10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Lou

Becoming a proactive student is a lot harder than it looks.

I head to the library straight after class thinking I’ll get a head start on the bet I made with Wes. Turns out two hours sitting in front of a computer doesn’t encourage productivity unless you actually start writing. Or, you know. Choose a topic to research.

I’m not even sure how I managed to kill two hours with absolutely nothing to show for it. I remember reading the assignment sheet, opening my web browser, and then… nothing. Well, not nothing, it just so happens the moment I opened my web browser I received a notification that my favourite anime series released a new episode. And for me not to watch it would only be morally depleting, thus affecting my essay-writing abilities. Plus, the episode was only about forty-five minutes long… although the next hour spent brushing up on fandom feeds was probably not my best idea.

So, mistakes were made but you can’t expect me to abandon all my procrastination tendencies on the first try.

I trudge back to my dorm, feeling oddly defeated. I was hoping to roll up to Wes’ dorm, finished essay in toe, and slap it proudly down on his desk with a snarky remark. After this afternoon’s efforts, however, the only thing I could slap down is a summary of that anime episode. Not quite the victorious image I had in mind.

I walk into the dorm and freeze. Sometime between my last class and my non-productive library session, Stella converted our living room into a dance floor. The two patchy sofas are pushed back against the walls, the TV is tucked further in the corner near our bathroom, and in the center of it all, Stella is moving her hips in time to the music blasting from her phone lying on the floor.

“Oh-oh, that’s what makes you beau- LOU!” I flinch as her singing switches to a shriek.

“Come join me. I’m practicing for this weekend.” Stella adjusts the grip on her hairbrush, which I’m assuming is her substitute for a microphone. I frown, trying to remember what I’d agreed to this weekend.

“Are we clubbing again tomorrow?”

“No, silly. We’re attending the first Punk Rockers convention, remember?” I nod slowly, unwelcome butterflies filling my stomach. Out of all the clubs Stella and I signed up for, this is the one I’m most excited about. It’s also the one that will hurt the most if I find myself on social outskirts again.

“You know One Direction doesn’t count as alternative rock, right?” Stella waves my comment away.

“Minor details. The important thing is there’s going to be a karaoke stage, so we’ve got to be ready.” She resumes her hip sways, while I gawk in horror.

“Stella. I am not doing karaoke during our first club meeting. I can barely dance, let alone sing.” And Wes won’t be there to walk me through the awkwardness.

At the thought of Wes, I jolt, whipping out my phone to check the time. “Crap. I’ve got to run. I’m meeting Wes for an essay-writing workshop.” I shift from foot-to-foot, debating my chances of making a break for it as my tiny roommate whirls around to face me.

“Where is this essay-writing workshop taking place?” Darn it. Missed my chance.

“I’m supposed to be at his dorm ten minutes from now.” And considering his residence building is across campus, I’m going to have to run to make it on time. Nothing like showing up sweaty and out-of-breath for a study date. Er, I mean study session. Definitely study session.

“Sounds cozy. Is this a date then?”

“Absolutely not.” I shake my head vehemently, choosing to ignore the fact I had the same train of thought moments before.

“Interesting. Are you wearing that to your hangout?” I look down at my Nirvana shirt clumsily tucked into my mom jeans. I check my phone again. Down to seven minutes.

“Yup. Now, I’ve really got to run. I’ll text you when I’m on my way home.” I catch the mischievous gleam in Stella’s eyes as she shuffles over to give me a quick hug.

“Alright baby girl, have fun and make sure to give mama all the details when you get home. I expect a full debrief over breakfast.” She playfully taps the side of my nose.

“I’ll be home much sooner than breakfast, Stella.”

“We’ll see about that. Now, get your cute butt moving or you’ll be late!” I’m halfway out the door when my roommate yells one last encouragement.

“Oh, and don’t forget to give your boy a big smooch for me!” The door slams shut, and I pray the heat in my cheeks will be gone by the time I make it to Wes’ dorm.

I arrive two minutes late, which all things considered, is pretty impressive.

