The Ivies - Alexa Donne Page 0,21

go, you wuss, I scold myself. And squeezing my eyes shut like the coward I am, I let go. Frigid air whips my hair back, and the second of free fall seems to stretch on forever. Then I feel the sting of impact in my knees. I stumble forward, barely avoiding a face-plant.

The study window spits me out on the back side of Bay Hall, a blind spot of external security cameras. I walk the dirt path around the building and reach the main path. The superfine gravel crunches under my feet. I’m about three yards from the honey glow of a streetlamp, half-shrouded in dingy gray, half-illuminated. I turn, surveying in all directions. Bay Hall looks out onto the lake, and if I go left, I will end up at the boathouse and the river. Going right will take me into the heart of campus, and toward Whitley.

Emma must be with Tyler. I go right.

Frigid wind blows in off the water and cuts me in two. In the distance an owl gives a low, long hoot. My feet crunch on the pathway, and for the second time that night, I count the steps between blue boxes, hating the way my heart is easing its way up my esophagus. This is how a slasher film starts.

A crack in the distance. I walk faster, scanning for the nearest blue phone. A hundred feet. I break into a jog.

And then I’m standing in front of Whitley. No light from any window. Everyone is asleep. I pull my phone from my pocket and bring up the home screen. Still no texts.

I crane my neck back, my eyes searching for Tyler’s window. I think it’s the first one from the right, on the third floor. Tyler has a single, and those are always on the ends. The lights are out.

I know there’s a way to sneak into Whitley. Girls do it all the time. But I’ve never had a reason for a hookup during off-hours, so damned if I know how. I imagine myself creeping around the boys’ dorm, finding my way to Tyler’s door and, what? Knocking? Trying to explain why I’ve pulled him and my roommate out of a deep sleep—or, worse, sex—to assuage my stupid fears?

Suddenly I hear the unmistakable sound of wheels on gravel. Shit. Paul, the night security guard, must be doing his patrol. The scene comes into crisp focus. It’s 2:30 in the morning, freezing, and I’m standing in the middle of campus—breaking curfew!—staring up at a slumbering building. Paul seems to like me well enough; we shoot the shit in the office sometimes. But no way he lets me go without a demerit.

I’m an idiot, jumping to conclusions, letting myself get spooked by a stupid nightmare, an errant sweater, and a lost earring. Emma is probably asleep in Tyler’s room right now. I turn around and head back toward Bay. First, I speed-walk; then I sprint. I just want to get back to bed.

Everything looks the same when I return to my room. A part of me hoped I’d find Emma here, tucked into bed, and we’d laugh in the morning about being two ships passing in the night, me sneaking out and her sneaking in. I definitely plan on giving her an earful.

I lie in bed, eyes dipping shut, trying to grasp at the feeling that sent me out into the frigid night. But it’s gone now. And all I know is sleep.

The gentle wind-chime tone of my alarm sounds at 5:15. I swipe the snooze option twice before dragging my butt out of bed with a groan. I take my duvet with me, wearing it over my shoulders like a cape. It’s freezing in here. The central heating is on a timer and won’t start blasting for another hour. The delights of being a rower. Under my warm cover, I shrug out of my pajamas and into my sports bra, top, spandex pants, and formfitting jacket.

Rap, rap, rap, comes Sierra’s knock at the door. We leave in ten minutes.

I throw the duvet back onto my bed, grab my toiletries basket, shove my ID into my jacket pocket, and hurry down the hall to the communal bathroom. Sierra grunts a hello mid-toothbrushing, and I claim the sink next to hers. We’re no fuss for early-morning practice: brush teeth, smooth hair into a ponytail, and go. No need to bother with makeup that we’d sweat off. And we always shower afterward. You start the day