“I’m just going to a thing at some bar called the Manhattan,” I said.
“That place is great. Get the Tipsy Duck, if you’re into cocktails,” Kiersten said.
“Got it. Tipsy Duck,” I said.
“Meeting someone?” Piper asked absently.
“Sort of,” I said, stooping to clasp my heels. They were kitten heels, tiny things that made me tower over people in Tifton but made me look like a little girl playing dress-up in Atlanta.
“Who is it? Anyone we know?” Kiersten asked.
“Um, it’s…” I hesitated. I could avoid a fight now by lying, and saying I was meeting a nobody— but with the way people, especially Piper, knew Jacob Everett’s business, I reasoned it was very likely Piper would eventually figure it out. Then, there’d be a fight over my going out to this bar and the lie.
Better to rip the Band-Aid off, right?
“It’s Jacob Everett. I’m not sure what he wants. I don’t think it’s anything like…serious,” I said quickly.
Piper made a noise in her throat, and when I dared look her way, I saw my roommate’s jaw was clenched.
“Jacob Everett asked you to the Manhattan?”
“I think it’s just something to do with the anthropology class I’m in,” I said hurriedly.
Piper considered this, then gave a short laugh. “Probably. I mean, what else would it be for?”
“Exactly,” I said. I turned to look at Kiersten, whose eyes were wide. When I looked her way, she blinked, then shrugged.
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s nothing. He’s not really into your type,” Kiersten said, giving Piper a meaningful, supportive look.
“Yeah,” Piper said, though it was clear the hurt was deep. I almost felt bad— wasn’t it some sort of college law to not covet your roommate’s crush or something?
“I’ll mention you to him, if you want. Maybe I can get you on the…um…list. For the pre-game…thing?” I said haltingly. Had I ever actually said the word blowjob out loud? Not that I could remember.
Piper’s eyes went dark, and I immediately realized I’d hurt more than I’d helped. “I don’t need to be mentioned to Jacob Everett, Sasha. He knows exactly who I am, and it’s only a matter of time before he realizes how much I can offer him. That’s why I know this isn’t anything serious— you’ve got nothing he can’t get from me, and I’ve got far more to give than you ever could, got it?”
I was stunned. An array of witty comebacks circled my head, but as per usual, they stalled rather than emerging from my lips. This was one of those circumstances where freezing up wasn’t a bad thing, though— after all, it’s not like a snappy response would do anything to fix things between me and Piper at the moment. Instead, I nodded.
“Yeah, I get it,” I said, and hurried out the door.
I could hear them already starting to talk about me as the door closed shut behind me, but I rushed away anyhow, determined not to let them get to me.
I was going out to meet the guy they all wanted. And for the first time, I was only too happy to know that it was driving them crazy.
7
The Manhattan was, obviously, off campus, which meant it was a little farther outside the bubble I had built for myself. It was a building tucked off one of the city’s main roads, two stories with loud, obnoxious signs beckoning college-goers in. I had heard it mentioned several times before— it was one of a bars that Harton students more or less kept in business— but I’d never had all that much interest in going. I was too introverted to dance, I wasn’t all that into getting drunk, and it wasn’t like you could have a conversation with the DJ cranking the music up so loud.
If you don’t belong here then why are you going? I wondered for the thousandth time as I walked up to the bouncer and offered him my ID. He waved me in, though he didn’t give me the coveted purple wristband that marked me over twenty-one and alcohol eligible.
Now what? I wondered as I stepped inside. The interior of the Manhattan was done up in an ultra-modern cityscape style, with steel beams, LED lights, and a bar that flashed different colors with the music. It was still early, but the place was already packed with what appeared to be every athlete at Harton, along with a myriad of fan girls hanging onto the sleeves of every male in the room.
It was easy to tell the student athletes apart from the rest of the populace. Harton athletes wore their embroidered jackets with pride around campus, a reminder to everyone they encountered that they were swimmers, or gymnasts, or tennis players. The football players, of course, rarely needed a jacket to set them apart, hulking humans that they were, though they wore them anyhow. Here at the bar, it was still obvious to someone as observant as me that I was surrounded by the physically elite— the girls had sculpted shoulder muscles and backs shown off in barely-there dresses. The guys were well-groomed and broad shouldered, with bodies that tapered into fit waists. More than anything, though, it was those fan girls that gave them away— no one was worshipped so steadily, so adored by beautiful playthings, like the football players at Harton.