There are two days left in August but no one gave Mother Nature the news, and the trees in northern Oregon are already starting to change, greens giving way to muted yellows and reds, the air already taking on the crisp feel of autumn.
Classes officially resume on September fifth, the day after Labor Day, and students are allowed to move in on the third. Until then it’s just me and a handful of other summer students lining up for burgers and fries at the Hedgehog Grill, one of the few campus restaurants that stay open year-round.
“Hey, Nora,” calls Franco, the owner. “Lemme guess. Burger. Mushrooms. Bacon. Vinegar for the fries. And…an orange soda?”
“Sounds good,” I say, getting out my wallet. It always sounds good, since I always get the same thing when I come here. I pay and find a booth along the wall, grabbing my archaeology textbook from my bag, determined to cram every bit of knowledge about matrices and excavation processes into my brain by the end of dinner. Even though I have no intention of being an archaeologist, I’d failed this course last year and the only way to ease the bruise of an F is to re-take the class.
I’m halfway through a page about strata when I hear my name. Looking up, however, it’s not Franco calling me over to pick up my food, it’s Crosbie Lucas approaching with a tray of his own.
“Trying to go incognito?” he asks, gesturing to my loose hair and non-cardigan. “Look more like a college student than a nanny?”
“I guess it didn’t work.”
“Can’t fool me.” Without waiting for an invitation, he slides into the far side of the booth and munches on a fry. “What are you reading?”
“I’m studying.”
“I figured. What?”
“Archaeology.”
“You want to be Indiana Jones?”
“I just want to pass.”
He shrugs. “Sure. Fair enough.”
My eyes dart around and I catch several people looking our way. Despite last year’s irresponsible antics, I’m a small fish in a big pond, and I don’t have much of a reputation. Crosbie Lucas, however, does, and though I’ve just agreed to move in with his best friend, I have not agreed to be friends with Crosbie by extension. Every girl Crosbie hooks up with gets added to a list called the “Crosbabes” and no way do I want to join their ranks, rumored or real.
Before I can think of a polite brush-off, Franco shouts that my food is ready. I head up to collect my meal, then return to the table and sigh when Crosbie shows no signs of leaving.
“What are you doing on campus?” I ask. “I thought you lived on the Frat Farm.” The short strip of old Victorian homes converted into Burnham frat houses on the west side of campus has more than earned its name, thanks to the wild parties and rumors of crazy behavior that’s more fact than fiction. I should know, since I’d been a frequent flier there last year.
Crosbie speaks around a mouthful of food. “Just working out. They keep the Larson gym open all summer.”
“I thought they had weights at the frat houses.”
“Oh yeah? You spend a lot of time there?”
“No,” I lie. “Just a guess.” Though Crosbie and I were never officially introduced last year, we’d been at a lot of the same parties, and it’s more than a little offensive that he doesn’t remember me.
He stuffs a couple of fries into his mouth. “I’ve got an elliptical and some weights in my room, but it’s not enough. And the gym here’s quiet in the summer, so I like to use it when I can.”
“Makes sense.”
“You staying on campus?”
“Yeah. I was taking summer courses.”
“Trying to get a leg up, huh?”
Ha. “Yep,” I lie again.
“Kell says you’re moving in.”
I hesitate. I already know it’s true, but hearing it from someone else feels weird. Like it’s more true, more permanent, more wrong, somehow. Like how you know streaking down Main Street is a bad idea, but hearing your parents say “You ran naked down Main Street, Nora!?” makes it sound even worse.
“September third.”
“Should be interesting.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “It means, Kellan’s got good intentions about being a model student this year, but I don’t think it’ll happen. And something tells me you’re the kind of girl that doesn’t want to be corrupted.”
I nearly choke on my burger. “Corrupted?”
“Yeah. You ever go to a party? Get drunk? Mess around? That’s what Kellan’s into—hell, you’ve got your nose buried in a book, but even you must know that. I just think maybe you’re going to be…scandalized a little bit this year. It’s why I said you had the wrong address. So you didn’t make a mistake.”
I try to keep a straight face. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
He points at me with a fry. “I see you’re not taking this seriously. I’m just saying, don’t get your hopes up.”
“What would I be hoping for, Crosbie?”
He grins. “What every girl hopes for. Happily ever after with Kellan McVey.”
“I’m just trying to graduate.”
“Same here,” he replies, distracted by a commotion over my shoulder. “But sometimes…we get a little off track.”
“Hi, Crosbie!” A gaggle of girls dressed in tiny summer dresses and heels totters past, each shooting Crosbie their most endearing smile.