“Richardson!” a guy shouts. Andrew stops to talk and I wait impatiently. I try not to look at the pack of boys in white baseball caps with matching red brands, bills dirtied and bent to identical perfection. Maybe that’s why we’re the Cowboys. Maybe Chester was famous for rounding up herds of wannabe frat rats.
A booming laugh tells me the one I dread seeing is with them. I can’t decide if I’d rather Carson Tipton ignore or acknowledge me, but when he turns and ticks his square chin up in greeting, I realize the former would be better. “Hey,” I say to Andrew, gesturing at my bag. “We’re going to be late.”
He turns back to me, holding the pack just out of reach. “Wait, is it true?”
“What?” I clomp closer.
Andrew head-tilts toward Carson. “Did you two hook up this weekend?” He pretends to be shocked, putting his hand to his throat. “Did Raychel really break her ‘no high school boys’ rule?”
Unexpected rage floods me. “Could you be a bigger dick?” I demand, too loudly. I thought I was prepared for this crap, but not from Andrew. His hand lowers in surprise, so I jerk my bag away and make the most dignified retreat that crutches will allow.
“Raych, wait!” he calls after me.
I ignore him. This is why I have that “no high school boys” rule. And why I shouldn’t have broken it.
MATT
Outdoor Club is canceled Monday afternoon, so Raychel comes home with me to hang out. Andrew gets a ride with some friends, probably to go smoke out, but at least he won’t be hanging around like he did all summer, making fun of me and trying to get Raychel on his side for everything. Going back to school sucks, especially since most of our friends graduated last year, but at least I get Raych to myself.
She won’t let me help her in or out of the car, or down the step into the sunken playroom. She doesn’t need my help to win at pool, which is embarrassing, but as consolation, I get to watch her shoot. I have great admiration for my best friend’s pool skills, as well as her ass, and I am smart enough not to admit to either.
“You break,” she says, hanging the triangle on the wall. “Stripes or solids?”
“Solids.” I line up my shot and watch the cue ball drop. “Damn.”
Raychel plucks the ball from the corner pocket and appraises the table, but her shot goes wild when she tries to stand on her injured foot. The eight ball drops into the pocket beside me.
I poke her with my cue. “You don’t have to take it easy on me.”
She scoffs and waits for me to rack a new game. “Hey, can you give me a ride to work this evening?”
“Sure. You need one home?”
“Nah.” She usually takes the campus transit service home from Pharm-Co, which I hate, though she claims it’s perfectly safe.
I break instead of arguing with her, not noticing Andrew’s arrival until he stealth-slaps the back of my head. “Hey,” he says, dodging the chalk I throw at him and walking around to Raychel. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Her expression makes me laugh. “What’d you do?” I ask.
“I’m sorry,” he says, ignoring me, and rubs the back of his neck. I lean against the table and wait for her to explode.
To my disappointment, she sighs instead. “I’ll be back in a sec,” she tells me.
I twirl the end of my cue against the floor as they step into the kitchen. I can hear Andrew apologize again, but not what Raychel mumbles in reply. “I know,” he says. “And it’s none of my business if you did.”
Ah. So that’s the issue. Rumors about Raychel were everywhere today, claiming she screwed Carson Tipton in his truck Saturday night. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but something did, a fact that makes no sense because Raych quit giving high school guys the time of day when we were sophomores. She had a boyfriend at the time who got mad about how much time she spent at work, so he told everyone she was cheating on him with a much older co-worker. She’s had a reputation ever since.
I honestly don’t know how much of it she deserves. College guys are still fair game and I know she’s hooked up with plenty of them at campus parties. But she appears to have made a high school exception, and I have no idea why it was for Carson, of all people. He’s a nice guy and never has a problem getting chicks, but he’s dumber than a box of rocks. She must have been really drunk, because Raychel doesn’t suffer fools.
Except for fools like my brother, apparently. He comes back into the room alone, his expression contrite. “Are your balls still intact?” I ask.
He grabs his crotch. “They’re a damn sight bigger than yours will ever be.”
“Tough talk from the dude who’s scared of spiders,” I say.
“Says the one who puked at Silver Dollar City.”
I flip him off as Raychel snorts from the kitchen. She’s heard all about last spring’s ill-fated roller coaster ride. “At least I didn’t blow chunks all over Spencer’s dorm room,” I call to her.
I get no answer, and Andrew grins as I put down my cue. My turn to face her.
RAYCHEL
I listen to the boys argue, rolling my eyes and taking a few deep breaths before I have to deal with them again. Andrew’s comment this morning was just the first in a day full of “knowing” glances and whispered comments and dirty gestures.
And it’s my own fault. I brought this on myself.
I expect a few high school kids to show up at frat parties, but Saturday’s party was at our friend Spencer’s dorm. It should have just been me and Matt, plus Spencer and his girlfriend, Asha, who both stayed here to go to college together. There weren’t nearly enough folks to drain the keg some optimistic freshman paid for, but Carson turned up with a few of his crew. When we ended up chatting at the end of the hall, he was surprised how much I knew about football. I was surprised he was having a conversation with me at all. Not that he’s ever been mean or anything. He just never seemed to notice me much.
So when he needed a smoke and asked if I wanted to come with, I said, “Yeah, sure,” and shouted down the hall to Matt so he wouldn’t worry.
Everyone saw us go.
Everyone saw me come back an hour later, hair wild and eyes wide.
Everyone saw me grab a beer, chug it, and proceed to throw it up in Spencer’s room.
Matt comes into the kitchen and I open the fridge so he can’t see my expression. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” The cool air feels clean on my face. “I’m fine.”
*
The rest of the week doesn’t improve much. On Tuesday, a group of sophomore girls corner me in the hallway to ask how big Carson’s junk is. Wednesday, I’m tagged online in a few pictures from the party, and a shot of Asha holding my hair over Spencer’s sink draws a lot of comments about my virtue and lack thereof. Thursday, someone coughs “Slut!” as I walk down a crowded staircase.
But I’ve dealt with gossip before. What I haven’t dealt with is Carson. If he would just ignore me, this would blow over, but instead he insists on smiling, waving, winking—everything short of actually striking up a conversation. And yet a stupid part of me is insulted that he hasn’t talked to me.
Maybe if he did, I could laugh it off. Put it behind me.