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I barely know him. I’ve only talked to him one time.
West and I are not friends.
And for the past few weeks, the only people who have cared about my honor are Bridget and me. None of my old friends can look me in the eye. Nate and I came as a unit, and when they had to pick sides, I guess his side looked like more fun.
“I would never do something like that,” Nate had said, straight-faced, when I confronted him in front of a bunch of those friends in this very dining hall. “How could you think I would?”
And then, after I sputtered and he denied for another few minutes, he’d said, “I guess a lot of those girls just want attention so bad, they’ll do anything to get it. ”
I look out the window at the lawn, unable to chew up and swallow the idea of West Leavitt defending my honor. Unable to process it at all.
Last year, when I regained consciousness after fainting by West’s car, the first thing I heard was an angry male voice in the hall. My dad was shouting, which was nothing new. He’s a judge, so he spends most of his professional time being calm and rational, but outside of work he’s the single parent of three young daughters, and he has a tendency to get shouty when he feels threatened. Which is a lot.
You just have to know how to handle him. My oldest sister, Janelle, sucks up. Alison usually cries. I present him with reasoned arguments, appealing to the logical brain until the ranty brain calms down.
Dad must have been all the way down the hall by the stairs, because I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Occasionally a lower, calmer voice broke into his tirade.
West’s voice.
I didn’t sort all this out until later. At the time, my head felt overlarge and tender, and I asked the girl leaning over me, “Who are you?”
“I’m Bridget,” she said. “Are you okay? You fainted. This cute guy carried you up the stairs, and I don’t know what he said to your dad, but your dad is ticked, and is he always that scary? Because, if so, I’m glad you’re here—it’s going to be a lot more pleasant for you—and also …”
She kept going until the door flew open and my dad came back into the room, red-faced and sweaty under the arms of his golf polo. He sat beside me on the bed, so obviously agitated that fume lines might as well have been rising off his head.
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay. ” This was a lie.
“I’m going to get you moved to one of the girls’ dorms. ”
I sat up abruptly. “What? Why?”
“That boy out there—he’s not a good influence. You shouldn’t be living near a kid like that. ”
“Like what? What did he do?”
Well. That was the wrong question. For the next several minutes, I learned how entirely alarming it is for a father to leave his youngest daughter for just a few minutes and then rediscover her laid out on the ground underneath an unknown male. Especially when your daughter turns out to be unconscious, the kid has “an attitude,” and you don’t “like the look of him. ”
All of this was compounded, according to my dad, by the “drug paraphernalia” in the backseat of the punk’s car. By which I think he meant the aquarium and lights and the bag of dirt, not the Dinty Moore. Although who knows? I was entirely out of my league. I heard the words drug paraphernalia, and I imagined short lengths of thick rubber, bags of heroine, syringes.
My dad was still lecturing when Nate showed up and made everything worse. Dad had invested three years in trying to guarantee that Nate and I were never alone near a horizontal surface, and now here Nate was, sauntering into my bedroom without knocking.
My dad turned a deeper shade of red.
Quickly, I introduced Bridget to Nate and Nate to Bridget and Bridget to my dad. I smiled a lot, making an effort to seem healthier than I felt, because this was the first stage of what would turn out to be an arduous campaign to ensure that when my father left—three days later instead of one, because the campaign was freaking long and hard fought—I’d still be in this dorm, in this room, with Bridget.
I won, but West was the necessary sacrifice. My dad wouldn’t leave until I’d agreed I would have nothing to do with “that boy. ”
It was laughable, really, to think I might have. It turned out Dad was right about the drug thing.
West and Krishna’s door was always closed, the curtains pulled shut. They had a steady stream of guests, played loud music, and annoyed me with their late hours and the whiff of sandalwood and sticky-acrid smoke from their room that infested our entire floor.
West set up that aquarium and those lights someplace secret—no one seemed to know where—and grew a bumper crop of weed. This was according to Krishna, who hung out in our doorway a lot, chatting with Bridget and me.
Krishna I can talk to. But West … no. The way he walks—that swagger that isn’t a swagger—it’s like he knows his way around, even if he’s somewhere he’s never been before. His confidence makes him seem older than me, and Bridget is always telling me stuff about him that cements the impression. Apparently he loaned money to this guy in Bridget’s psych class so the guy could buy a plane ticket to see his girlfriend. West charged him interest. It makes me wonder whether he breaks kneecaps if someone doesn’t pay him back.
He’s just more than I could handle, even if I were allowed to talk to him.
