I swallow, and for the second time that evening, find myself frozen, too overwhelmed with emotion to move. Thankfully, it hides the fact that I feel like I might get sick. I knew one of the Slate boys went to Berkfield. I assumed he played football, given who his father is, but the football team itself is huge, and it isn’t like I run into them all that often. It didn’t even occur to me, in fact, that I might be walking into Sebastian Slate’s house tonight. How had it not occurred to me? What’s wrong with me?
Guilt is thick and heavy in my throat, and I mentally scream a thousand apologies into the air. For going into the house. For not remembering. For letting him kiss me. Oh, god— for wearing this jersey. I smile weakly at my roommates and hope that’s enough of an exit, then sprint for my room. I yank the jersey off and fling it across the room, where it lands on my desk edge before sliding off to the floor. I breathe deep, trying to count each inhale and exhale to three.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It was an accident, that’s all. I was just thrown by someone at that house being nice to me. It doesn’t mean Sebastian is actually a nice person. It doesn’t mean I actually liked him.
He’s one of the Slate boys, after all. I would never actually like someone whose dad killed my aunt.
4
I firmly believe there are few things a good night’s sleep can’t fix. I’m one of those people who won’t necessarily feel tired, but then will end up weeping at a grocery store commercial or something because I’m slightly overtired. Obviously, the whole situation with Sebastian Slate— no, Dennis Slate’s Son— is a lot more serious than a grocery store commercial, but I still wake up feeling better about the entire thing.
It was just a crazy accident, that’s all. My aunt would understand— she was easily dazzled by football players. That’s why she had the affair with Dennis Slate, after all.
And that’s how she ended up dead long before her time. And that’s why, eventually, the bastard’s going to go to jail for what he did to my sweet aunt, no matter how fancy and expensive his lawyers are, and no matter how innocent his family keeps insisting he is.
So, sorry, Dennis Slate’s Son, but I am not going to think about your lips or your body or your jersey or anything else to do with you.
I decide to absolve my remaining guilt by attending the campus advocacy group meeting tonight. It’s the first meeting of the semester, and I wasn’t totally sold on joining since my schedule is already pretty intense— I’m pre-law, and if I want to get into a decent law school academics have to be my number one priority.
The advocacy group is pretty cool, though, and is a great résumé builder (in addition to being a great guilt absolver): Pro bono lawyers— good ones, who sometimes hire former advocacy group members— work with Berkfield students to find and rectify problems at the university. Last year, they made national news for proving that the pre-vet program was biased against minority applicants, and the year before they managed to get same-sex partner protections added to the retirement plan, even though that isn’t a requirement in our backward-ass state.
My aunt would have wanted me to focus on the law school dream, and she’d have also been pretty into the campus advocacy group. She was always the person going to marches and pickets and sit-ins, and had about fifty thousand shirts with clever feminist phrases on them. She had a thing for football players, but that didn’t mean she was vapid— she was one of the smartest women I knew. The fact that some meat-head like Dennis Slate killed her—
Nope, nope, I’m not thinking about the Slates. I’m thinking about my aunt. I hug my cardigan close even though it’s still summery outside, then shoulder my way into the student center. Signs lead me to Room 413, a large conference room that, by the time I get there, is already standing-room only. My eyes widen as I slide into the room. There have to be at least fifty people in here. Plenty look older than me— probably juniors and seniors— and a few are freshmen I recognize from one place or another.
“Is this the right room? The campus advocacy group?” I whisper to a pretty Asian girl beside me.
She nods, looking grim. “Right? How are you supposed to stand out in a crowd like this? My sister said it wasn’t this popular when she was in school. She got hired to Shannon’s firm right out of law school, but I mean, it can’t have been hard to stand out when there were only seven people in the group. I’m Sarah, by the way.”