It’s only when someone breaks the silence with a loud whistle and the large circle of people around us erupts in cheering and clapping, with a few lascivious noises thrown in, that I am harshly jerked back into reality.
Sharply, I push away from Esben and gasp for air. What have I done? Oh God, what have I done?
This is insanity. He doesn’t want to let go, but I take three steps back and watch as his face registers as much confusion as mine likely does.
Just enough for him to notice, I shake my head. No, this never should have happened. I take another step back, and then another. Esben shakes his head now, asking me not to leave. Begging me.
But I do. Because that’s what people do: they leave. When things are good, when things are bad, people leave.
But this time, I leave first.
CHAPTER 6
CURIOSITY DIDN’T KILL THE CAT
It takes every ounce of willpower I have to go to Social Psych class on Monday. I didn’t leave my room for the rest of the weekend after the . . . incident. The ridiculous, stupid, inexcusable incident. Clearly some sort of temporary insanity took over my brain, and I’m terrified that other students may have witnessed my coming undone, so I walk to class with the hood of my sweater pulled up, big sunglasses covering nearly half my face, a patterned scarf wrapped around my neck and bustling up over my chin. It occurs to me that I may be drawing attention to myself with this silly outfit, but I feel more protected this way. Nothing out of the ordinary happens on my walk, though.
My cell rings just as I near the spot where Esben picked up my ice cubes, and I answer distractedly. “Hi . . .”
“Hiya!” Steffi says. “Where’ve you been, girl? You didn’t take my calls or reply to my texts at all yesterday! Whatcha been doin’? Cozied up with some campus hottie?” she asks all too hopefully.
I trip over my own feet and nearly lose hold of the phone. “Wh . . . what? No! God, no. I just . . . uh . . . well, so much studying to do. I was at the, um, the place with the books . . .”
“The library?” she prompts.
“Oh. Yes, that.” I stare at the concrete where my coffee had splattered. “All the books . . .”
“Allison, I told you not to get drunk in the morning. It’s uncouth.”
“What?” I snap my head up. “I’m not drunk!”
“Then why are you being all spazzy? And I can hardly hear you.”
I push the scarf from my mouth. “I’m not spazzy! I’m very focused on school. That’s all. This is an important year, and I have to make sure my grades are perfect, and the library has so many resources, and it’s quiet, and I met a study group, and after that I found a comfy armchair by a window with a great view, and then I checked out a really old Shakespeare edition.” This is a series of ridiculous lies that I can’t seem to stop myself from telling. “Have you read Shakespeare? I haven’t much—”
Steffi breaks through my babbling. “Holy hell, you are so spazzy.”
She’s right. “It’s just a Monday thing, I guess.”
“This is not a Monday thing. Something is going on. Spill.”
“Nothing!” I say too loudly. “Gotta go! I’ll call you later!”
Good God. I tell Steffi everything, not that I usually have tons of crazy stories to share. But this? No. I simply cannot tell her. The best approach is to pretend it never happened. There is the looming issue of having to face Esben in the next few minutes, but I will simply pretend that there is no Esben. Easy.
It turns out that I didn’t need to worry. I get to the lecture hall and hunker down in my seat, but Esben is not here yet, and he does not come in late. A wave of relief should sweep over me, but I’ve been anticipating this moment for a day and a half, and now I’ll have to go through this again on Wednesday. In no way am I disappointed that he’s not here today, of course. Not in the least.
On Tuesday night, Steffi video calls me while I’m up late, typing up notes from the day.
As always, she looks impeccable; even the loose bun with stray blond tendrils falling out is perfect. Her tight pink tank top shows off her long neck and full cleavage. If I didn’t adore her so completely, I would be riddled with envy. As it is, seeing her face on my screen always makes me happy, and I smile at her. “What’s up? How are you?”
It’s then that I notice she’s leaning back in her chair, arms folded, with an undeniable smirk on her face.
“Steff?”
