“His number,” she mouths, her hand up to her ear like a phone. “Did you get it?”

Since I’m unsure how to convey to her that he has my number but I don’t have his, all I can do is ignore her. She’s been trying to get me to hook up with someone all year, probably because she’s been with a few different guys since fall quarter and feels slutty. (Her words, not mine.) But I’ve sowed those wild oats already and don’t plan to do that at PSU. My grades are my first and only priority.

Besides, how would it sound to Jon if I said, “Hey, I know I look like a crazy bitch crawling around on the White House roof and you’re kind of a celebrity on campus, but can I get your number so we can hook up sometime?”

That would be a big fat no. Besides, he’s seen me at my worst, and I’m not looking to go out with anyone. Plus, if that was him upstairs, he’s already got a girlfriend. The only thing I need to do is get out of here before Aaron comes around that corner with a bunch of his friends and sees me. Just the thought of it makes my skin crawl.

“Have a good night, ladies.” Jon Priestly gives my arm a little squeeze, releases it, then walks away from me and into the dark.

Ivy

The ability to lie convincingly is an important skill. When you’re in high school and your parents ask where you were the night before, you can tell them you were watching a movie at your best friend’s house and they’ll assume you’re telling the truth.

Or when you’re in college and you ask if they can put more money in your account, you can explain that your textbooks ended up costing a lot more than you expected. Or that the professor changed the edition number at the last minute and the bookstore won’t buy back the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar book you just bought.

And when a guy who scares the shit out of you demands to know whether you love him as much as he loves you, you can say yes and he’ll believe you, which will give you more time to figure out how to break things off with him.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been a good liar, but knowing your weaknesses can help you make better choices in the future.

When we get back to our dorm room and ditch Sara, Cassidy unleashes on me just as I expected.

“What the hell happened back there, Ives?”

I open my closet door and grab an empty hanger, wishing tonight had never happened. “What are you talking about?”

She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. “Why were you crying? Why were you barefoot? Why are you wearing fucking Jon Priestly’s coat? What were you guys doing back there?”

“Fucking Jon Priestly’s coat? Gee, is that what I’m doing?” It’s a lot easier to be a smartass than to talk about what she wants me to talk about.

“What happened?”

Choosing to ignore her, I shrug off the jacket and give it one last whiff before hanging it in my closet. I consider a few other ways that sentence can be interpreted. “Let’s see…Jon, who is currently fucking, owns this coat.”

“Ivy, I’m serious.”

“Wait. Here’s my personal favorite. Because it smells so good and really did keep me warm, this coat is really fucking awesome.”

Cassidy huffs out her exasperation. “Okay, Macklemore, stop being such a grammar nerd. And stop trying to change the subject. Even though fucking Jon would be fun.”

For a second—maybe two—I picture him naked. He’s kissing me passionately, his muscular back and shoulders flexing under my hands because he’s—

Enough with that, Ivy. He’s not your type.

My inner voice is right. My world was almost turned upside down tonight, and I’m thinking about doing it with a hot guy I just met who probably has a girlfriend? How messed up is that?

Cassidy snaps her fingers at me. “Earth to Ivy. What. The hell. Happened.”

Okay. Fine. I need to figure out what I’m going to share with her. A partial truth is better than a flat-out lie. “I used to go out with the older brother of a guy I saw inside.”

She stares at me like I’m a trial witness and she’s on the jury. Am I telling the truth? Am I lying?

I ignore her scrutiny in the hope that she’ll just drop it and move on. Opening my closet again, I grab my plastic tote, where I keep my toothbrush and toothpaste. “Coming?”

She doesn’t move. She just stares at me. “And…?”

I pick at the corner of my tote, the part that melted when I stuck my too-hot curling iron against the plastic a few months ago. I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “And I didn’t want to see him.”

She looks confused. “Why?”

“My boyfriend—my old boyfriend,” I say, correcting myself. “His brother…” My voice trails off.

You can’t undo spoken words. They are unerasable. Once I tell her, I can’t change my mind and decide that I don’t want her to know. Do I really want to do this? After all, Cassidy isn’t actually the best keeper of secrets. I recall our conversation yesterday when she told me about Michaela down the hall who had a nose job last summer. “Shhh, don’t tell anyone,” Cassidy said. “I’m not supposed to say anything.”

I clear my throat. “He…uh…died a few years ago, and I didn’t want to dredge up old memories by talking to his brother.”

Her eyes go wide and she clamps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, Ivy. How horrible.”

I nod, continuing to pick at my melted tote. “I’m trying to put it behind me now, so seeing his brother unexpectedly like that…wasn’t something I was prepared for.” Which literally is the truth.

“Wow. I totally get that.”

“That’s when Jon found me. And then you showed up.” End of story. Please. No more questions.

She quietly grabs her pink Caboodle from the shelf under her raised bed. I start to relax, thinking she’s dropping the subject. And then, “How did it happen?”

I tense up again. “Car accident.”

“Jesus Christ, Ivy.” Then, like she often does when she curses, she takes out her cross pendant and gives it a kiss.

Pressing my lips together in what I’m hoping she’ll assume is a close-mouthed smile of thanks, I change into pajama bottoms and an old concert T-shirt, then head down the hall to the women’s bathroom. She’s quiet the whole time—strangely subdued and very un-Cassidy-like.

The overhead fluorescent lighting hurts my eyes, so I quickly brush my teeth and wash my face. Back in our room, I slip under the covers, shielding my eyes from the light with my hand. As soon as Cassidy puts away her Caboodle and climbs into bed, I turn out the light clipped to the windowsill near my head and feel myself relax.

I love the dark, the absence of light. It washes over everything, rounding out sharp edges and blending objects together.

“Thank God you weren’t with him,” Cassidy whispers from her bed a few feet away.

I don’t tell her that I was.

The ache at the base of my skull that I’ve been trying to ignore spreads outward, like a drop of red food coloring on a wet piece of paper. Cassidy says something else, but her voice sounds like it’s coming from inside a tin can.

The walls in my hospital room were a sickly, sterile white when I woke up. That I do remember. Something was in my mouth, going down my throat, choking me. Like the monster in Alien. It was on my face, a ridged tentacle reaching into me, and I was going to become its host. I needed to get it out. I tried to move my hands but couldn’t. I wanted to scream but there was no sound.

My head is really throbbing now. I try not to make any sudden movements as I get up and shuffle carefully across the floor to my desk and open the drawer. One pill rattles around inside the prescription bottle.

My vision is narrowing, which means I don’t have much time. Even in the dark room, I can see an inky blackness around the edges. Cassidy is talking to me, but all I hear is the sound of my pencil cup hitting the floor. She grabs my upper arm and a pill is thrust into my hand. I take it and with a hand on my shoulder, she ushers me back to my bed, tucking the covers around my shoulders like my mom used to do.