The St. Ambrose School for Girls(47)

But there is nothing I can do. I am where I am. At least I have a new plan, and any minute, Strots will come through that door.

Any minute—

When I hear her knock, I sit up straighter and consider hiding the bottle of Coke, but I don’t think she’ll mind. I hope she doesn’t mind.

“Strots,” I say. “I’m here.”

The door opens and a dark head of luxurious hair leans in.

It’s not Strots.

Hot RA’s brilliant green eyes seek me out and his smile is tentative. “Hey. You got a minute to talk?”

I jump to my feet, even though he’s not a sergeant, and I haven’t been called to attention. “Strots isn’t here.”

“I’m not looking for her. I’m looking for you.”

My heart speeds up, spurred on by the sugar and caffeine hitting my empty stomach. And maybe this older married man’s presence.

In the back of my mind, I think, You want to talk about good medicine?

I am suddenly very plugged into the people around me. Person. Whatever.

“Is Strots okay?” I ask. “Has anything happened to her?”

Wouldn’t it be a twist of fate if my roommate accomplished what I’d planned to do? And all because she’s worried she hurt or offended me?

“This isn’t about her. Come on, let’s go down and talk in my apartment.”

I look around my room suspiciously, as if someone might have planted contraband, like two kegs, four bottles of vodka, and some kind of illegal substance like cocaine or heroin, somewhere obvious that I missed in all my distraction.

“Am I in trouble?”

One advantage of having no friends is that I’ve told nobody about what anyone else is doing. Nor have I discussed the little mental joyrides I’ve been taking on my bipolar bicycle. But this is why I wonder what I have done wrong.

And then it clicks. “I only missed classes today because I was having stomach issues. I’m feeling better now. I should have gone to the nurse, though, shouldn’t I. I’ll be sure to go there now. I’ll get my note or whatever I need—”

“You’re not in trouble. I promise.” His smile, that arrestingly beautiful smile, makes me feel like I’m sunbathing. “Come on, let’s take a little walk down to my place.”

Well. When he puts it like that, I feel like I’ve been asked on a date.

I nod and I follow him out of my door. As I close things, I glance across to Greta’s room and wish she were seeing this. Although given the hot water I’m already in with her, like I need more crap for her to get pissy about?

“Great day, isn’t it?” Hot RA says over his shoulder. “I like the contrast of the sun with the cool air. Do you?”

His door is open, and though he strides right in, I slow down, as if I am entering a chapel. And what do you know, all of my woes are totally sublimated as I look around his apartment. He has the same Nirvana poster I do, the one that hangs over my bed at home, the one that my mother refused to let me bring to Ambrose because it would “set the wrong tone.” If only I’d known Hot RA would have it, too. There are also two of Guns N’ Roses, and I think about the CDs Greta bought. In addition to his concert art, there’s a slouchy sofa, a chair, a desk, and the same galley kitchen that Ms. Crenshaw has.

His windows look out over the river, just like mine do, just like Greta’s do not.

All of it seems so much… younger… than his title of Married Man.

“Here, have a seat.” He closes the door and points to the chair by the sofa.

Where’s his wife now, I wonder. DC, I decide. Meeting with President Bush. Whose letter to me, extolling my virtues as a mental health advocate, I no longer think I will receive.

I do what Hot RA says and sit like the Queen of England, knees together, back straight, ankles crossed and tucked under me. He takes the couch and sits forward, his hands linking loosely, his elbows on his knees.

“I’m really sorry I called you Stephanie,” he says. “Out at the field yesterday.”

I’m so surprised by the apology, that he even remembers the exchange, that I don’t know what to do with myself.

“And it’s especially rude after you introduced yourself when we both couldn’t sleep that night.” He smiles some more. “I’m just terrible with names. I get it from my father.”

Looking at his handsome face, with its tanned planes and angles, I decide that he got a lot more than just a totally forgivable slip of the memory from the man. Those green eyes… are like nothing I’ve ever seen, and they’re even more attractive close-up. In fact, all of him is even more attractive close-up, something that’s not always true about beautiful people. Some are like pointillism canvases, best viewed from a distance. Not him.

“It’s okay, Mr. Hollis.”

“Call me Nick.” More with the smiling. “As I told you, that mister stuff feels weird.”

“But you’re married.” Wait, that doesn’t make any sense. “I mean—”

“I am.” He lifts his hand and flashes his gold ring. “I don’t think you’ve met Sandra yet, have you?”

I’ve barely met you, I want to say.

“No, I haven’t.” Although I heard you arguing with her.