Ambition (Private 7)

prised beat. "What makes you think it's a date?" Marc looked at the floor and rubbed his hands together shyly. He glanced up with a

tentative expression. "Constance said something about a list...."

I laughed and finished off my little pastry. "Trust Constance to stick her nose in. So maybe it is a date." I didn't want it to be a date.

Not really. I didn't want to be on a date with anyone other than Josh. But that was what this was supposed to be. So I said it. "Is that

okay with you?" His eyebrows shot up. "Very okay." I felt a bit guilty after that. Like I was giving him false hope. But I soldiered on.

"Good. So where are you from?" I asked again, reaching for another pastry. "Miami," he replied. I paused mid-bite. When I thought of

Miami, I thought of neon lights, hot pink spandex, and loud music. Marc was none of these things. His very being screamed New Eng-

lander. "Really? But you're so--" "Preppy? Ambitious? Sober?" he supplied. "Okay," I said.

"I never really fit in there," he told me. He leaned back in his chair and laid his arms on top of the chair arms, then started to tap a

beat on the front of them with both hands. "My older brother, Carlos, was born to live there. All my friends worshipped him because

he, you know, raced cars and knew all the bouncers and had a different girl over every night and never seemed to actually work a day.

They thought he was the coolest thing ever. I just thought it was sad. I couldn't wait to get out of there." "Wow," I said. "Too much in-

formation?" he asked. "No. Not at all. It just sounds familiar," I replied.

"You have a slutty, drag-racing older brother?" Marc joked. I laughed and reached for my coffee cup. "No. Not that part. Just the

part where you couldn't wait to get out of there." "Didn't fit in out there in central Pennsylvania?" he asked. My paranoia flared in-

stantly. "How did you know where I was from?" "Reed, I'm a reporter. I'm doing a story on you. Come on," he said, turning his palms

up. "I thought the story was more about Billings." "Yeah, and you're president of Billings. The girl who's singlehandedly trying to

save it," Marc said. Like, duh. "You're kind of central to the story." "Oh. Right." I laughed.

And as I laughed I realized that I only ever laughed anymore when I was with Marc. I looked at him and he looked at me and I felt

nothing. Zero tingle. Zero attraction. Zero emotion. He wasn't Josh, but I liked being with him. It made me forget the other stuff. There

was a definite possibility that this guy could be a good friend. "So. How big's your scholarship?" he asked with a wry smile. "Like I'd

ever tell you that," I responded, and smacked his arm lightly. "I'll get it out of you eventually," he told me, reaching for one of the pas-

tries. "It's what I do." I sipped my coffee and settled in. We spent the next hour talking about how surreal it was to be at Easton with-

out trust funds behind us. Our hopes of breaking into the Ivy League. The crazy birthday gifts our parents cobbled together during

leaner years. In the end it was one of the most enjoyable nights I'd had in recent memory. And he didn't even try to kiss me at the door.

As I strolled away from Drake Hall, I felt somehow lighter. I knew that there was definitely going to be life after Josh Hollis.

Maybe not with Marc, but with someone. Someday. Maybe even soon. It was actually possible.

* * *

Friday night was movie night at Billings--at least, for those who didn't have dates or visiting parents. As I approached my dorm, I

saw the dim glow of the plasma screen through the front window of the parlor and knew that most of my friends were inside, riveted