Going Geek (19 page)

“W
e should stage a coup.” We're in bed, and the room is dark except for the moonlight shining through the window, but I know Opal's awake and can hear me.

She rolls over and groans. “You've been hanging out with Jess for too long.”

“I know. Part of me thinks,
We're seniors, let's just ride out the rest of our year in peace and graduate.
”

“Which is pathetic,” she says agreeably.

“But if they're willing to resort to stealing, how can we let that go unanswered?”

“It is kind of amazing. Do they not understand karmic retribution?” Opal asks.

I snort. “I can assure you, karma has yet to make an appearance in either of their lives.”

“Even though we didn't get to keep the club part going, it was still a fun night,” Opal says.

“Yes, but it wasn't what Raksmey envisioned. She worked really hard on the set lists, and it meant so much to her that everyone have a good time.”

Opal sighs. “We
did.
” We're quiet for a minute; then she says, “Okay, I'm in. And by the way, Declan's not going to wait around forever, so don't be a moron.”

Ugh. I knew she'd been noticing.

“You're a smart girl, Skylar. He's one of the good ones. Leo was too, but maybe you're lucky enough that you get two good ones.”

Inexplicably tears spring to my eyes. When I think about how this year has turned out nothing like what I expected, I get so overwhelmed that nothing makes sense. Usually I try to block it out, but I decide Opal's right. It's not too late to turn this year around. “I know,” I say with a sigh. She doesn't respond, but I know she heard me. One of Opal's best qualities is that she doesn't gloat when she's right.

The next Calendar meeting is awkward, to say the least. I have a hard time sitting there when our plans to clean house are under way. Our petition is already circulating among the students with the goal of getting the two hundred signatures we need to hold a midterm election.

“I propose we put Abbot on the schedule one more time before winter break,” I say.

“So that's why you're here,” Lila says. “We thought maybe you were going to blame us for your lame club.”

“Denied,” Whitney says without even looking at me.

“What would you do?” Guthrie asks, a note of excitement in his voice.

Before I can answer, Whitney cuts us off with a deadly stare. “It's not happening. Abbot's events are chaotic, unsafe, and unfocused. We're considering removing you from the schedule altogether until spring term.”

“You can't do that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And the last one would've been amazing if the generator hadn't been stolen.”

Whitney looks at Lila. “Oh. I heard the generator was found in the storage area the next day,” Lila says, tilting her head.

It had been, but Samantha insisted that it had never been moved before and that no one who works at the black box would've put it away for any reason. Whitney looks vaguely uncomfortable. I get the feeling Lila may have gone rogue on this generator thing, but even so, Whitney seems powerless to control her.

“Anyway,” Whitney says, “you're not the only one who knows how to circulate a petition.”

I freeze. I can't believe she knows about the petition. Even though I desperately want to bolt from the meeting to find Opal and start organizing, I force myself to sit through the rest of the meeting and act unconcerned. But as soon as we're adjourned, I text Opal and Jess:

I get there first, and the office is empty, so I let myself in and pace until Opal arrives. Jess follows a minute later.

“What's the matter?” Jess asks, breathless.

I fill them in on what I learned at the Calendar meeting. “I'm not exactly sure of the details, but I just know they're doing something to keep us off the schedule.”

“So what?” Opal asks. “We're more than halfway there on our petition. Once we get the signatures, Marshall just needs to approve it.”

Someone comes into the office, and I whip around, annoyed at the interruption. “Did we have an appointment?” Marshall asks.

“No,” I say, turning back around.

“Well, then, by all means keep using my office. Uninvited,” he adds when we don't acknowledge him.

“Sorry,” Opal says. “We're just trying to figure something out.”

“I see. Can I be of any help?” Marshall asks.

“Probably. We're trying to take over the Calendar,” I say. Opal and Jess glare at me. “What? He's going to find out eventually.”

Marshall sits down and stares at me. “You're serious,” he says after a minute.

“Deadly,” I say.

He groans, slumps down in his seat. “Skylar, why did you save all this spiritedness for my year as school president? Couldn't you have gotten some of this out of your system last year?”

“Skylar was strictly establishment last year,” Jess says.

“But now she's enlightened,” Opal adds quickly when she sees I'm insulted.

“I'm glad we can all agree that I sucked last year,” I say. “But can we focus on the matter at hand?”

“Right. You were saying something about ousting some very well-liked and respected members of our community from their positions on the most influential student-run organization at Winthrop,” Marshall says.

“That's a good summary,” I agree. “But I wouldn't say the
most
influential.” I smile at him, which causes him to roll his eyes and groan again.

“It's an accepted fact that the Calendar impacts students' lives in a more tangible way,” he says. “I made peace with this long ago.”

“Okay, but we would actually challenge the statement that those students in question are, in fact, likable,” Jess says. Opal nods.

“And respected,” I say.

“You've had a tiff with your bestie,” Marshall says. “Be honest, isn't this a bit of an overreaction?”

“If that's all it was, then yes. But it's truly not personal. It's about the chokehold the Calendar has over everything. They're archaic,” I say.

