Chapter 20

20

Saturday, 12/14/24

The sky was just turning from black to gray outside the window of my bedroom when my mom knocked on the door, light from the hallway spilling across the carpet. "I'm heading out," she said softly, "but I left the coffee on."

"Thanks," I managed, blinking into the sleep-stale dimness. "What time is it?"

"It's early," she said. "The mutual aid group is handing out coffee and doughnuts at Mass and Cass, but I should be back by lunchtime." She paused. "You going to be all right?"

"I'm fine," I lied, trying to muster my most convincing smile. I was seven days into a ten-day administrative suspension, due back on campus right in time for finals—assuming, of course, that I was ultimately cleared of any wrongdoing, which wasn't at all a sure thing. Greer wasn't answering any of my texts. Nobody was answering any of my texts, actually, with the exception of Coach Lyons, who'd written a terse email letting me know that my involvement on the team next semester was contingent upon the findings of the Disciplinary Board. "My entire life is contingent upon the findings of the Disciplinary Board," I'd muttered uselessly, then sent the message to the trash without bothering to reply.

"Okay," my mom said now, hovering in the doorway a moment longer. She was plucky, but I could tell she felt outmatched by the accusations against me, by the hugeness of the Harvard machine. I couldn't blame her—I felt outmatched by it too. "Eat something, will you? There are some corn muffins left from yesterday, whenever you get up."

"I will," I promised. "Have fun."

Once she was gone I rolled over and stared at the wall for a while, which was the same way I'd spent most of the week since I'd gotten kicked out of housing. I dozed for a little bit longer. I sulked. I imagined alternate lives for myself: I could go back to working at Market Basket, I thought, where I'd been a checker for a couple of summers. I could coach peewee lacrosse, although actually probably not if I had a criminal record. I could light out for the open West like Jack Kerouac, though I wasn't entirely sure how I'd pay for gas or what I'd do once I got there. I was pretty sure Market Basket was only a Massachusetts thing.

I was reaching for my phone to Google California grocery store chains when the buzzer rang. "Hello?" I asked, shuffling down the hallway with my blanket around my shoulders like a cape and pressing the button on the intercom.

"I have a confession," Holiday announced, her voice crackling through the ancient speaker. "I drove down Cambridge Street the other day. And the Live Poultry Fresh Killed sign is in fact gone."

"It is?" I asked—startled, trying to ignore the weird thing my heart did at the sound of her voice. We hadn't talked since our fight on the T platform, though I knew she'd probably heard from Duncan about what had happened with the campus police. "I'm surprised, actually. My money would have been on you."

"I mean, that's because I'm usually right," she admitted. "But, you know. Not always."

"Most of the time," I said quietly, and hit the button to let her upstairs.

"I owe you an apology," I told her when I opened the door a minute later. She was wearing a parka the size of a sleeping bag, her dark hair in an enormous knot on top of her head.

"You do," she agreed immediately. "But I'm not here for that."

"You're not?" I raised my eyebrows, my gaze even on hers. "What are you here for?"

Holiday cleared her throat. "I'll tell you in the car," she said, stepping past me into the apartment. "Go get dressed."

"Where are we going?"

"Field trip," she told me, her dark eyes shining. "And we're kind of on a schedule here, so, you know." She nodded in the direction of my bedroom. "Pitter patter."

For the first time in a week I felt myself lighten, something rusted shut inside me creaking open a fraction of an inch. Biggest fight of our entire relationship or not, if Holiday was here, that meant everything wasn't over yet. Endless weirdness between us notwithstanding, she had still shown up.

"Okay," I said, and headed for the hallway. At the last second I turned and grabbed her arm, pulling her around to face me; I overshot, though, and we wound up nose to nose. "Um," she said as I let go in a hurry. "Hi."

"Hi." I took a deep breath. "I'm really sorry I didn't come to your showcase," I told her. "I should have—" I broke off, holding my hands up a little helplessly. "I should have."

Holiday tilted her head. "I mean," she said calmly. "Yes."

"You're my best friend," I continued. "You've always been my best friend, even when we weren't talking, ever since the time we were four and I shoved my hand up the bathtub faucet at your parents' house and it got caught."

"I did save your ass that day," Holiday mused, the hint of a smile quirking at the very edges of her mouth. "If it wasn't for me you'd probably still be sitting there alone, crying."

"I'd definitely be sitting somewhere alone and crying," I agreed. "I get stuck up my own ass sometimes, you know that. I know that. But I can do a better job. I want to do a better job."

Holiday seemed to think about that for a moment. "My roommate's name is Ebony," she said finally, "and she's great."

"I'm glad," I told her, and I meant it. "You deserve great people in your life. Which brings me to my next point, which is that I was being a dick about Duncan for no reason. Obviously if you guys want to—I mean, not that you need my—" I shook my head. "You know what I mean." I sighed. "I'm really sorry, Holiday."

Holiday nodded, holding my gaze for a moment; for a second it seemed like she might be about to tell me something, but in the end she just jerked one thumb at the door. "Put your clothes on," she said finally, "and let's go."