Page 44 of Lovesick
“Do you want to bore our potential donors?”
“Maybe a walk-a-thon?”
“Who in their right mind would donateandparticipate in physical activity in their spare time?”
Yet, even in the midst of a low-effort war, Crew is the steady,metamorphic rock that cuts through the noisy swell of the ocean. So unbelievably unperturbed and effortlessly cool, decked out in Nike Tech with that I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-looking-like-this hair, his legs thrown up on the back of the seat in front of him.
My heart outpaces the monotonous droning around me; my pulse flitters similar to the way a butterfly circles in a bell jar. My nerves are more awake than ever right now—rushing me with the intensity of a SWAT team breaking down a suspect’s door—and I’m worried that the rest of the world can see through my pathetic translucency.
Crew Calloway is not the nuisance I painted him out to be. He’s the only thing keeping me sane right now, and if that information fell into the wrong hands, this fundraiser would be the last thing I ever do.
“Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, the one figuring everything out?” a sorority girl nags from a few rows down—one I specifically remember stealing chair from—and I cringe.
She’s right, isn’t she? Shouldn’t I have more…leadership skills…than this? I’m a border collie with no herding instinct. Failure to deliver the best fundraiser this side of Minnesota has ever seen doesn’t reflect on the class, it reflects onme. I was so confident going into all of this, then Mrs. Burke had to throw me a curveball, and said curveball is now sitting directly in front of me as he witnesses my incompetence.
Suddenly, a voice like spun sugar pulled between a confectioner’s hands rumbles to the forefront. “Give her a break. You’re not contributing either. This is a team effort. We have to agree on something as a collective.”
Crew’s eyes are narrowed, the features of his face drawn into a pinch that I’m beginning to think the whole hockey world fears, and an unspoken growl sears his throat. When the rest of his team peer over to pitifully observe his latest victim, the girl has gone as red as the rind of a blood orange.
Crew’s…standing up for me?
Is he insane?!
I blink in humiliation, glued to the spot and steadily soaking sweat through the back of my shirt.
He winks at me, probably getting high off the fumes of his good deed.
Dropping his feet, he glances around the half-asleep lecture hall. “And anyone who comes up with the winning idea we use for the fundraiser gets free tickets to this season’s hockey games,” he adds, immediately piquing the room’s interest as he throws metaphorical kindling on my small crosshatch of sad firewood.
Does he have the authority to do that? I don’t know, but it sounds convincing enough. I’m not exaggerating when I say that my classmates locate the nearest writing utensil and pad of paper with impressive efficiency, then start jotting down ideas faster than greased lightning. Everyone is whispering amongst themselves in collaboration, making more progress in a measly five seconds than we have in fifteen minutes. They start to flock to the blackboard to broadcast their ideas.
I don’t know how to respond. My mind is the equivalent of a needle catching on the last groove of a record. Relief shipwrecks against my fatigue-battered body. It doesn’t take long for the spotlight to shift off me, and when it does, I slouch into the seat next to Crew, staring at the porous backdrop that’s now overrun with hastily scribbled propositions.
My burger date with him was eye-opening. Now that I know he’s, in fact,nottrying to embarrass me every chance he gets, my belly doesn’t burn with umbrage when he essentially stands up for me. He genuinely wants to help, and I never would’ve expected a hockey-player-shaped footnote to manifest in the autobiography of my life.
With my brain screening ways to thank him, I don’t notice when a paper projectile is thrown at the side of my head.Thankfully it’s small, falling into my lap and snaring my attention. I unball the crumpled piece of binder paper and splay it out on the tablet arm desk in front of me.
Hi.
I don’t know why I look around to pinpoint the culprit, because who else would be passing me notes in class other than the one person who’d do anything to get my attention?
When I look at Crew, a not-so-subtle grin flutters over his lips.
I reach down into my backpack to pull out my trusty ballpoint pen before writing something between the faded lines. Then, I crumple it up, flick it into the side of Crew’s body, and try to suppress the giddy emotions that are turning me into some cock-dumb fool.
He doesn’t try to act nonchalant—he unwraps my letter quickly, like he’s been waiting a fortnight for it.
Passing notes? I didn’t know you turned into a walking cliché.
I watch Crew’s shoulders jump with a chuckle. Whatever he writes down, it isn’t so top-secret that he needs to hide it from the public eye. Or maybe he just doesn’t care about getting caught—a mindset that I wish I could adopt.
Actually, I think it’s pretty romantic. And I’m flattered that you’re keeping such close tabs on me.
Is this your way of wooing me?
That depends—is it working?
We can’t be passing notes like this. Someone will see.
