“What about Patrick?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.
“No boys except Patrick, and definitely no not having fun.”
She accepts the bag of makeup with the best attempt at a smile she’s going to muster right now, and then we both suck it in so we can squeeze out of the stall, through the crowd of girls glaring at us for occupying the bathroom for so long, and take a stand near the sinks to finish putting ourselves back together.
#
“One month left,” Stacey points out as I sit curled in our dorm room window watching snowflakes drift across the pavement outside. “Can you believe it?”
“No.” I bite my lower lip. “I really can’t.”
It’s Christmas in three days. After that, a week of holidays, two weeks until we receive our finals results, and then I’ll be on a plane back to Philadelphia to finish up my last three semesters at Penn.
I went to my last lecture with Professor Jack Kingston today. I sat up front this time, and I watched the way he kept pushing his hair, which has grown just long enough to fall in his eyes, back off his forehead every few seconds. I watched, and I noticed that the bags under his eyes weren’t quite so dark, and his hands don’t hesitate when he writes quotes for us to follow on the board.
He sent me another email last week. A follow-up, to let me know how things went with the Eliot paper. He’s sending it around to publishers, and he’s planning to list me as a co-author. I didn’t reply, though I have to admit, it did make me smile. The idea of my name on an actual real-life published article, in my field, on such a groundbreaking subject.
The idea of our names on it together.
Plus, knowing that he still thinks about me helps. Especially the way he signed off on that email. I’ve told you this before, Harper, but not in so many words. Not plainly. I’m sorry for everything I did to hurt you.
I only wish that were enough. I watched him pace across the classroom this morning, and for a second our eyes met, and everything sparked between us again. But I made myself look away, stared at my textbook until I knew he’d passed on to the next person, and it was gone again, just like that.
It was never real, I tell myself. He never wanted me. But only part of me actually believes that.
There’s a knock at the door, and some stupid distant part of my heart still jumps at the sound, because it wants it to be him. Instead, Patrick’s head appears through the door frame, grinning at us both. “You girls ready for dinner?”
“Do we have to go out?” I point at the snow swirling past the window. “We could order instead. Eat takeout in here.”
“Where would we all sit? Besides, Mary Kate wants to introduce us to someone.” He emphasizes someone in a way that tells me exactly who it’ll be. This mystery man she’s been talking about nonstop ever since things with Nick cooled. Graeme. She won’t tell us his last name, or anything more about him. It’s almost like she’s dating a spy.
Or her professor, points out the wry, annoying part of my brain.
“Fiiiine, fine, just let me find my coat,” I say.
“Oh, by the way,” Patrick adds, in a very not-by-the-way tone of voice. “I swung by the student mailboxes earlier.”
“I told you to stop picking mine up for me,” I grumble.
“Yes, but a gentleman never listens to ladies’ complaints about their chivalry. Plus, I’m nosy.” He catches my eye when I turn around, an envelope extended in his hand. “Trust me. I really think you should open this.”
I glance from the envelope to him and back again. “Why?”
“Will you never just trust me blindly, Harper Reed?” he complains.
“Not on your life,” I reply as I snatch the piece of mail from his grasp. The moment my eyes land on the return address, I feel like I’ve just swallowed a live snake. The Society for the Advancement of British Poetry Studies’ logo is emblazoned across the upper left-hand corner.
I heft the envelope in my hand, but it’s impossible to tell anything from its weight. It’s small. Maybe too small? Definitely not college acceptance letter sized.
Just open it Harper, I tell myself. Stacey and Patrick both echo similar sentiments, so finally, I take a deep breath and tear into the package. The letter is single-sized, one page. The snake wants to strangle me now. It’s too short, it’s bad news, it must be.
I clear my throat of nerves and snakes alike, and read the first sentence out loud, just because, at least if it’s bad news, I’ll have immediate support from my friends. “Dear Ms. Reed. On behalf of the Society for the Advancement of British Poetry Studies, we are thrilled to inform you . . . ” I trail off, failing to finish the line.