She bunches her lips together and cocks her head. “‘What’s up?’ Seriously? What’s up with you? Is there, oh, any chance you’d like to share something massively huge and crazy with me?”
I freeze, my smile vanishing. I cannot get myself to say anything. Something very bad is about to happen; I can tell.
Suddenly, Steffi flails her hands about wildly, and she begins talking with such a shocking level of delight that I can hardly follow what she’s saying. “Did it occur to you to tell me that you’d become a viral-video sensation? That you’re plastered all over the Internet, getting all schmexy time with the one and only Esben Baylor? Ohmigod, could he be any freakin’ hotter? How was the kiss? What the hell was that? Oh wait! Is he there right now? Am I interrupting anything?” She claps her hands together and leans in to the camera, pretending to peer around my room.
I can’t process this. “I’m a what?” I ask flatly.
“You’re a viral-video sensation! All over Facebook and Twitter and BuzzFeed! Upworthy!” She’s screaming and laughing, and I feel as though I might pass out.
“No. No, no, no.” I start shaking my head. “What are you talking about?”
“Hold on.” She starts clacking furiously on her keyboard and messages me a link.
Hesitantly, I move my mouse and click.
Oh hell, no.
I don’t know what this BuzzFeed thing is, but even I can tell that the site is huge, with links to stories about celebrities I know nothing about and lots of headlines and exclamation points. And smack at the top of the page is a video with the headline, “180 Seconds: Interactions between Strangers That Will Make You Melt.”
I clap a hand over my face in horror and scream in protest. “Nooooo!”
“Watch it! Watch it!” Steffi demands with delight.
I glance at the chat window and roll my eyes at the way Steffi is bouncing around idiotically.
“Have you seriously not seen this?” She is obviously in disbelief. “If I were you, I’d be throwing this around all over the place!”
Of course she would. She’s gorgeous and confident and loves nothing more than to be the center of attention. I shake my head and hit the “Play” button, peeking out between my fingers. Music begins, and I barely make out the words that scroll by in what’s presumably some kind of introduction. Then a video of Esben seated in an all-too-familiar chair begins to play, and the camera pans to an older man in the chair opposite him.
“This cannot be happening,” I whisper.
“Jump to the end! It gets better!” Steffi squeals.
“I bet it does not get better,” I say angrily, but I drop my hand from my face and click to a later spot in the video.
Esben is smiling and nodding at a middle-aged woman dressed in business attire as she gets up from the chair and leaves. The screen goes black, and more text appears: Sometimes, the unexpected happens. Sometimes, someone makes you break your own rules. And suddenly, there I am on-screen. I watch the moment that I first see Esben.
“Nooooo!” I yell out again. “Oh God!” I hit the “Stop” button. “I am not watching this! Steffi, what am I going to do? Why is this online?”
“Do you really not know who Esben Baylor is?” she hollers, while looking way too happy.
“He’s . . . he’s just some guy in my psych class.” I pause as I process what she’s said. “Wait, how do you know his name?”
“Seriously? Honey, I know you aren’t an online social butterfly, but really? Esben Baylor!” She flops back in her chair, clearly exasperated with me but still
smiling. “This is what you get for being so out of it.”
“No, I really do not know who he is,” I say impatiently. Now is not the time to scold me for my failure to be on top of Internet trends. “So, who is he? And why do you know about him?”
“I assumed that even you would know who Esben is. I mean, hello? He posts tons of stuff online. Twitter, Facebook, he’s got a live blog . . .” She waves a hand around. “He’s all over the place. And plenty of other sites pick up his posts. Esben ‘Hottie’ Baylor does videos, pictures, starts hashtag trends. Stuff like that. Bios of interesting people he meets, things that help people, posts that raise awareness of issues. All really touching, feel-good stuff. And now you’re in one of his videos! God, I’m so jealous I could lose my mind, but I’m also totally excited for you! This is the best thing ever!”
