Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mia glances between Austin and me before badging herself into Griffin Hall. The stairwell light spills out of the doorway and vanishes with a clap.
“What was that, Soph?” Austin asks softly. “You could have gotten hurt.”
“I didn’t ask Mia to bring you, I swear—”
“You can always call me.”
“I just thought I could use some backup. I went with Jenny, but she was …”
“Drinking,” he finishes. “She can’t look out for you like that. You could have gotten hurt.”
“It was just a party. I didn’t know.”
He levels a look at me. He went to parties in high school. I’m not fooling him. “Are you … Never mind. See you tomorrow.” With a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes, he turns toward Albert Hall.
“What?” I demand.
“None of my business.”
I shuffle to catch up, wrapping my jacket around me. “I barely drank anything. I haven’t in over a year. It was just one time.”
He stops to study me. “I thought we had a really good time tonight. It wasn’t enough for you?”
I sputter. “What?”
Spinning around, he shakes his head, as if it’s an iPhone with an Undo feature.
I can’t let him leave. Not like this. “Isn’t it time for my lecture from Mr. Role Model? ‘I’m really disappointed in you,’” I taunt in a low voice.
It works. He turns back. “I don’t talk like that to anyone.” His soft eyes gut me. “Least of all you.”
Dropping my eyes to my feet, I notice his. No socks. Sneakers, athletic shorts. Was he going to bed when Mia called?
“How come you’re partying again, Soph?”
“It was one party,” I snap.
Why am I like this? I should thank him. He deserves groveling gratitude.
And apologizing for making a mess he came to clean up.
But my throat closes. Like I’m allergic to genuine kindness.
And then I’m assaulted with the memory of when Kit planned that amazing projected movie night for my birthday—and I proceeded to ignore her the entire night.
As if he hears my thoughts, Austin sends me a gentle nod. “See you at lunch tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I manage.
“Night.” And off he goes.
Back in the suite, Mia’s in her favorite oversized KB shirt that says “God’s Feelings Matter.” “You did the right thing, calling me. Wanna talk?”
I shrug.
“I go to parties too sometimes. You know that.”
She never drinks a drop of alcohol, brings her own water bottle. She only goes to play DD when she’s worried about her friends driving drunk. The blubbering drunk people open up to her, and she shares the gospel with them. It’s laughably different from what I was doing.
Avoiding her eyes, I busy myself by changing into pajamas.
“You don’t drink,” she says, and watches me for an explanation.
The nudgy feeling says something like Be honest. Like that time I was supposed to tell Kit about my counselor.
My gut pulls. I’ve been ignoring Jesus, but he hasn’t been ignoring me.
You kept me safe tonight. Thank you.
“I … really don’t think about drinking anymore, but at the party I was sort of … drawn to it again. I kept wanting to. So when that guy poured some in my cup, I let him.”
Still standing, Mia leans on her bed, tilts her head. “Mira, Sophs.”
Uh-oh. Spanish is leaking out. Her Dominican side shows when she’s in the zone.
“Mami has a soft spot for donuts. She’ll have one at church, but she won’t buy them. She never goes through the Krispy Kreme drive-thru, gives the grocery store bakery a wide berth. She knows if she brings home a box, she’ll finish them off.”
I blink. What?
But Mia walks out and turns on the sink.
Crawling into bed, I untag myself from the party pictures and grumble to myself.
This Christian campus is stifling. Everyone’s in my business.
There was less gossip at my high school.
People here have opinions on the length of my crop tops, my workout shorts, how I let off steam, who I’m friends with.
But the words sit wrong in my head. This? Tonight? It wasn’t me. Not the new me.
“I’m not judging you.” Mia stands in the doorway, toothbrush in her mouth, scarf around her hair.
“I am,” I mumble.
“There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”
I drink in the words. “Is that a Bible verse?”
“Yeah.” She spits into the sink. “Don’t let this pull you away from Jesus, okay? Let it push you toward him. He wants you close.”
A lump forms at my throat.
She unwraps a single-use shot, pinches her belly skin, and shoots it in like it ain’t no thang. No grimace. No hesitation. Just the click of plastic snapping closed, and a toss into the trash. As simple as brushing her teeth.