At Taber, all the varsity teams get put together in the residence buildings lining the East side of campus, while the rest of the students live on the North side. The reasoning behind the separation is to help shorten the athletes’ commute to the fitness centre as well as promote team bonding. The East side’s proximity to the weight room and playing fields gives varsity players an extra few minutes of sleep before morning practice, and it helps to keep the noise complaints to a minimum.

Most of the teams run on a similar schedule (re: an ungodly amount of before-dawn exercise), so when 5am practices are looming, none of the players want to be disrupted by parties thrown by students who have nothing better to do with their time. Likewise, when tournament season ends and exam season begins, the athletes are ready to make up for lost time whereas the year-long partiers are ready to crack down to study. By splitting up residential buildings, Taber increases convenience while keeping the campus interconnected.

I text Wes, letting him know I arrived, and wait by the door. Each residence building has an automatic locking system with individual access cards per unit. So, my access card doesn’t get me into Wes’ building and his card wouldn’t get him into mine. A simple system but one that ensures the students’ safety.

I play on my phone to pass time until I hear the lock click open. The door inches open and one green eye peeks out.

“Unless you are selling alarm systems, I’m not interested.” My eyebrows creep towards my hairline.

“Didn’t realize you were sponsoring Taber’s security systems now.” The door opens just enough so I can see exactly half of Wes’ face.

“After a few incidents with a pack mule over carrying its load, I figured better not take any chances.” Fighting the urge to smile, I do my best to sound annoyed.

“Very funny. Are you going to let me in or not?” The annoyingly handsome side profile disappears and the door swings open.

“Welcome to the lacrosse quarters, Trip.” Wes sweeps his hand majestically down the hall, one that is an exact replica to mine except for the colour. The lacrosse team scored an ugly burgundy wall colour, whereas Stella and I got mustard yellow. Between the two assaulting colours, I prefer the burgundy.

We hike up the stairs to the second level, reaching about halfway down the row of doors before stopping. Wes swipes his access card across the keypad and at the green light, we step inside.

I am not sure what I expect Wes’ dorm to look like, but an exact replica of my own living room is not it. The same ratty sofas line the two walls, facing an ancient television set that looks too old to function (Stella and I proved otherwise), and even the location of his bathroom is parallel to my own. For some reason, I pictured the varsity residences as… well, more glamorous. Or at least in a state of disaster.

Looking around the room, I don’t see a single pizza box, dirty dish, or any sort of overflowing garbage. The only thing out of place is a lacrosse bag strewn across one of the sofas. The overall cleanliness of the room feels underwhelming, if not boring.

“This one’s mine,” Wes points to the corner room, the one Stella has in our dorm. It’s slightly bigger than my own, but not by much. Peeking my head into the room, I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot dirty socks peeking out from under his bed. Wes is human after all.

I take a step into his room and run smack into a huge, flat screen TV. I’d been so focused on finding evidence of dirtiness that I hadn’t registered the 72” plasma screen precariously balancing on cardboard boxes just inside the doorway.

“That looks secure.” I don’t realize I say it out loud until Wes laughs.

“You should have seen me taping it down on move-in day. Nico just about became the first Latino Flat Stanley.” I lean forward to take a closer look and yup, I can see clear masking tape holding the boxes together.

“I can only imagine.” I totally could. When it comes to pulling off ludicrous charades, Wes is in a league of his own.

I move my eyes past the gigantic monitor and note the rumpled blue bedsheets and faded pictures taped to the wall. Between the discarded socks and the unmade bed, Wes has nearly sunken to my level of sloppiness. There’s hope for him yet.

“May I?” I gesture towards the pictures and Wes gives me a nod, closing the distance between us so he can point out each one.

“That’s Nico and I graduating elementary. We were in the fifth grade and our moms thought it would be cute to dress us up as if it were a proper graduation, so we ended up being the only kids wearing mortarboard hats and matching gowns. Thankfully, we both had the dashing good looks to pull them off.” I laugh, looking at the little boys in the picture playing with their matching tassels. Nico’s heritage makes it easy to distinguish between the two, although even without the differing skin tones, the cheeky dimples popping out on the one’s smile couldn’t be mistaken for anyone but Wes.

