special pancake brunch. That’s why I didn’t wake you.”
Saturday. Breakfast. Eleven.
Merde.
“Why didn’t you—” I collapse back against my bed, trying desperately to get my jeans off my leg while burying myself under my covers. Before my head is officially under my pillow, I peek at the clock. Nine fifteen.
I need more sleep.
“So what are you doing today?” I ask Alice as we walk out of the cafeteria. She’s wearing a tight black tank over bright green pants, and it makes me feel like a mess with my cutoff jeans and old Doctor Who Where’s My Tardis? T-shirt that used to be black but now, not so much.
Two pain pills, an additional hour of sleep, and a shower are contributing nicely to the feeling I’m no longer wearing my head inside out. That and copious amounts of coffee and a stack of pancakes that should have been illegal. So between the sugar and the caffeine, I feel like I can do anything.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, what’s the story with Zeke?”
Except maybe talk about Zeke.
Zeke, who came back yesterday and might be with some girl who makes the sound rwar. And redheaded Stephie. And who knows who else.
Not that I care. Especially since I’m apparently too nosy for his taste.
But now my shoulders are up near my ears and all the morning relaxation is gone. “Nothing.” I sigh. “We spend a ton of time together and we speak French and I think that’s just messing with my brain.”
“Are you interested in him?”
Interested?
“No,” I say, without letting the question fully settle in the air.
Except then it does—
“He confuses me. He’s clearly into sports and is everything I don’t want. But he’s also as passionate about French as I am.”
“Can’t he be both?”
I turn to face Alice and she shrugs, the braids on each side of her head bopping as she moves. “Yes,” I say slowly. “Obviously, yes, but . . .”
But I’m not into sporty guys. Been there, done that, pitched the commemorative T-shirts. How can I say that without sounding like a bitch?
“He’s just not right for me.”
“Because he’s into sports.”
“Yes.”
“Even though he loves French and you spend hours and hours together.”
“Yes.”
“Because you don’t really like him that much.”
This time there’s a longer pause. “Right.”
These words, all these words, are wrong. I hate them. I hate the feeling of the yes and right coming out of my mouth, the bitterness of the lies. I hate the fact that I’m lying to Alice and to myself and and and . . .
Oh, Zeke. Zeke with his perfect French, his easy smile, his arms around every girl, his name screeched across the hallway. It’s too much, even before I roll in the baseball shirts and the refusal to talk about what’s wrong with his shoulder.
Too effing much.
And the headache is back.
“I’m not interested in dating a player,” I blurt out, and Alice doesn’t need to hear the inner monologue to understand. To understand that at least this isn’t completely a lie. “I’ve seen too many athletes go from girl to girl, and I’m not interested in that. It turns out that my first boyfriend only dated me because my family has season tickets to the Cubs. And true, that was seventh grade. But then in high school, my two short-lived romances were all spent listening to guys talk ad nauseam about sports with my brothers. I think Eddie actually had a crush on my brother Si, though nobody believes me.
“So let’s just say that between having a family that puts all things on hold for a Cubs game, and then having a boyfriend who didn’t want to go to homecoming with me because he wanted to watch the conference championship on TV, I’m a little done with anyone who’s into sports.”
“He might not be—”
I can’t do this.
“So, what are you up to today?” I ask, and I so appreciate that Alice lets me get away with the punt.
“There’s a pottery studio in town I want to check out,” Alice says.
“You do yoga and pottery?”
We’re crossing the quad, close to our dorm, and I’m not really paying attention. I’m thinking about not tripping on the cracks in the pavement, and how I don’t like Zeke, not really.
“They’re both good for helping with my anxiety. The yoga is something I do every day, sometimes more than once a day. And the pottery I do when I can. They both help me center myself in different ways. Well, between that and the medication.”
“You take