Most people don’t even know she has a blood-clotting disorder that could kill her—and a hormone cocktail that makes it even riskier.
What would it be like to wonder whether you’ll live past twenty?
To need a nightly reminder that you're living on borrowed time? It doesn’t seem to faze her at all. But that’s Mia for you.
Wrapping an arm around me, she kisses me on the cheek before climbing into bed.
“Thank you, Mia.”
“Duh.”
Wiped but wired, I plug in my phone and curl up with my blanket, like it’s a makeshift teddy bear.
I’m sorry I let you down.
There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.
I squeeze my blanket.
Thank you.
I want to do better. No more parties. How do I make it up to my friends?
Mia and I are good. But Austin.
I reach to unplug my phone.
Thank you for helping me tonight.
And then,
I had the best time with you earlier.
Blue dots. He’s still awake.
Austin
You’re welcome. You can call me anywhere
Like if Kim Possible had a hulking older brother. Call him, beep him if you want to reach him.
We good?
So good
Good
The next morning I wake to a bright, empty room. My stomach twists, equal parts queasy and hollow. But I can’t just prance to Saga. No.
Must. Avoid. Kit.
Of course, she was asleep the whole time, but I can’t bear knowing I put myself in the position I did after everything she’s gone through. And I can’t look her in the eye knowing she’d never make mistakes like I make. Perky Perfection Kit is just so far from Sophie the Cautionary Tale.
In record speed, I throw my hair into a clip, get dressed, and pull socks on.
I channel Charlize Theron as I open the door—like it’s an Italian Job safe.
Coast is clear in the hall. Sneakers in hand, I creep past the sinks and peer around the corner.
No luck. Kit is studying in the lounge—headphones in, feet on the coffee table, pointing and flexing in absentminded rhythm.
A perfect little picture of discipline and order.
So I tiptoe back to my room. My ground-floor window … perk of living on G1.
“What in the blazes are you doin’?”
At Haymitch’s voice, I drop my shoes—and almost my balance on the windowsill’s ledge. He veers off the sidewalk, laughing.
Busted.
A quick line of the song “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” is the only response that comes to me, still straddling the window frame uncomfortably. I wield an imaginary lasso above my head, all Jessie from Toy Story, before falling (with style) into the landscaping mulch outside my window.
Grinning, he lends me a hand.
“Headed to lunch?” I ask.
“Yup. Were you by chance in a pickle last night?”
I toe into my high tops and start tying. “Who tattled on me?”
"Nobody. Samwise got a call from Mia and ripped outta there. And now you’re slippin’ out a window like you’re on a jailbreak.”
“Just keeping life interesting!”
“Avoidin’ Kit again?”
I snap my mouth shut.
He pockets his hands. A beat. And then, “Ya know, I got a feelin’. Could be wrong. But I think Kit’s gonna be the friend who sticks like glue. That you’re the Samwise to her Jeeves.”
I frown.
“Might be nice to skip to the good part.”
“How?” I blurt.
He pauses, looking around the campus. A minute crawls by. Then two. Guess he’s thinking it over.
My mind drifts. Line dancing tonight. What should I wear?
My new cowboy boots, obviously. I used to have some fake ones, but I pestered Austin about what makes boots legit and then ordered the cutest pair of tan Justins with tiny pink embroidery.
He showed me how to break them in, and they’re finally ready for action.
A dress? I have a red one that might work, but I can’t look like I’m trying too hard. Maybe a denim skirt.
“I didn’t get details,” Haymitch says, heading toward Saga. “For starters, figure out why you’re escapin’ out windows and do som’n about it.”
“Okay.”
“And maybe ask yourself—why Kit and not Mia?”
Why not Mia? He has a point. Mia is gorgeous and strong and capable, but I’ve certainly never jumped out a window to avoid her.
“God loves you. He ain’t mad. He wants ya close.”
My breath catches. That’s what Mia said.
Was that you?
Pushing through the Saga doors, we’re hit by the dull roar of laughing and chatting and forks clinking against plates.
Haymitch hands me a tray with his trademark smile, and I know I don’t have to say anything else.