“This one is the first time I scored a goal playing lacrosse in high school. Took days for the smell of Gatorade to wash out of my hair.” Turning to the next grainy print, I’m hit by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. The shot was taken after the team drenched Wes, laughter breaking across his features as he sits in the middle of the puddle. The picture is almost an exact replica to the first memory I have of Wes: him laughing on the ground, sitting in a pile of my underwear. The familiarity of the scene is eerie to say the least.

“And this last one is from prom last year.” Doing my best to shake off goosebumps from memory lane, I look at the last photo and suck in a breath. It’s a graduation shot of Wes looking unbelievably handsome in a suit, standing next to the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. The two of them are laughing into the camera, Wes doing some sort of butler pose while the dark-haired beauty curtsies for the camera.

“Your date was stunning.” An uncomfortable feeling resembling disappointment settles in my chest. Wes isn’t the type of guy interested in social outcasts. He’s a social butterfly who attracts other, outrageously gorgeous social butterflies who ooze the same level of confidence as himself. The type of girls who are carefree enough to be captured laughing on camera.

The type of girls who had friends in high school.

Shaking his head, Wes chuckles good naturally, “You should have seen the number of guys who kept asking her to dance. Thank God my parents didn’t allow Lace to attend the after-party.” I frown, trying to register the odd response.

“Your parents didn’t let your girlfriend attend the after-party with you?” Wes looks at me in horror.

“Lace is short for Lacey. As in my younger sister. As in blood relation.”

“Oh. Oh.” Wes bursts out laughing, and my cheeks redden immediately. Quickly taking another peek at the picture, I start to see the similarities I had missed before. Lacey’s dark locks and porcelain skin match that of her brother’s perfectly. Her smile is missing the dimples but the twinkle in her hazel eyes is one I’ve seen many times.

Feeling ridiculous for my misassumption, I decide to ask the more obvious question: “Why was your sister your prom date?” It couldn’t be because he had no other options. Our friendship may be questionably platonic, but my vision is perfectly intact.

An emotion I can’t quite identify flickers across Wes’ face before his charming smile slides back into place. “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you. Now, quit wasting time and show me how far you’ve gotten on that paper.”

Wes

Nothing. She’s done absolutely nothing.

I thought she was joking when she pulled out the assignment sheet in response to my comment. Turns out Trip deserves an Olympic gold medal for procrastination, because if I’m hearing right, the reason behind her lack of progress is because she spent two hours in the library… watching Netflix.

“Technically, I only spent half the time watching and the other half reading.” I cross my arms in disbelief.

“You read the psych textbook for an hour?” The blush from earlier returns to her cheeks.

“Well, no. I was brushing up on my… pop culture.” I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “I don’t recall a lot of pop culture on the assignment sheet.”

“Well, you obviously didn’t read it thoroughly.”

“Obviously.” Our glares turn into an unspoken staring contest and soon we’re both widening our eyes to unnatural degrees to keep from blinking. The burning sensation kicks in and I will myself not to break.

Those gorgeous grey eyes are going down.

Thankfully, Trip cracks before I have to cheat – hey, failure is not an option – and after wiping victorious tears from my eyes, we get down and dirty with psychology.

“Okay, so what topic did you decide on?” Her silence does nothing for my confidence. Sighing, I ask a more appropriate question: “Have you chosen a topic yet?” At the shake of her head, I pull out my own outline to give her some encouragement.

Trip gasps in outrage and points at my detailed essay plan, “You weren’t allowed to start until Sunday!”

“I’m not allowed to start writing until Sunday. You never said anything about planning. And FYI, planning is what most students do after they choose a topic.” I throw her a wink and get a wrinkled brow in return.

Man, I love it when she scowls at me.

“I think the conclusion can wait until tomorrow.” I offer the suggestion helpfully, but the look thrown my way makes me think it didn’t come across so well.

“Right. I can finish this conclusion tomorrow, so you can win by default and get to finish your paper early? Nope. Don’t think so.” I bark out a laugh at Trip’s unexpected competitiveness.