“Okay. Okay, it’s fine. This will be fine.” I try to calm myself down. Maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe it won’t be a problem. It’s just a dumb video.
“He’s got a huge following.” Her beaming smile is beginning to really irritate me. “Like, massive.”
I prop my elbow on the table and drop my head into my hand. “Awesome.”
“What are you so upset about? You made out with Esben Baylor! The only thing to worry about is all the girls who are going to hate you for this.”
“Again, awesome.” I close the browser window.
“It is awesome,” she insists, but her voice is gentler now. “Allison, this is all very cool. You needed a little spice, don’t you think? Something to mix things up?”
“No, I did not.” I pout. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You didn’t even watch the whole video. Your scene is amaz—”
I stop her. “I don’t want to watch it. I don’t want to talk about this again, okay?”
“But everyone else is talking about it! People love it, and—”
“Steff, please!” I beg. “Everyone will forget about it soon enough. This is not going to be a big deal, okay? I won’t let it. I don’t need this right now.”
“Well . . . all right.” Her disappointment is palpable. “You just looked so . . . different in the video. So . . . so . . .”
I sigh. “So what?”
“Open. Real. Emotional.” She casts an undeniably sweet energy. “Vulnerable and so connected.”
“I wasn’t any of those things.” This is a lie, but I’m going to hold to it.
“And in case you didn’t notice, Esben is gorgeous. Like, supergorgeous. Hot. Breathtakingly handsome. And he goddamn flung himself at you! I have never seen anything more romantic in my life, and neither has the rest of the Internet. He’s a heartbreaker, for sure.”
“He is not!” I shout defiantly.
“He is.” She is calm now. “And more than that, Allison? Esben is as perfect as anyone gets. That boy has heart like I’ve never seen.”
“How nice for him. I don’t care.”
She glares at me, and I look away when she says, “You were glowing.”
“I was absolutely not glowing!”
“Honey, who cares if you were? You looked beautiful. And passionate.”
“Seriously, stop it. It was nothing.” I’m so over talking about this mess, and I can’t stay in this conversation any longer—even with Steffi. “I love you, but I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you soon.” Without giving her a chance to say anything else, I end the video call.
I turn off my computer, throw on pajamas, hit the lights, and get into bed. I don’t care that I haven’t brushed my teeth or that I totally need to pee. There is no way that I’m leaving this room to go down the hall to the bathroom. Who knows who I might run into? What if Steffi is right and some girl accosts me for . . . for the . . .
I scream into my pillow.
For the kiss.
I scream again.
How could I have let this happen? I have worked so hard to set up a life that I can manage, and all it took was three minutes to undo that. Three stupid, dumb minutes that I would kill to undo.
I have to regroup. People are fickle, and this is bound to blow over soon. I will simply pay no attention to Esben or this mess. I will not search the Internet or—God forbid—read comments. I will not watch this video. It will not exist. Problem solved.
Except that I toss around in bed for more than an hour, unable to relax, unable to shed my throbbing anxiety. When it’s obvious that I am not going to sleep, I notice that my cell phone is within arm’s reach, with moonlight practically shining a spotlight on it. I look away and wiggle my toes nervously. No, I will not.
But I do. I can’t help myself. I click my phone on. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but I’ve got a lion’s roar going on in my head.
It takes two seconds to search for Esben’s video, and I find it on a different site from the one Steffi sent me. I groan. How many places is this posted? Now that I’ve given in and gone to this page, though, I still can’t get myself to watch. I don’t know what I’m afraid of. I was there. I just don’t want to relive it.
But I also kind of do.
I scroll toward the end and let it play for only a few seconds. I hit the “Pause” button and look at the image before me. And I can’t stop looking at it.
Esben’s hands are on my face, our kiss well in progress, and both of our expressions clearly show that this kiss is more than just any old kiss.
Was more, I correct myself. It’s not anything now.
Still, I allow myself to look at the picture, to hold the phone in my hand as I fall asleep, and to dream without nightmares.
