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I swallow, though my tongue feels like it is swelling inside of my mouth.
“So, I think I had a little bit too much to drink last night…” I begin again.
They glance at each other, laughing to themselves.
“Don’t even worry about it,” Diego shrugs. “We have seen way worse at the house after a party.”
“Oh, you guys are in a house together? A fraternity?”
I am putting together clues. I really don’t want to ask for a complete rundown of last night. It’s just too embarrassing to say that I don’t remember anything at all. And yet I kind of want to make sure that I didn’t do anything really embarrassing. Limbo contest? Karaoke?
Sexual intercourse?
It is weird the way Diego is looking at me. After spending the last eight months or so drawing him in art classes, now the illusion of separation is gone. He is not just themodel. He is aman, and apparently he thinks that we know each other.
“We play football,” says the one in charge. “We are a team. You have been to the games, right?”
That explains it. He’s probably the quarterback or kicker or whatever.
“Oh, Fridays…” I explain quickly, embarrassed. “Yeah, no. Fridays I’m usually in the print lab. Or one of the figure-painting groups, you know? I mean, usually Fridays are work nights.”
He raises his eyebrows at me like I’m just telling some kind of stubborn joke. And slowly his face kind of rearranges itself into a smirk and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the ends of his knees.
“You’re an art major,” he says, though it is not a question.
“Yes?” I shrug. “This is an art class. Are you guys… Oh, wait. You are not art majors. What are you?”
“No, we are not art majors,” he says, and can barely resist the urge to roll his eyes, I can tell.
Well then. How about that.
I stifle my urge to be defensive about my major. After all, I am a highly trained artisan. I know more about the chemical composition of the last fourteen hundred years of paint than your average Jane Doe. I am never going to apologize for that.
Plus, now I have the perfect entry to ask them their names, which I might have known yesterday. Now I don’t have to admit that information dissolved itself in whiskey.
“Okay, how about this,” I suggest breezily. “Let’s go around the room, give our names and our majors? And why we are here?”
They each nod briefly.
“Good. I am Belinda Jameson, but everybody calls me Lindy. Um, I guess you knew that. I am a painting and drawing major, junior. And I am here because… to try something out of my comfort zone. I guess.”
The quarterback stares at me while I talk, his eyes darting at my hair, my lips, my collar. I feel him looking at me with a certain amount of bravado. Does he look at everybody like this? How do people stand it?
“Spencer Thompson,” he smiles in response. “I am a business major, junior. I am here—we are all here—because our coach asked us to get an elective, and the semester had already started. This is all that was left.”
He finishes with a shrug, and I feel my defensiveness rise again. But I’m hungover. I am probably moody and confused. I resolve to keep a smile on my face and try to have a good attitude.
“Ezekiel Arroyo,” smiles the dark-haired man to Spencer’s left. “Liberal arts college, English major with an education minor. Junior. That was my brother, the DJ.”
I hold my breath, completely confused.
“Last night?” he continues gamely. “Oh, maybe you don’t remember him… Anyway, he was the DJ. He was the reason we were all there.”
I’ve got nothing.
“When we saw you,” Ezekiel continues.
I just continue smiling, trying not to betray the fact that I have no idea what he is talking about.