I knew she was stubborn, pack mules often are, but the competitive streak comes as a surprise. Her attitude towards our bet is one you would expect from a varsity player, that ride or die mentality high-level athletes are ingrained with, yet Trip doesn’t give off the jock vibe. Hell, I shouldn’t be surprised, every vibe Trip gives off is her own.

She’s like my very own Rubik’s cube, no matter how many times I twist the squares around they never seem to line up. And yet, every time I find a new colour all I want to do is keep twisting until I find more.

“Alright, Einstein. No need to get your panties in a twist. You’ve got one page to go. Keep that pretty little head of yours in the game.” Without breaking momentum with her furious typing, Trip throws a retort my way.

“I’m pretty sure Einstein didn’t have a little head. And I’ve never understood that saying.” It takes a second for me to clue in.

“Keep your head in the game? Honey, that is the most iconic line of Zac Efron’s career.” She pauses her typing to glance over.

“I don’t remember him saying that in Baywatch.” My gasp fills the room.

“You did not just say that.” Her gaze turns sheepish as it meets mine. “I’m… sorry?”

I get up from the couch and start pacing the four feet of my living room.

“Are you telling me that you have never seen the Disney TV pilot turned accidental hit movie turned unforgettable trilogy that set the basis for our entire generation? Does the name Troy Bolton not mean anything to you?” Trip squeezes her eyes shut in concentration.

“It sounds sort of familiar… I’m sorry. I got nothing.” And here I thought her procrastination was bad. This is an abomination.

Nope, she probably wouldn’t get that reference either.

“This has to be reconciled. Immediately. When you come over Sunday to supervise my last-minute scrambling skills, we are going to watch High School Musical. All three of them.” She tilts her head at me, visibly confused.

“Why would anyone make a musical out of high school?” I hold my hand out in front of me, valiantly trying to protect my heart from more abuse.

“Trip. You’re killing me. Finish up that conclusion so I can revive myself.” I dramatically collapse on the ground just as the door to my dorm swings open.

“Aw, man not again. Wes, what did we say about dying on the living room floor?” Nico smirks down at me from the doorway.

“Couldn’t help it. Trip over there doesn’t know who Troy Bolton is.” Eyes widening in horror, Nico sways unsteadily into the room and proceeds to collapse in a heap on top of me. If there’s one thing I can count on my best friend for, its joining in on my theatrics.

Giggling, Trip pretends to dial her phone. “9-1-1 operator? Yes, it’s Lou Mackenzie. I was wondering if I could get some help down at the lacrosse quarters… cause? It appears to be a shock overdose.”

“Don’t forget trauma,” my muffled yell is barely audible through Nico’s sweater. Jesus, did he have to go all deadweight on me? Now I understand where Trip was coming from that first day.

“Ask them to send firemen. We need CPR and if I’m getting mouth-to-mouth, it better be by someone who can look sexy next to a dalmatian.” Nico’s comment draws a laugh from Trip as she dutifully repeats his request.

“Dude, Cruella de Vil has always been sexy.” My response is more of a wheeze thanks to the muscular Latino lounging on top of me.

“Bro. Those dalmatians were dead. Anyone can make a fur coat look sexy. Keeping your masculinity while riding alongside a spotted hound on the daily? Now that takes skill.”

Trip nods in agreement, “He’s got a point.”

I huff, “Tag teamed in my own dorm. I always pictured it better than this.” I get an eye roll from Trip while Nico laughs, finally climbing off me. He grabs my outstretched hand and hauls me back to my feet.

Twelve years later and we’re still pulling each other off the ground.

“Did you get your conclusion done?” I turn to Trip, part of me hoping she’ll say no so she can stay longer, the other half already exhausted thinking about the morning practice we have tomorrow.

“I did, no thanks to you boys.” Turning to my roommate, she reaches out her hand.

“Nice to finally meet you, Nico. Wes has told me a lot about you.” Nico takes her hand and pulls her in for a hug.

“You saved my life; we’re way past the handshake stage.” As Trip laughs in his embrace, Nico shoots me an evil grin over her shoulder.

“As for Wes, well, let’s just say he has told me a lot about you too.”

Bastard.