I give myself that much. Just for tonight.
CHAPTER 7
JUST TRYING TO BREATHE
Never during my two years at Andrews have I skipped a class. Not once. But I skip Wednesday’s Social Psych class. I’m tempted to skip my next class, but that seems phobic and weird, even for me, and missing two classes would probably make me more anxious than braving leaving my room. Besides, having missed breakfast and lunch, I’m ravenous. There have been near-relentless knocks at my door all morning, and I put in my earphones and jack up my white-noise app to block out the demand for me to say something profound or meaningful or whatever these people want from me.
When there is a lull in the hammering on my door, I realize that I have a little time before my class, so I decide to stop by the Greek place where I ate with Simon. Nothing bad can happen when surrounded by falafel. At least, that’s what I’m going with.
I am only halfway along the path that leads from my dorm to the street, when a guy with a biker jacket and a messenger bag strapped snug across his chest holds up his hand for a high five. “Nice going!”
This is the sort of thing I was afraid of. My hand only raises limply, my unhappiness making me almost nonfunctional, but the guy claps our hands together and cheers.
“Very cool video,” he says.
“Oh. Well, thank you.”
He releases his hold, pats me heartily on the back, and gives me a weird salute as he continues on his way.
One down, who knows how many to go. I cannot hate this day any more.
Just outside the Greek place, three girls ambush me.
“You’re the girl from the video with Esben!” one says.
“Is he the best kisser ever? You have to tell us! He’s got to be, right?” A girl with flowing red hair makes a ridiculously dreamy face.
The third looks borderline pissed. “Why did you leave? Oh my God, I would have ripped his pants off right there if I’d been you!”
“So”—the first leans in conspiratorially—“are you a couple? Did you go back and get him?”
This is horrendous. “What? No! God! We are not a couple!” I say too defensively. Be polite. Be polite! I remind myself. I clear my throat. “I’m so pleased you enjoyed the video. I’m going to eat falafel now.”
I turn and yank open the door to the restaurant. The elderly Greek man who takes my order lights up when he sees me. “Hey, he
y! It’s you!” He signals to the kitchen staff behind him. “Look! It’s her!” The Greeks all cheer, and my cheeks flush hotly.
I pay as quickly as possible and grab a seat. I have only taken one bite of my food, when two girls I recognize from my psych class plop down at my table, squealing, “So amazing. I cried!” and “What was it like? The whole thing?” I stand up, toss my uneaten food, and bolt.
The rest of the day continues this way, but thankfully my professor gives a detailed lecture that I lose myself in for an hour. I don’t look up from my note taking, but I can feel the stares from my peers. After, I grab a premade sandwich from the student union for dinner and retreat to my dorm.
Thursday is equally bad, and it occurs to me that I may be forever trapped in this hellish vortex of attention and have to drop out of college and go live in some remote part of the world without Internet access. I will live in a hut and forage for berries. Again, I think about the possibilities Amazon gives me. I can order everything I might ever need. Total isolation is doable. I could live like that.
By Friday, I am just plain mad. Seething and stoic, I go to my Social Psych class. I radiate stay-away vibes, but this does not stop people from looking at me way too much. All eyes turn to Esben when he walks in, and I see him scan the room. He stops when he sees me, his face brightening and hopeful as he starts to walk my way. Esben likes eye contact and silent communication? Fine. Two can play at that. I shoot him a glare full of rage, and he stops in his tracks. The chatter in the large room lulls, but right now I don’t care if everyone sees the rejection I hurl at Esben. His face grows worried, confused. Then apologetic. But my expression does not change, and when the professor walks in, I sharply pull my eyes from his and refuse to look back. Without words, I have told him and everyone watching what I need to.
So there. That is that. This is over.
My steely aura does a good job protecting me from further comments, and I get through my next class, pick up yet another care package from Simon at my PO box, and walk back to my dorm without harassment.