Second Quarter Comeback - Excerpt
Camille
Cami’s Crash Course in Bad Decisions
“I don’t know. It’s not really my scene, Zindy.” I shrug, popping the last bite of a flaky, buttery pastry into my mouth. Crumbs scatter onto the pages of Foundations of Biochemistry: Proteins and Enzyme Dynamics , my not-so-loyal companion for the past twelve hours. I swipe them away absently, though the textbook and I both know I’m woefully unprepared for Monday’s test.
“Please, Cami-Camillion,” my roommate wails, throwing herself onto my bed like a damsel from a Regency romance, all melodrama and sequins. She clutches a sparkly halter top to her chest, the fabric catching the light like it’s auditioning for Broadway. For the record, the concept of plain doesn’t exist in Zindy’s closet. I haven’t seen anything that’s just one solid color—unless we count her jeans. Even those have been bejeweled. “You’re breaking my heart. Do you really want me to show up alone at a frat party? Do you know how humiliating that’ll be?”
I glance up, eyebrow arching. “You weren’t humiliated last weekend when you and Jess infiltrated that Law Society meeting pretending to be pre-law students.”
“That was totally different.” She waves the halter top in the air as though it’s a banner of her upcoming triumph—or surrender, hard to tell with Zindy. “That was networking. And it worked. I got five numbers and an invite to moot court.”
“You’re not even on track to become a law student.”
“ Yet . I’m undecided and I like to keep my options open.” She rolls onto her side, fixing me with a smug little smirk as if she’s just casually declared her inevitable ascension to the Supreme Court. “Anyway, this is the Alpha Sigma Delta party, Camille. Do you know how hard it is to get on their guest list? It’s basically an underground society. You should be honored.”
She should seriously consider acting. The theatrics alone could land her an Oscar. Zindy is dramatic about everything.
I snort, flipping another page in my textbook. “Honored to be squished into a basement with two hundred sweaty undergrads and zero ventilation? Sounds dreamy.”
“Imagine this . . . Cami and Zindy, queens for the night,” she declares, leaping up and tossing the sequined halter top onto my desk—directly over my carefully highlighted notes. I shoot her my best are-you-kidding-me look, but she just grins, completely unfazed. “Come on, you never do anything fun. This is college. You’re supposed to make bad decisions so you’ll have something scandalous to tell people when you’re rich and famous.”
“Who says I want to make bad decisions?” I counter, tapping my pen against the textbook. “Maybe I’d rather make good ones and, you know, get into med school. The whole reason I’m here?”
Zindy groans like I’ve personally offended her, then slides dramatically to the floor, draping an arm over her face like a fainting starlet. “I’m trying to save you from yourself, Cami. One day, you’ll look back on college and regret spending it all with—” she squints at the book cover, —“‘Enzyme Dynamics.’ You’ll be old and boring, wondering why you didn’t go out more.”
“You say ‘old and boring’ like it’s a bad thing,” I tease, biting back a smile. “I happen to enjoy being boring and we’ll all be old at some point. It’s a fact of life.”
“Camille.” Zindy scrambles up, grabbing my hands with an intensity that should honestly concern me. “Don’t let this be your villain origin story. What’s next? Cats? Crochet? A crippling houseplant obsession?”
“What’s wrong with houseplants?” I ask, genuinely confused.
Her gasp is so loud, I’m pretty sure the RA downstairs heard it. “Oh my God. It’s happening. I’m losing you to the dark side.”
“You’re so dramatic.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Why don’t you just go to your party? Have fun. Tell me all about it tomorrow morning. I’ll even invite you for breakfast.”
“Nice try, but no.” She crosses her arms, her expression set in a way that tells me resistance is futile. “You’re coming with me, Camille. Even if I have to drag you there in your pajamas.”
I glance at my old pink sweats and mismatched high school sweatshirt. “I don’t own pajamas. I sleep in sweats.”
“Even worse,” she says, recoiling like I’ve just confessed to a heinous crime. “You’re hopeless.”
“I’m practical,” I correct, popping the last bite of my pastry into my mouth. “And busy. My test’s on Monday, and I need to focus.”
For a moment, Zindy is uncharacteristically quiet—a rare occurrence that immediately puts me on edge. She’s like Clayton, my dog. If he’s quiet, he’s probably destroying Mom’s shoes or he’s in Dad’s office making a mess. Then, with the precision of a skilled lawyer, she goes for the jugular.
“Remember Devon?”
My chewing slows, and I glance sideways at her. Is she really going there? “What about him?”
“What if he hadn’t tried new things? Put himself out there? Where would he be right now? Where would you be right now?” Her voice is soft, almost too gentle, and I know she’s trying to hit a nerve. “Sometimes you just have to take a leap, Cami. You’re not going to find your Charles sitting in this dorm.”
My Charles? I don’t need a Charles. I need to pass this test. But I’d be lying if I said her words didn’t sting, just a little. Not because I miss Devon—he’s happier now than he ever was with me. It’s more that nagging question of whether I’m missing out, too.
It’s great that Devon found himself and fell for his roommate. The question is, what about me? And do I even need someone right now?
Before I can spiral further, Zindy snaps me out of it, tossing the halter top into my lap. “Try it on,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I stare at the top, then at her. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance.” Her grin is triumphant. “Come on, Camille. Live a little. When was the last time you had sex?”
Before I moved to this dorm. Not that I’m keeping count or anything, but yeah, it’s been a while. Long enough that I’ve almost forgotten the specifics—the weight of Dev’s body against mine, hands exploring skin, the kind of kiss that makes you forget you need air. Do I miss it? Not really.
At least, I don’t think I do. I mean, the buildup was always better than the actual experience, and half the time, Devon either didn’t know what he was doing or cared more about his own performance than mine. So no, I’m not exactly pining for a repeat. Still, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I need to mix things up a little, shake off this semi-monastic routine.
With a sigh that I hope conveys extreme reluctance, I set my book aside and hold up the sparkly scrap of fabric. It’s tiny. It’s also . . . kind of cute. The way the glitter catches the light, I have to admit it would look good on me. I mean, I could rock it tonight. Why not try something new? What’s the worst that could happen? Scratch that. Don’t answer that.
Mom is always asking if I’m having fun in college. Her idea of fun is wildly different from mine, of course. She swears my roommate will become my BFFL, just like Aunt Rachel is to her. Zindy and I are such opposites I doubt we’ll talk to each other after we move out of this dorm. And just like that, Mom swears that I’ll meet the love of my life—but she said the same about Devon, so, you know . . .
Maybe going out just this once wouldn’t hurt.
“One hour,” I say, pointing a finger at Zindy. “That’s all you’re getting.”
She squeals, clapping her hands like a kid on Christmas morning. “You won’t regret this, Cami. I swear. Go shower. I’ll find the perfect outfit, and we’ll fix that fiery red hair. Tonight’s the night we find you a man.”
A man? I scoff, rolling my eyes, already dreading whatever disaster this will lead to. “God help me,” I mutter as I head to grab my toiletries.
With Zindy, it’s never just a night out. It’s a mission. And knowing her, this will end one of two ways: I’ll be holding her sequined top as evidence in a trial, or we’ll be googling how to dispose of a body. Honestly? I’m not sure which option terrifies me more.