. We have a lot to talk about.”

“We do.”

He was silent for a moment. “I mean, I heard through the grapevine you’re going out for some fellowships this semester. I am, too. I thought maybe we could help each other with our applications.”

Oh.
“That would be great,” I choked out. But it would also be an exercise in humility. Last time Brandon and I had been in competition for something (the editorship of the
Eli Literary Magazine
), he’d almost beat me out
while
finishing a huge project for his Applied Math major. Seriously, the guy had brains in his toe joints. “You think you want to keep studying literature?”

“No, these are math fellowships. I just thought—”

“Yes. Sounds great,” I said, before he could change his mind. Whatever it took. The opportunity to hang out with Brandon was not easy to come by these days.

But why did he want to work with me instead of with Felicity?

“Good.” He sighed into the phone, as if he’d been holding his breath. “How about lunch tomorrow? I’m free at noon. Want to meet at Calvin College?”

His college’s dining hall. Interesting choice. There was a decided connotation associated with the location and timing of a dining hall date, and modern Eli students recognized the distinctions as easily as their forebears once understood the difference between events that called for them to dress in morning coats, dinner jackets, or white tie:

D
INING
H
ALL
D
ATE
R
ULES

“Sounds good,” I said. “Remember to bring your apps.”

After we’d said our good-byes, I unearthed my applications from my pile of start-of-term paperwork and attempted to make it look as if I’d been doing serious work on them for the last few weeks. I made little headway, however, as my brain’s computing power was focused on Josh and Lydia and what they’d been saying about me. Naturally, it’s far worse to hear unpleasant things about yourself from people you know love you, because they aren’t saying it to be mean, nor are they prejudiced against your shimmering personality. No, your friends are telling the truth that you know deep down anyway—and my friends were saying I sucked at romance. To the point that they wouldn’t even try to set me up on a date. Wouldn’t risk subjecting their other friends to the horror that is me.

Cheer up, Amy. It’s not like this is anything new.
I am well aware of my limitations when it comes to forming healthy relationships with the opposite sex. It’s why I’d tried to keep Brandon at arm’s length to start with. I knew getting involved with him would wreck our friendship, and it had. Last year at this time, he’d been buying me dinners at Thai restaurants. This year, I was braving my way through a cafeteria lunch where he had home-court advantage.

And I wouldn’t even have the comfort of my favorite pair of sneakers.

Later, when I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I noticed that Lydia and Josh were nowhere to be seen, and later still when I tucked myself into my narrow, extra-long single dorm bed, I heard them whispering softly through our shared wall.

Had things gone differently, would it be Brandon and me whispering late into the night? Would we still be together if I hadn’t accepted the tap from Rose & Grave? Would I be planning a career in publishing instead of looking at graduate fellowships? Would we be booking flights to Barcelona for an extended double date with Lydia and Josh?

Stupid to play
what if
games! I loved being a Digger. I loved my brothers, and the tomb, and the activities. I loved our tricks, and our raids, and our silly society games. I loved everything I’d learned about myself as a result of joining Rose & Grave.

But right then, one room away, there were people
in
love, and I’d never felt so alone in my life.

3.

Conspiracy

Since my morning lecture in the English department building ended at eleven-thirty, I had the dubious pleasure of cooling my heels in the Rose & Grave tomb for half an hour before I was due to meet Brandon around the corner at Calvin College. I spent the time whipping myself into a frenzy of nerves and second-guessing my choice of outfit—which, Josh would be pleased to know, did not include my yellow sneakers. I fully admit that I’d dressed with more care than usual this morning, and even blow-dried my hair to give it extra body and shine.

After all, when one hangs out with one’s ex, it’s important to look as stunning as possible.

I wonder if boys even notice the machinations we go through on their behalf? Are they aware of the subtle but significant difference between your everyday jeans and your very best pair, the fact that this particular color scarf makes your eyes look green, or the light layer of mascara designed to enhance the entire ocular region? Back when Brandon and I were an item, he’d been known to tackle me on occasions where I was wearing sweatpants and fluffy socks, so my guess is that he doesn’t care at all.

Bummer.

I repeatedly checked my watch, the face of the grandfather clock in the Grand Library, and the digital readout on the room’s single computer screen, until they all agreed that it was time for me to head out. Exiting the Diggers’ tomb mid-day is a somewhat delicate operation, but in my tenure as a member, I’d figured out the trick of it, and managed to escape the property undetected by any of the barbarian students milling around the Art History building.

Brandon was waiting for me in the Calvin College common room. I pasted an awkward smile on my face in preparation for the inevitable awkward hug.

But when it came, it wasn’t awkward in the least. Brandon enfolded me in his arms and dropped his chin onto my shoulder and I almost gasped from the sudden, overwhelming sensation of
fitting
. With it came the memories: how Brandon wasn’t all that much taller than me and I hadn’t had to tilt my head up to kiss him; how every curve of his body seemed to fit perfectly against mine. I stiffened, steeling myself against the impulse to press against him, and pulled away. “Lunch?”

We engaged in idle chitchat all the way through the cafeteria line and the salad bar, and then Brandon directed me to an out-of-the-way table with only two chairs. Well, that answered my first question. We wouldn’t be sitting with his buddies.

As soon as we got settled, Brandon launched into a description of the various programs he planned on applying to and I responded in kind, all the while wondering how he expected me to know anything about what universities were looking for in a candidate for their Applied Math programs. I hadn’t taken a math class since high school. I’d earned all my Group Four—Eli-speak for science and math—credits in the natural sciences. What use would I be to him reviewing his applications? What was I even doing here?

“…though I really like the work they’re doing at the Courant Institute,” he was saying.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Courant is where, now?”

“NYU, Amy.”

“Right. Well, the one where you go to study in Antarctica sounded—”

Whoosh!
A deluge of icy liquid spilled over me, soaking my hair, my clothes, everything! I jumped, but not quickly enough to dodge the shower of soda, pink lemonade, water, and juice.

“Oops,” said a smug voice behind me as I yelped. Antarctica, indeed. I whirled around, to see an unfamiliar kid standing above me, holding a tray covered in about ten tipped-over, extra-large dining hall glasses and the remains of their liquid contents.

The dining hall went silent as everyone directed their attention to our table. So much for flying under the radar.