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My stomach lurches again, apparently playing out the scene from the night before. I almost threw up on Diego too. And then what? I didn’t. I’m almost certain I did not throw up on him.
No, there were other people there. Big people. Solid people. Like giant marble statues. Two of them took me away and I hurled myself across the bathroom floor, at least grateful that I was safe there. I knew it had been handled. I totally felt safe, like I had just barely escaped some kind of danger. From Diego?
No, from Ansel.
And there the memories stop like they hit a brick wall. Like in a Road Runner cartoon, it seems like there should be a tunnel there, but instead it is just a black circle in the middle of a solid stone wall. I have no idea.
But here I am, back in my shower, back in my dorm. Safe, right? I check my arms, but I don’t see any bruises or anything. I feel sick to my stomach, but that’s about it. I sure did get drunk. I’ve had three whiskeys before but wow, that really knocked me on my butt.
Another sneaky voice whispers in the back of my head: am I sure that was whiskey?
But I push that thought away. Not whiskey? Then what? The insinuation is too serious. Certainly Ansel wouldn’t have slipped me anything stronger in the drink. And certainly, Seattle wouldn’t have let him. She may be a shallow, self-serving piece of work, but she isn’t a monster. She would look out for me.
After the shower, I feel almost human again. Ninety percent. Well, 75 percent.
Well, two-thirds.
It will have to do. After all, it’s just the elective. Something about collaborating? No doubt it’s going to be a bunch of opinionated art majors with low-skilled innovations they want to try out, probably using found art or crayons or some bullshit like that.
I don’t mean to be a jerk about it, but I am not expecting this class to be terribly taxing in an intellectual way. I’ll take the class, explain to Dean Rhodes how very hard I tried, and she and I can have another conversation about it at the end of the semester.
I’m sure she’s a reasonable person. Maybe if I just put forth some obvious effort, make it absolutely clear how humble and agreeable I am being, she will suddenly let me go back to doing what it is that I really want to do. Maybe? I mean, anything is possible?
With sunglasses and a floppy hat, I make my way across the quad to the art building. The course description was deliberately vague, but it did at least say that this was in room 306.
But, because karma hates me right now, the elevator is not working. I have to heave myself up the terrazzo stairways to the third floor, then shuffle down the hall to the room with my hair sticking out all over the place and the back of my head all sweaty and itchy.
I hear my breath coming out in hoarse explosions, but you know what, I can’t even care. I’m probably sweating pure whiskey at this point, or maybe my liver has just utterly given up and decided to put the whole situation on bypass.
It’s fine. I’m done. Here we go with the macaroni art.
I feel weak and woozy as I reach out for the door handle, grateful but a little off-balance when it swings inward.
A tall, burly man with wavy blond hair stops up short, gasps, and then smiles. He stands aside and holds out his hand in welcome.
“Lindy!” he says sweetly, smiling so broadly that it dimples his sculpted cheeks all the way down to his square jaw.
“Uh, I’m sorry?” I stammer. “Do I know—”
They all stand up at once. Three of them, plus Diego leaning against the far chalkboard. They all smile like they know me. Like we are friends.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” the blond one says, reaching out for my hand.
For some reason, I let him take it and he guides me into the room toward a chair where I slump immediately, confused and woozy all over again.
“Did you drink all the Gatorade?” Diego asks with a smirk.
I start to object, but then I kind of do remember Gatorade. At least, I remember waking up with a sort of blue feeling on my tongue? I just thought it was part of the dream.
“Too much Gatorade can make you sick too,” offers the smallest one, though by the look of him he is in charge.
After he speaks, everybody automatically nods just a little bit, as if they don’t even know they are doing it. But their immediate obedience makes me think he is like their coach or something.
My mind starts to race. I can’t exactly tell what they are thinking. Is it just friendly interest? Did I bump into them last night after I—
Oh, no. Ibumpedinto them.
I remember it suddenly. The feeling of walking backward and hitting a wall. That wall is standing in front of me right now, smiling rather pleasantly at me. The blond one.
