I’m supposed to mentor. The girl I’m convinced could be of more help to me than I’ll be to her. I could think things like, I’ve never had a more grueling evening . But that’s not true. Sleeping in a ditch because my parents’ Pontiac caught fire on I-40 outside of Tucumcari, New Mexico—that was grueling.
Comparing my past to my college present will never be fair. That was some other life. It still claws at me, but I need to tear loose. Maybe it’s time I take another look at my frames of reference. I won’t be sleeping in a ditch tonight, but that doesn’t mean I’m not drained.
I key the building’s main entrance code and walk past the night duty guy, Brandon Dorne. I think he’s a junior like me, but he’s a few years older. He gets paid to stay up all night and watch South Park reruns between handling pressing dorm crises. Last spring, he apparently stood up to frat jackasses who wouldn’t take no for an answer when it came to rules about the number of guests after hours. A pair of dumb bunnies on the fourth floor had thought inviting six apiece—and having them bring two cases of Heineken—was A okay. The frat pack was hauled away by campus security after Brandon bloodied three faces pretty bad. The dumb bunnies were given official reprimands and a warning that their next brainless stunt would get them kicked out of campus housing. Brandon walked away with a cut to his right cheek from splintered beer bottle glass. He’s practically a legend. Even a transfer like me can recite the tale without having to fake my awe.
Knowing he busted up three guys makes him intimidating even before I talk to him, but I’m trying to be social. He probably doesn’t know me from anybody. I guess I feel the need to belong by acting chummy with the night duty superhero.
Plus I’m still buzz, buzz, buzzing. I couldn’t sleep now, even if sunrise depended on it.
“Hey, Brandon,” I say.
He looks up from the small boxy television on the left side of the wide front desk. “Hey.”
He has his feet propped on the scuffed wood. No shoes. Just socks. He’s got a cup of ramen in his hands, which is enough to make me break out in a sweat all over again. That he’s eating soup in September in New Orleans makes me think he was at least raised in the South. Only in the South would seventy-five degrees at two in the morning still entice anyone toward soup.
Maybe Brandon is a weird superhero. Still, none of the other residence halls can claim him.
“It’s Keeley, right?” he asks, sitting up, feet back on the ground.
“Yeah.”
“Out late.” Before I can decide whether that sounded like a condemnation, he smiles. “I need a report on your evening’s activities.”
I hesitate. “Serious?”
“As a heart attack.” He pauses a beat, then flashes his teeth. “It’s because I’m bored crapless. Earning a few bucks for my tuition is fine. Missing out on anything exciting is the tradeoff. Help a guy out.”
I lean on the desk, happy to engage in a conversation that isn’t complicated and doesn’t have clumps of drama hanging off it. Considering my night, it’s a refreshingly slow change of pace.
“What about the excitement around here?” I ask.
His smile is . . . nice. He has nice teeth and nice lips. His eyes shine in the way eyes are supposed to shine when someone’s happy or amused. No taunting to be found. No dares. Just the unspoken invitation to be friendly. I like the simplicity, even though I’m comparing him to Jude, point by point. A buzz of pleasure washes down my whole body at the thought of Jude’s galling, frustrating, gorgeous grin.
“Would that excitement have to do with frat guys and this?” He taps a finger to the sliver of white that scars his upper cheek.
“Yeah, that.”
His smile broadens. “Yeah, that.”
“Kinda hard to miss. The stories, I mean. Not the scar.”
Only, that isn’t the only scar on his face. A slash angles up from the left side of his jaw,
Comparing my past to my college present will never be fair. That was some other life. It still claws at me, but I need to tear loose. Maybe it’s time I take another look at my frames of reference. I won’t be sleeping in a ditch tonight, but that doesn’t mean I’m not drained.
I key the building’s main entrance code and walk past the night duty guy, Brandon Dorne. I think he’s a junior like me, but he’s a few years older. He gets paid to stay up all night and watch South Park reruns between handling pressing dorm crises. Last spring, he apparently stood up to frat jackasses who wouldn’t take no for an answer when it came to rules about the number of guests after hours. A pair of dumb bunnies on the fourth floor had thought inviting six apiece—and having them bring two cases of Heineken—was A okay. The frat pack was hauled away by campus security after Brandon bloodied three faces pretty bad. The dumb bunnies were given official reprimands and a warning that their next brainless stunt would get them kicked out of campus housing. Brandon walked away with a cut to his right cheek from splintered beer bottle glass. He’s practically a legend. Even a transfer like me can recite the tale without having to fake my awe.
Knowing he busted up three guys makes him intimidating even before I talk to him, but I’m trying to be social. He probably doesn’t know me from anybody. I guess I feel the need to belong by acting chummy with the night duty superhero.
Plus I’m still buzz, buzz, buzzing. I couldn’t sleep now, even if sunrise depended on it.
“Hey, Brandon,” I say.
He looks up from the small boxy television on the left side of the wide front desk. “Hey.”
He has his feet propped on the scuffed wood. No shoes. Just socks. He’s got a cup of ramen in his hands, which is enough to make me break out in a sweat all over again. That he’s eating soup in September in New Orleans makes me think he was at least raised in the South. Only in the South would seventy-five degrees at two in the morning still entice anyone toward soup.
Maybe Brandon is a weird superhero. Still, none of the other residence halls can claim him.
“It’s Keeley, right?” he asks, sitting up, feet back on the ground.
“Yeah.”
“Out late.” Before I can decide whether that sounded like a condemnation, he smiles. “I need a report on your evening’s activities.”
I hesitate. “Serious?”
“As a heart attack.” He pauses a beat, then flashes his teeth. “It’s because I’m bored crapless. Earning a few bucks for my tuition is fine. Missing out on anything exciting is the tradeoff. Help a guy out.”
I lean on the desk, happy to engage in a conversation that isn’t complicated and doesn’t have clumps of drama hanging off it. Considering my night, it’s a refreshingly slow change of pace.
“What about the excitement around here?” I ask.
His smile is . . . nice. He has nice teeth and nice lips. His eyes shine in the way eyes are supposed to shine when someone’s happy or amused. No taunting to be found. No dares. Just the unspoken invitation to be friendly. I like the simplicity, even though I’m comparing him to Jude, point by point. A buzz of pleasure washes down my whole body at the thought of Jude’s galling, frustrating, gorgeous grin.
“Would that excitement have to do with frat guys and this?” He taps a finger to the sliver of white that scars his upper cheek.
“Yeah, that.”
His smile broadens. “Yeah, that.”
“Kinda hard to miss. The stories, I mean. Not the scar.”
Only, that isn’t the only scar on his face. A slash angles up from the left side of his jaw,
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