“I know,” I say.
“Bartholomew Burns!” Sophie cries from the backseat. And all three of us turn and stare at her.
“Say what?” Oliver asks.
“How much do you all love me?” Sophie announces, wiggling her cell phone in the air like it’s a golden ticket.
“That depends,” I say. “Is Margaret Yang inside that phone?”
Sophie shakes her head. “Bartholomew Burns,” she says again.
“Bartholomew Burns, your old Latin tutor?” I ask. “The guy who wore the cross with a detachable Jesus on it?”
“It’s true, he did wear a necklace with a detachable Jesus,” Sophie calmly explains. “Sometimes he liked to wear a cross with Jesus, sometimes without. But that was a phase, and anyway, he could more than stand me, if you get my drift.” She raises her eyebrows up and down.
“What does this have to do with anything?” Max asks.
Sophie rolls her eyes. “Because I posted a selfie of me and Mildred the alpaca at Alfred’s today, and Bartholomew saw it, and it turns out he goes here!” Her eyes light up, like ta-da. “So he messaged me, and I told him what was up . . . well, part of it . . . the not-weird parts . . . and he said we can crash with him tonight if we want, at his dorm! Like half his floor is out of town.”
The tension releases from the car like pressure evening out inside an airplane. “Nice work, Soph!” I say, giving her a high five. “That’s a great idea.”
“There’s just one problem.” She makes a face. “He says he’s having a huge party tonight . . . he hopes we don’t mind?”
At the word party, Oliver’s eyes light up. “I suppose we could attend,” he says.
As we get up to make our way toward Bartholomew’s dorm, I notice Max is looking back at the car with an odd expression.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I could’ve sworn she just flashed her lights at me,” Max says.
“You’re just tired,” I say.
“No.” He frowns. “They flashed. Which would be weird, even if her battery wasn’t dead.” His tone is off. He sounds very far away.
Then, with no rational explanation and nobody behind the wheel, the car honks.
Max looks at me, helpless. “This is getting really weird, Alice. We have to make it stop.”
I look at him, his hair out of place and a wild look in his eyes. What will happen if we can’t make it stop? Will Max go full-on meltdown mode?
But also, what will happen if we do?
28
Your Dog Is Really Lucky!
ACCORDING TO MY very basic knowledge of college social life, which I have gleaned entirely from gems of modern cinema such as Animal House and Old School, there seem to be a number of foolproof ways to throw a decent party. The list includes such things as a great band, scandalously clad coeds, limitless amounts of illegal substances, and a general lack of consideration for the well-being of oneself and others.
It is safe to say that Bartholomew Burns and his suitemates at Leeland Hall, a two-story white-shingled house on the edge of campus, were not aware of this list or these movies, or they chose to ignore all of it out of some vague hipster principle. Perhaps we—Max, Sophie, Oliver, and I—should have anticipated this, given the wall of Latin awards and the expansive insect collection that welcomed us upon arrival to the suite. But I guess we just assumed that in college, anyone could be cool.
We were wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.
“I’m not kidding when I say my grandmother’s retirement community is more fun than this,” Sophie says as she stands in the doorway between a room where people are playing Monopoly and one where they are playing video games, clutching a raspberry wine cooler. “I’m so depressed I could scream.” She takes a giant swig.
“Hi.” A skinny redhead approaches me wearing thick hipster glasses, and leans casually on the edge of the fireplace. “I’m Wallace,” he says with a wink. “How come I’ve never seen you around?”
“She doesn’t go here,” Sophie mentions between chugs.
“Oh.” Wallace nods. “I just thought maybe I hadn’t seen you since I’m generally in the art studio. You know . . . doing my art.” He looks at me intently then, as though expecting me to gasp in awe.
“So you’re an art major?” I ask politely as Sophie unapologetically rolls her eyes.
“Thinking about it,” he says. “At the moment I’m really just creating, exploring the possibilities of my work.”
“And what kind of work do you do?” I say.