“And un-diverse,” Jess says. “Our goal isn't to go wild and introduce all sorts of deviant stuff. Don't worry, Marshall, we know enough about tradition to keep it alive and well.”

“We just want a true representation of the students' interests,” Opal says.

“What you're proposing doesn't sound completely objectionable, if only it didn't involve taking people's leadership positions away from them,” Marshall says. “That's a pretty serious move. Besides, didn't you already make a statement on Rally Weekend? Maybe the powers that be are on alert now and they'll start being open to other kinds of programming.”

“Our event was sabotaged, and I just left a meeting where they openly admitted that they were trying to keep us off the schedule,” I say. “You can't expect us to be okay with that.”

“If we can get them to let Abbot have the normal number of assigned events, will you stop your petition?” Marshall asks.

Jess and Opal look at me. “No way,” I say. “The bare minimum is no longer going to cut it.”

Marshall sighs again. “So what exactly is my role in all this?”

“Nothing. Just keep it quiet for now, but consider this your fair warning that we're going to submit this as soon as we have enough signatures,” I say. “And obviously sign it when it comes across your desk.”

He looks queasy at the thought. I put a hand on his arm. “It only allows us to have the election. Your signature doesn't give us the positions.”

He nods. “Okay. I appreciate the heads-up.”

N
ot many people get excited about finals, but Winthrop definitely has an abnormally high concentration of people who do. Or at least aren't completely rocked by them. I've made it through three exams and turned in my final paper for Images of Women. My brain feels like runny Jell-O, and I still have my Mandarin exam tomorrow. But I can't study for that until I finish my history term paper, which is also due tomorrow, the last day before Thanksgiving break.

I'd already received an extension, but between our petition and studying for other finals, I let this slide until the last minute. So now I'm speed-reading about the Cuban Missile Crisis, hoping to stumble upon some brilliant point that will help me whip my terrible first draft into shape.

Tonight there are a handful of other students in the studio, because everyone's busy with final projects. Bettina left the dorm before me and is isolated in a corner. At least I'm in good company with fellow crammers. I calm down enough to make sense of my notes and the quotes I've collected.

When I look up to think through the concept of brinkmanship, I see Declan standing there, looking at me, unsure of whether or not to sit down. Even though Bettina didn't give me a hard time about it, I have enough of a conscience to feel guilty about dancing so close to him and then acting so crazy about holding his hand afterward. “Hey. You going to stand there all night?” I ask.

He smiles and sets up his work space, first laying out tools and paper, then getting his music ready. I want to say something before he gets into his zone, but the trouble I'll be in if I don't hand this paper in is unfathomable. I keep watching Declan, searching for ways to address the subject that will miraculously not kill the entire night.

Finally he looks at me. “We're cool. There's only one more day until break, and I'm not going anywhere.”

Somehow he read my mind and landed on the perfect thing to say. “You're staying too?” I ask.

He smiles. “I mean that figuratively.” Oh. I gulp, setting off a flutter of tiny butterflies in my stomach. “But I am staying for part of break. My parents are picking me up Thursday on their way to Maine. What about you?”

I hesitate before answering. “My parents thought it'd be silly to spend the money to fly me home now and then again at winter break.” The truth still doesn't come easily, but Declan doesn't blink.

“So we have time,” he says.

Hours go by. Declan sketches, and I type. By the time we have to leave for sign-in, I've revised about half of my draft. I still have a late night ahead of me, but at least I made decent progress.

“Come on,” Declan says, standing up. “If we leave now, I'll have time to walk you back.”

I look around. Everyone else is long gone, including Bettina. “You don't have to,” I say.

“I want to,” he says.

We leave the building, cross the quad, and walk toward Abbot. “You're going in the complete opposite direction of your dorm,” I point out.

“It's okay. I can run back fast if I need to. Besides, Chris isn't the biggest hardass in the world,” Declan says, referring to his famously liberal house counselor.

“Since you're sticking around, you want to meet at the squash courts Saturday morning?” I ask.

He turns his head toward me, and I'm glad he doesn't break his stride, because I'd probably die on the spot. The squash courts are a notorious hook-up spot, especially during off hours, and I'm pretty sure Declan knows that I don't play squash. I wish any other place on campus had popped into my mind just then. Attempting to play something just seemed like a good distraction from a potentially uncomfortable conversation.

“I don't play squash,” he says.

“Me neither. It always seemed kind of douchey. But I suppose we should try it once before we graduate.” I sound like a nonsensical weirdo, but fortunately, he laughs.

“Uh, okay. Eight o'clock?”

“Perfect,” I say. A moment passes.

Declan nods, and we remain silent the rest of the way to Abbot.

Luckily, having to finish my paper keeps me from obsessing all night long, but it doesn't help that Opal laughs uncontrollably when I tell her about my proposed meet-up at the squash courts.

“Are you sure you don't want to go to India with your parents?” I ask. She's staying for break too while her parents make a trip to visit their guru.

“I guess the upside is that none of the faculty patrols at that hour,” she says. “If you change your mind, you can have your way with him right then and there. Pretty convenient, actually.”

“It popped into my head before I could think it through.” But she's laughing too hard to hear my protests.