Page 67 of Game On
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about her—her infectious smile, her energy, her way of making everything seem a little more vibrant.
Who knows? If she were sticking around longer, maybe I’d consider working on some of my issues, opening up to her more. But with the way things are—her leaving the country at the end of the year—it’s better to keep it casual, strictly physical. No strings, no complications. That’s safer for both of us.
Two days before our party, the weather takes a chilly turn. A layer of frost blankets the campus, and I find myself missing the warmth of the last few months. Levi keeps assuring me that this will add to the ‘spooky’ vibe of our Halloween bash, but frankly, it just makes me more anxious.
I’m sprawled on my bed, laptop perched on my thighs as I reread my personal statement for Yale. Sourdough is purring contentedly in my lap, oblivious to the storm of self-doubtraging in my mind. Every sentence I type feels more like a plea than an assertion of my worth.
But my quiet brooding is shattered by the door swinging open. Levi strides in, brandishing a black plastic bag with a theatrical flair.
“Dare I ask?” I mutter, more to myself than to him, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“It’s your costume,” he announces with a grin that spells trouble.
“Aww, come on, man. I said I was just gonna pop on a striped T-shirt or something.”
“How boring.” He throws the bag at me, and it smacks me in the face—his aim is uncanny. “It’s a good thing I’m here to come to the rescue. I’m gonna be Buzz and you’ll be Woody.”
I pull the bag away, giving him a deadpan stare. “Why can’t I be Buzz?”
“’Cause you got that twang I don’t have. Plus, you look more like him.”
“Like a wooden doll?”
“Like a guy with a stick up his ass,” he retorts. “Oh, and you have brown hair.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I even got Sour a little something.” He’s practically bouncing on his heels now, eager for me to unveil whatever absurdity he’s dreamed up for my cat.
With a sigh, I dig through the bag and pull out a tiny alien costume—it’s just a little hat, really. A soft plush thing with a strap that fits around his chin. “Yeah,” I flick it toward Levi, skeptical. “He’s not gonna wear that.”
He snorts. “You don’t know him like I know him.”
“Go on, try it.”
He shuffles over gingerly and scoops Sourdough into his arms. The hat is barely on his head before he’s batting at it, clearly unimpressed. Within seconds, he manages to land a good scratch on my friend.
Levi yelps, withdrawing his hand as quickly as possible, a betrayed look on his face. “Bad kitty,” he mutters, pouting.
“Leave him alone, man.”
He sniffs. “He started it.”
I shake my head. “Don’t you lie on my cat’s good name.”
“Good name? He’s a fucking menace,” he grumbles, rubbing his hand dramatically.
As I pick up Sourdough, the little furball weaves his head into my hand, seeking comfort. Crooning back at him, I scratch behind his ears, and he begins to purr.
I turn back to my laptop, ready to drown myself in the world of admission essays—and more importantly, to get away from Levi’s antics. Of course, he doesn’t take the hint. He plops onto the edge of my bed with a dramatic sigh, his eyes fixed on me.
“Anyway, I’m working,” I try to remind him, hoping he’ll take the cue to give me some peace.
“Essays again?”
“Yeah, thank God there’s no GRE requirement for humanities or I’d be screwed,” I say, tapping aimlessly at the keys.
“Nah,” he waves me off, his voice filled with confidence. “You would’ve gotten a perfect score without even trying. You have one of those brains, you know? The analytical type.”
