16

 

 

 

Everyone in Huntington Hall is staring.

Forks stacked with syrup-soaked pancakes and spoons overflowing with yogurt pause in mid-air, their owners dumbfounded as I make my way through the crowded cafeteria.

It's not actually me their mouths are gaping at, though.

It's Crimson.

The perplexed glances and slack-jawed expressions used to make me uneasy.

Like, for reals uncomfortable.

But after enough breakfast trips to the cafe with my eccentric roommate, the excess attention's become second nature.

And on this particular morning?

We are drawing a lot of excess attention.

Her ripped-up, polka-dot clown suit, the fake blood dripping from plastic fangs...

Crimson the Killer Clown is every child's nightmare come to life.

I thought I was immune to her scary costumes—constant exposure will do that to ya—but this one is seriously jarring. It has made for a very entertaining morning; the reactions of others have been hilarious.

A professor screamed bloody murder and dropped her coffee on the floor the second we entered the cafeteria. She gave us a wide breadth as we ambled past, her face paling at the sight.

When Crimson held out her plate for a helping of scrambled eggs, the older gentleman working the station nearly jumped out of his shoes. He served her with shaky hands, then crossed himself with the spatula as he sent a prayer up above.

And now, as we take a seat at a small table for two, an innocent-looking girl can't tear her terrified eyes away from my roommate.

"What are you looking at?" Crimson glares at her spectator. "Is there a problem?"

I still don't know if it's an act or if she's truly that unaware of the effect her personal style has on everyone else, but she always seems genuinely confused at the strange looks she's garnering.

"No! I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me!"

The girl quickly switches her attention to her bowl of oatmeal, inspecting the golden grains like they're the most fascinating thing she's ever seen. Anything to avoid confrontation with Crimson the Clown.

A wise move on her part.

"How was your History test last night?" I ask as I dig into my plate of waffles.

Crimson removes the lifelike fangs and sets them on the table. When my face twists into a grossed-out grimace, she gets the hint and wraps the teeth in a napkin.

"It was fine." She stuffs a piece of bagel into her mouth and chews. "I cast a spell beforehand, so I'm anticipating a 100% when we receive our grades back this afternoon."

"Nice. Mind giving me a little magical assistance for my Algebra exam next week?"

"I'll see what I can conjure up."

As we eat our food, we fall into easy conversation about school.

Despite the fact that my roommate is a little on the, uh, strange side, we've actually developed a friendship. We couldn't be more different if we tried, but that just makes our relationship all the more interesting. She teaches me about her extensive collection of crystals and incense, I fill her in on my soccer training and work-outs, and we have a standing tradition of eating breakfast together every Friday morning before our 9:00 a.m.'s.

After the necessary boundaries and room rules were set in stone, things between us have been fine and dandy.

Well...as "fine and dandy" as they can be when rooming with a self-proclaimed witch.

I'm still worried one of the experimental concoctions brewing in her creepy cauldron is gonna poison us before semester's end.

"I have something for you," Crimson suddenly announces. She shoves a hand inside her massive pocket and retrieves four or so rectangular pieces of paper. "Here."

Before I can decipher what they are, she starts to explain.

"They're tickets for Midnight Massacre Haunted House. Good for any weekend in October."

"Oh! Awesome. Thanks!"

"The crew's been preparing day and night for the last few months and now it's finally time to frighten the public." A venemous sneer curves her lips. "I'm looking forward to scaring all the children."

"Yeah, emotionally scarring kids for life is quite the adrenaline rush," I mumble with a sarcastic laugh.

She points a claw at the tickets in my hand. "Invite your brother or your teammates or—"

Her sentence is interrupted by a brown paper sack hitting the table right in front of me. For Sydneyis scribbled on the bag in black sharpie.

I look up, puzzled, but when I see Cameron walking past our table, that confusion morphs into intrigue. An involuntary smile pops up on my face as I watch him exchange a fist bump with Weston and Liam before taking a seat.

Crimson eyes the gift with suspicion. "What is that?"

"Not sure. Let's find out."

I open the crinkly sack and peek inside. The moment I spot the present, a light laugh escapes me.

"Well?"

I pull out the shiny orange bag and hold it up in the air.

"Reese's Pieces?" Crimson's forehead wrinkles. "I don't get it."

"It's kind of an inside joke. I guess you had to be there."

She shrugs. "Invite your boyfriend, too. Haunted house dates are underrated; you'd be surprised how much bonding occurs when you're scared half to death."

"Boyfriend? No!" I immediately deny the label, my head shaking back and forth so intently I'm on the verge of giving myself whiplash. "Cameron Collins is not my boyfriend."

"Hmmm." Her skepticism is on full display. "I sense something more intimate between the two of you."

"Your spidey-senses are broken, then, because we're friends," I emphasize. "Good friends."

My eyes stray towards Cameron's table. I watch as he chats with the boys, trying to catch his attention so I can give him a very friendly thanks for the candy type of wave. A simple exchange of pleasantries between pals.

Yup, yup. Nothing to see but platonic friendship over here, folks!

But when his gray gaze meets mine, the lightning bolt of jitters that zips through my body isn't exactly platonic.

I point at the treat and mouth a quick thanks. He's still in mid-convo with Weston, but he manages to shoot me a subtle grin followed by a cute wink.

No...a sexy wink.

My heart starts thrumming wildly, an erratic, pulsing beat that's usually reserved for the middle of a soccer match.

Okay, who the fuck am I kidding?

My reaction's not platonic in any shape or form.

You know what else isn't very chaste?

The swarm of butterflies I get whenever he sends me a text.

My new obsession with Sundays and the way I look forward to them all week long.

And the nightly dreams starring the muscular goalkeeper? The ones I've been having for quite some time?

Yeah, those freakin' dreams are a far cry from innocent. The risqué things he does to me, the naughty acts I perform on him...

Mariana would die if she saw the pornographic visuals that plague my slumber.

I seriously shouldn't be having these dirty fantasies about my brother's best friend, but the more time I spend with Cameron, the more I find myself struggling to keep my composure.

Especially after his confession at Mr. Freezy's.

"I would have pursued you like crazy".

"Friends, you say?" Crimson's voice snaps me back to reality. "Are you sure about that?"

"Uh, yeah," I quickly answer. My voice is all scratchy, my throat dry as sandpaper. I grab my water bottle and take a much-needed swig. "Just friends."

It's not a lie—we are just friends—but it's not the whole truth either.

Because the thing is...

I think I want to be more.