“We’re going to dinner right now.”
“No. We’re not.”
“Get your student ID.”
“I’m not going to dinner with you. You don’t even like me.”
“I like you fine,” Reagan said.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Jesus Christ, aren’t you hungry?”
Cath was squeezing her fists so hard, her knuckles were going white.
She thought about chicken-fried steak. And scalloped potatoes. And strawberry-rhubarb pie. And wondered whether the Pound dining hall had an ice cream machine like Selleck did.
And she thought about winning. About how she was letting this win, whatever this was—the crazy inside of her. Cath, zero. Crazy, one million.
She leaned over, compressing the knot in her stomach.
Then she stood up with as much dignity as she could scavenge and put on her Vans.
“I have been eating real food…,” she muttered. “I eat lunch at Selleck with my sister.”
Reagan opened the door. “Then why don’t you eat here?”
“Because I waited too long. I built up a block about it. It’s hard to explain.…”
“Seriously, why aren’t you on drugs?”
Cath walked past her out of the room. “Are you a licensed psychiatrist? Or do you just play one on TV?”
“I’m on drugs,” Reagan said. “They’re a beautiful thing.”
*
There was no awkward moment in the dining hall, no standing at the doorway with a tray, trying to decide on the most innocuous place to sit.
Reagan sat at the first half-empty table she came across. She didn’t even nod to the other people sitting there.
“Aren’t you going to be late for work?” Cath asked.
“I’m going out. But I was gonna eat dinner here first anyway. We pay for all these meals; may as well eat them.”
Cath’s tray had a plate of baked macaroni and two bowls of Brussels sprouts. She was ravenous.
Reagan took a big bite of pasta salad. Her long hair fell over her shoulders. It was a dozen shades of red and gold, none of them quite natural. “Do you really think that I don’t like you?” she asked with her mouth full.
Cath swallowed. She and Reagan had never had a conversation before today, never mind a serious one. “Um … I get the feeling that you don’t want a roommate.”
“I don’t want a roommate.” Reagan frowned. She frowned as much as Levi smiled. “But that has nothing to do with you.”
“Why live in the dorms, then? You’re not a freshman, right? I didn’t think upperclassmen lived on campus.”
“I have to,” Reagan said. “It’s part of my scholarship. I was supposed to get my own room this year—I was on the list—but all the residence halls are over capacity.”
“Sorry,” Cath said.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I didn’t want a roommate either,” Cath said. “I mean … I thought I was going to live with my sister.”
“You have a sister who goes here?”
“Twin.”
“Ew. Weird.”
“Why is that weird?” Cath asked.
“It just is. It’s creepy. Like having a doppelg?nger. Are you identical?”
“Technically.”
“Ew.” Reagan shuddered melodramatically.
“It’s not creepy,” Cath said. “What is wrong with you?”
Reagan grimaced and shuddered again. “So why aren’t you living with your sister?”
“She wanted to meet new people,” Cath said.
“You make it sound like she broke up with you.”
Cath speared another Brussels sprout. “She lives in Schramm,” she said to her tray. When she looked up, Reagan was scowling at her.
“You’re making me feel sorry for you again,” Reagan said.
Cath turned her fork on Reagan. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”
“I can’t help it,” Reagan said. “You’re really pathetic.”
“I am not.”
“You are. You don’t have any friends, your sister dumped you, you’re a freaky eater … And you’ve got some weird thing about Simon Snow.”
“I object to every single thing you just said.”
Reagan chewed. And frowned. She was wearing dark red lipstick.
“I have lots of friends,” Cath said.
“I never see them.”
“I just got here. Most of my friends went to other schools. Or they’re online.”
“Internet friends don’t count.”
“Why not?”
Reagan shrugged disdainfully.
“And I don’t have a weird thing with Simon Snow,” Cath said. “I’m just really active in the fandom.”
“What the fuck is ‘the fandom’?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Cath sighed, wishing she hadn’t used that word, knowing that if she tried to explain herself any further, it would just make it worse. Reagan wouldn’t believe—or understand—that Cath wasn’t just a Simon fan. She was one of the fans. A first-name-only fan with fans of her own.
If she told Reagan that her Simon fics regularly got twenty thousand hits … Reagan would just laugh at her.
Plus, saying all that out loud would make Cath feel like a complete asshole.
“You’ve got Simon Snow heads on your desk,” Reagan said.