Page 26 of Love is Angry

“It doesn’t matter what you do in your spare time, in the end,” Cameron says. “Your promiscuity or lack thereof should beno one’s concern, as long as your academic record is spotless—which, by the way, I’m told it actually is. You never mentioned the genius part from your assessments,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Look, I’ll be honest. Rhue has his reasons to be upset with me. I did some dumb things. I… allowed stuff to happen,” I reply with a trembling voice, though I find it hard to believe myself right now. Nevertheless, he needs to know something, anything that might help him make sense of the day when Rhue took too much pleasure in calling me a whore. “In hindsight, I would make better choices, of course. Unfortunately, that is not possible, so I am forced to live with the repercussions of the choices I have already made. But you’re right. Rhue’s anger may be directed at me, but it doesn’t, and it shouldn’t involve anyone else. It’s a personal matter between me and him, and certainly not an issue of concern for Cornell. So, please, don’t worry about shunning me or anything else. If anything, allow me to apologize because you had to witness a rather nasty exchange.”

There’s something about Cameron that makes me feel as though the tension between us has suddenly and awkwardly snapped. I can almost sense his relief washing over me—probably because I feel a liberation of my own. It’s good that I am able to address that dark snippet of my past without sharing too many details. I would never tell anyone the whole story, anyway. No. That would end me. It would destroy my father, and it would murder my future career plans in an instant.

“You really have nothing to apologize for,” Cameron says. “I just hope we can…I don’t know, start over? Try again? Grab a coffee, sometime?”

“Or we could start by watching the game,” I reply, smiling.

He scrunches his nose, and I know he’s about to turn me down, though it’s clearly the last thing he’d like to do at this point. “I’m so sorry. Like so, so sorry, but I actually have to head back to the library. I’ve got a Skype call with my parents in aboutan hour, so I need to do my research before that starts, because my parents are two adorable Chatty Cathy’s.”

“Oh. That’s cool,” I giggle. “We’ll take a raincheck on that coffee, then.”

“Sure thing. I’m glad we’re talking. Dammit, I should’ve done this sooner. I feel like such a doofus.”

“Hey, don’t worry too much about this. You’ll have plenty of chances to make it up to me,” I reply, then motion for him to leave. I can feel my nape burning. “Go on, do your library thing, we’ll catch up another time.”

He grins and walks off, leaving the open-air sports arena behind. I watch him disappear between incoming throngs of students, though I can’t help but wonder how much these late arrivals will get to see, considering that the bleachers are basically overflowing. It’s noisy and buzzing all over. My skin tingles, and my pulse is racing. I’m not used to being around such huge groups of people. Anxiety will soon have me in its clutches unless I find someone to focus on. There are so many people here, so many faces and bright smiles and sparkling eyes… I need…

I need to breathe.

Whirling around, I set my sights on the game instead. I have to cool down, have to remind myself that this is a new life I’m trying to settle into. The introvert Maddie needs to take a few steps back and let extrovert Maddie spread her wings. She must learn to fly, or else she will crash and burn and perish like everything else that was good in my life.

Exhaling sharply, I follow the match. Red versus white. My school versus Harvard. This is Ivy League heaven. I should snap some pictures and send them to my dad. He’ll make jokes about them for days.

If there is anyone who despises preppies that stumble out of Ivy League and into real life without a single clue about howto actually live, it’s my father. He is not a proponent of the “school of life” mantra, either. No, my father strongly believes in education as the key to a healthy and happy future. But he is positive that it doesn’t come with fortunes attached.

“Rich kids don’t know how to appreciate what they’ve got,” I whisper, remembering what Dad said a while back. Looking around, I can definitely see where he was coming from. Everyone here––or almost everyone, anyway––they look so blank. Smiling and laughing, sure, but there’s nothing behind their faces. There is nothing in their eyes. It feels like I’m submerged in a sea of drones.

Fear of drowning comes over me, so I focus on the game once more. It’s been like this since that day in Julian’s bedroom. I’m unable to concentrate around a lot of people. Terror grips me by the throat. Helplessness stabs me in the back, and I find it hard to breathe.

“Eyes on the game,” I tell myself, pressing my shoulder into one of the steel beams that holds up the bleachers. “Eyes on the game.”

It’s a friendly match but our guys are winning. Our guys. It sounds so nice. Like I actually belong here.

“But I do belong here,” I murmur softly. I have worked so hard to reach this point in my life. Why am I having such a hard time adjusting and accepting that this is my new home for the next four years, at least? Six, if I decide to earn my Master’s, too.

Why do I feel like such an outsider on what is practically my own turf? I’m a stranger in my own land, and I am the only one responsible for this feeling. I have allowed Rhue to do this to me.

Yes, I belong here.

And there is a sliver of decency somewhere inside that man. I have to find it and drag it back to the light.

Finally, I spot him. Hockey has been his passion ever since I’ve known him. His mother encouraged him, too. Seeing Rhueon the ice, giving his all, I can’t help but think that a part of him is doing it for her.

He’s hard to keep up with, and the guys from Harvard can tell they’re not going to win this. Their morale has been dwindling for a while already, considering the scoreboard alone, but Rhue isn’t making it any easier. He slides another puck in and grins like the devil as he does it, rubbing it in their faces with no mercy whatsoever. By the time the game is over, Cornell leads Harvard with a shameful difference.

“Woohoo, way to go, Rhue!” I hear Lindsey squealing from somewhere nearby.

Turning to look, I find her and Rita, wearing the tightest skinny jeans ever made and matching tank tops cropped from the team jerseys practically saran-wrapped around their waspy torsos. And they’re both melting as Rhue finishes high-fiving and congratulating his teammates, then heads towards them. I didn’t know they were on friendly terms, now. Not after how they defended me. This entire scene fails to make sense, and by the time Rhue spots me, the girls are both planting congratulatory kisses on his cheeks while I’m gawking like an idiot.

“Fudge,” I mutter and decide to walk away, instead.

Sure, I came here with peacemaking intentions, but that trio moment between Rhue, Lindsey and Rita tells me that my friends might not be my friends, after all—or not anymore, at least.

I cannot risk getting their attention, now. I feel like prey and judging by how they’re giggling when they’re close to him, Lindsey and Rita are ravenous hyenas.

This was so stupid. I picked the wrong place and time to try and bury our hatchet.

---