Chapter One
Birdie
College is exactly how I pictured it.
I don’t know if that’s disappointing or a huge relief.
I’m sitting on a ratty-ass couch in a frat house with a red solo cup wedged between my knees, scooting closer and closer to the torn arm as the couple making out beside me become connoisseurs of each other’s mouths. The scent of shit cologne and fruity body wash and Pabst Blue Ribbon is so strong, it’s a wonder no one has keeled over from it. Maybe I’ll be the first if the utter unoriginality of my surroundings doesn’t do me in.
The song changes and Halsey’s voice rasps out from the portable speakers wedged in between empty cups and paper plates on the coffee table. I tip my head back and let it rest on the back of the couch, trying not to fantasize about the quiet haven of my dorm room. If I was there right now, I’d have my sketchpad on my lap, creating new stage looks for my beauty pageant coach sister-in-law Naomi. Maybe I’d be listening to The Moth podcast or studying for my Trig test next week. Whatever I decided to do, it would be for myself.
This party? This whole scene. It’s for someone else entirely.
A lot like me, Birdie Bristow, rushing a sorority. It wasn’t something I planned, but walking through the quad one day after class, I heard one of the sorority sisters on a bullhorn talking about the attributes of their organization. Kindness, charity, community, drama. It was impossible to ignore how familiar those things sounded. How they reminded me of someone whose memory I’m determined to preserve. So I stopped at the Kappa Kappa Gamma table and signed up for rush week. I’m in the midst of it now and I feel trapped in someone else’s body, but I have to admit, the sisters have been pretty nice. Only one of them flinched when I walked into the opening day luncheon with my shock of blue hair and Cool Story Bro T-shirt.
The saliva soul mates press even closer, the guy’s Drakar Noir punching me in the throat and I shoot to my feet, throwing an absent salute my roommate, Carline, who is dancing across the room. She signals to the packed kitchen, then mimes taking a sip from an invisible cup.
“Movie? No. TV show!” I nod. “Okay. First word…”
Her forehead creases. “What?”
“Charades.” She’s nonplussed. “Never mind.” I wave her off, muttering to myself as I weave my way through my peers toward the kitchen. “Next time she listens to Hootie and the Blowfish ironically, I’m not going to pretend like I get it.”
I wave a cloud of marijuana smoke to the side and sidestep into the kitchen. Two huge kegs hold the place of honor on a rickety wooden island straight out of Ikea. Dudes sporting backwards hats and football jerseys play bartender, pouring foaming golden liquid into the almighty red chalices and pass them around while women—many of them fellow Kappa Kappa Gamma pledges—dance in the limited space around them. Carline was clearly urging me to have a drink and loosen up, but my mouth opens to ask where I can find a bottle of water instead. I’m passed a full beer before I have the chance, though, and a chilled wave of lager coasts down over my knuckles.
“Okay. Thanks.” I start to reverse back out of the kitchen, planning on dumping the beer in the dead potted plant by the frat’s front door—but a dude I’ve never seen walks into the kitchen. And how the hell did I miss him? He’s big. Like, pull a big rig with a chain tied around his waist big. At least half a foot taller than everyone in the room, he’s wearing a football jersey that indicates he’s a senior with a white S—and while the garment is probably the biggest size produced, it’s struggling to contain his huge chest and overall wideness. Everyone has to cram together to give him berth as he carries a metal keg over his head into the kitchen and sets it down with a thunk on the island.
A cheer goes up among the mass of bodies, but the big guy doesn’t smile or acknowledge it. There’s a line of concentration between his eyebrows so deep, it could cradle my finger and it only deepens as he scans the room with a guarded look. A couple of his teammates slap him on the back, but his body doesn’t move. It’s like pebbles bouncing off a boulder. Why am I still in the kitchen staring at him?
I don’t know. Maybe because he’s the one thing tonight that’s out of place. Wait. Sorry, make that two things, since I am also distinctly out of my comfort zone. But he’s in a football jersey in a frat house—the epitome of belonging—and he couldn’t look more uncomfortable.