Deeper

Nightmares

I think about West saying You didn’t do anything wrong.

I remember the way his thigh felt, pressing between mine.

One time last year, I was writing a paper at my desk, and I heard shouting and laughter in the hallway, periodic smacking thumps that made me flinch. Nate was laying on my bed reading his Intro to Econ textbook. Bridget went out to see what was going on and didn’t come back. Then I heard her laughing, and West’s raised voice.

“What are they doing out there?”

I tried to sound like I didn’t care. Like I was slightly annoyed, and I didn’t feel this tug in my chest. This pressure to find out, join in, become part of it.

Nate shrugged. “Go see.”

I can still remember exactly how I felt when I stood up and headed out there. Balanced on a knife’s edge between good and bad, unsure which way I might tip . . . but aware, deep in my bones, in my tight lungs and tense shoulders, that something was about to happen.

In the hall that night, I found Bridget and Krishna, bowling with rubber chickens.

Yeah. It took me a minute to get it all sorted out, too.

I don’t know where Krishna came by the chickens—probably he stole them from somewhere—but whoever had owned them before couldn’t possibly have enjoyed them as much. Krishna and the chickens were famous last year. The chickens showed up all over—occupying toilets, hanging from the rafters in the dining hall, perched on top of the big phallic metal sculpture in the middle of the campus or dangling from the party keg.

On that occasion, Krishna was standing at one end of the hall, twenty feet from a neat arrangement of pins, and winding his chicken through several tight arm revolutions. As I watched, he let go, an underhand throw that whipped it through the air with surprising speed. It hit the pins, and they exploded, scattering all over the hall. Bridget shrieked, then bent over, laughing.

It was totally juvenile—the game, Bridget’s girlish reaction, Krishna red-eyed and grinning, probably high, because Krishna is basically always high.

I had a paper due in the morning and a lot of polishing still to do. I had Latin homework to get through, and if I had to go to the library because of these guys, I’d—

Suddenly the door right across from mine opened. West came out with a chicken in each hand and a two-liter bottle of soda under one arm. “Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking about chicken rockets,” he said, before he caught sight of me and stopped.

We looked at each other. Probably not for ten entire minutes, but that’s how it felt. Like an indecently long time spent staring at his face, when I almost never allowed myself more than a glance. A day of watching his mouth twitch. His nostrils flare. His too-pale blue-green eyes lit up with mischief.

I got all tangled up in those eyes of his, mentally tripped and fell and then couldn’t untangle myself.

West arched an eyebrow. “Want to play?”

He didn’t mean anything by it. I’m almost sure.

Or, I mean, he did, but all he meant was if I said yes, I’d get a chicken of my own, and a free pass to indulge in this silliness, blow off my homework, act like a different girl.

He didn’t mean did I want him. Did I want to learn how to cut loose. Did I wish I could be different.

But even so, my heart beat like a bass drum in a halftime show, I couldn’t quite catch my breath to answer No, thanks.