“That’s not possible,” she states. “Unless they put you in an actual closet, that’s not—holy crap, Claire, you might be right.”
I’m gratified by the horror in her tone. “It won’t be so bad,” I say, grimacing as I glance around the room I’ll be sharing with Mandi Seiler for the next two weeks. I don’t know Mandi well, but we had class together sophomore year and she never made my shit list, so that’s promising. There’s not a trace of her in our shared room yet, but for all I know, she could still be waiting on that elevator downstairs. “I mean, sure, only one of us can get out of bed at a time,” I tell Claire, “and Mandi and I have to share a dresser because there’s no closet, but it could definitely be worse.”
“Could it?” Holland asks, aghast. My best friend has a shoe collection that could fill my temporary dorm room, so her concern tracks.
“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m living in a dollhouse, which kinda sucks, but it’s a dollhouse at the beach, so I can’t really complain. How’s the weather where you are?”
“Um… it’s cold. So cold. And it’s snowing,” she says, her voice trailing off as I hear her boyfriend’s low, rumbling laugh in the background. “Apparently,” Holland amends, clearing her throat, “it hasn’t snowed for two days. But it is really cold.”
“Yeah? Have you been bundling up when you go out walking in this cold, formerly snowy weather?” I joke.
“Of course,” she lies.
We both know damn well that Holland and her newly-minted boyfriend, Ryan Roscowitz, haven’t been taking long walks in the snow, or even short ones. The only exercise those two have been getting at his family’s lakeside cabin is the horizontal kind. They had a whirlwind Christmas romance that was years in the making so they’re not letting any of the holiday break go to waste. I can’t blame them. If I could spend the next few days in a post-orgasmic haze with a hot hockey player by my side—scratch that. Not a hockey player. Not an athlete of any kind. That’s Holl’s fantasy, not mine. And definitely not Pete Santos.
In fact, I don’t even need the boyfriend for the post-orgasmic haze. In my experience, a climax is much easier to attain when I can get the job done myself. I don’t need some bumbling idiot with too much cologne and not enough sense to tell me to “Get there, baby.” I can get there just fine by myself, buddy.
But Holland is happier than I can remember her being, and even I have to admit that Rosco is a good guy. Nowthat I think of it, playing hockey is his only flaw. Well, that and being friends with Pete.
But hey, no one’s perfect.
I fill my two allotted drawers in record time because I followed the packing list exactly. Barring any major incidents, I’ll use the washer and dryer down the hall at the mid-point of the trip and head home with a suitcase full of laundry.
After slathering on some suntan lotion and throwing on one of my four bathing suits, I grab my camera and head out in search of sunshine.
I stroll around campus for a few minutes, just to let myself get familiar with the layout. Marine World is part tourist attraction, part research center and it has partnerships with colleges and universities across the country. Bainbridge just happens to be one of them, and I happen to be one of the lucky students whose name was chosen in the lottery last fall.
The Marine Bio Minimester is a coveted class, and for good reason. What other college course requires you to fly to Florida in the dead of winter to bask in the warm temperatures and swim with the dolphins? It’s true that most BU students are still on winter break, but I was more than happy to surrender the last two weeks of my holiday in exchange for a college course where my classroom is a literal beach.
And I’m not the only one. This class is probably the hardest one to get into, which is why there’s a lottery. There are only one hundred spots available, and almost no one declines their seat if their number is called. The lottery is only open to juniors and seniors, and it’s random and anonymous. Since I’m senior staff atThe Howler, I’ll be doing a feature on all the opportunities available to students who are selected. But make no mistake. Being partof the paper staff didn’t bump my name up on the list. Our Editor-in-Chief, Andy Wiggins, lobbied for a spot with the promise of doing a feature, and he was denied every time. In fact, I was half-afraid to tell him about my win, but he took it in stride. He said he was glad I got picked and that he couldn’t wait to read my story.
I snap a few photos of the buildings and manage to get a great shot of a lizard just as he sticks out his tongue and gobbles up his lunch while climbing a tree. Three statues stand grandly in a small courtyard, so I do my thing and make a mental note to research their names and significance. There’s a botanical garden somewhere on the premises, but I might wait until tomorrow to find it. Right now, the beach is calling my name. I walk along the path, snapping photos as I go. I spot the dining hall up ahead on my right, and an outdoor pool on my left. Well, it’s technically a pool. Right now, it looks more like a frat house lawn. There are students in every available inch of space and music blaring from speakers someone rigged up to palm trees. I recognize a couple of the guys from the baseball team, and a few others from Kappa. A guy in a gorilla mask is standing at the edge of the diving board, and Mandi, my roommate, is perched on his shoulders.
That seems risky, at best.
From what I can tell, there’s a lifeguard on duty, but he’s giving mouth-to-mouth to the girl straddling his lap, so he might be a little preoccupied.
Gorilla Guy pounds his chest before popping into a squat and hoisting Mandi off his shoulders and into the water. He follows her, canon-ball style, and the crowd cheers like they’ve got front-row seats to the biggest game of the season.
“Claire, get in here!”
I look up to see Reagan, a fellow Legacy Scholar. She’sspraying shaving cream on some guy’s back and it’s so weird that I can’t look away. Is she shaving this man’s back in public? I hate to judge, but that’s gross. Also…I love to judge. I can’t even pretend otherwise as I let the scene before me unfold. In a bizarre turn of events, Reagan doesn’t whip out a razor. Instead, she presents this guy’s back to a row of people who start flinging potato chips at him.
What the hell?
“Come play with us,” Reagan says, waving me over.
Without missing a beat, I shake my head and lift my camera in a fake apology. “Sorry,” I lie. “I want to get some good beach pics while it’s not too crowded.”
Reagan gives me a thumbs-up before turning back to her freaky little game. Walking away, I realize I’ve never been so grateful for an article assignment in my life.
There are a few people milling around the beach, but it’s nothing like the party at the pool. We’ve been here less than two hours, and my classmates are already living it up. I guess that’s what you get when you combine athletes and broskis. It boggles my mind that no one onThe Howlerstaff for the past four years has gotten a spot on this trip, but half the baseball roster managed to get that lucky.
An idea has been itching at my brain since I boarded our flight this morning. Reaching for my tablet, I jot down some notes before I forget them. My ace reporter senses are starting to tingle. There might be a story here. Then again, there might not be.
But if I’m tracking leads and satisfying hunches, I’ll be too busy to notice how good my arch nemesis looks in a pair of board shorts.
So, either way it’s a win.
