Chapter 2 – The Day Bowen Met Magnolia Wren Hollis
Chapter Two
BOWEN
THE DAY BOWEN MET MAGNOLIA WREN HOLLIS
THE LAST NIGHT OF FRESHMAN ORIENTATION
“Guys, this way! Girls, that way!” A dude wearing a bright orange UVA polo and navy khakis shouted, motioning like an air traffic controller with glow sticks.
Walking next to a brick building I didn’t know the name of yet, I scratched the back of my neck. “I dunno about this.”
“What’s there to know?” my best friend, Fletcher, asked.
“It’s a no-brainer. You get a guaranteed date with a guaranteed kiss at the end.
” He cuffed me on the shoulder. “C’mon, man.
What’s the point of going to the best party school in the state if you’re going to hole up in your dorm room and never have any fun? ”
Griff and Cash would argue that Virginia Tech was the best party school in the state, but all the people carrying solo cups into the building only proved Fletcher’s point.
We’d become friends in sixth grade when we bonded over architecture. Okay, fine, it was Minecraft. But if I couldn’t prove to him I was here for a good time as well as an education, he was going to dump me as his prospective roommate.
I wanted to have a good time. I just didn’t know if it was possible. Not when every handshake carried the weight of a family reputation.
Two brunettes wearing daisy dukes walked past. “Three girls in my sorority met their husbands at Serendipity Night,” one said to the other. “What do you think they’ll do this year to match people up? Pick a shoe? Wristbands with numbers? Fortune cookie pairing?”
The shorter of the two glanced over. Her gaze snagged on mine, recognition flickering there.
I turned so she couldn’t see my face.
“We could skip the picking process,” Fletch called after them. “Just pair up right now.”
One of the girls huffed. “In your dreams, loser.” I heard them walk away.
I peeked back to make sure it was safe to turn around.
Fletch acted like that hadn’t happened. “I’m telling you. Tonight is going to be one of the best nights we’ve had in years. I can feel it.”
I’d needed a great night for a long time. But I knew better than to get my hopes up when girls were involved.
As soon as we were through the doors of the building, a guy motioned for us to huddle in before sending the next group in the opposite direction, down a different hall.
After we crammed in, he started giving instructions. “Hope you got your pedicures because this year’s Serendipity Night is called Sole Mates. S-O-L-E.”
Fletch swore under his breath.
I couldn’t help it; I snorted. “Good luck, Bilbo Baggins.” He had the hairiest feet I’d ever seen.
He shot me a look.
Homeboy in charge continued, “Listen carefully. Rule number one: no real names. You have to earn those. If you make it all the way through the night and get your kiss, then and only then, can you and your lucky lady exchange names.”
“Who’s going to know?” someone hollered from the back.
Instruction Guy rolled his eyes. “You’ll know. If you wanted an easy hookup, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be at some trashy frat party. You came here because you wanted something different. A challenge. Am I wrong?”
“We came because we’re hoping to win the thousand dollars cash,” another person yelled.
The man nodded to his friend. “Leroy will give you two index cards with the same number.” Leroy lifted the stack with a dramatic flourish, like he was dealing poker.
“That number matches your spot behind the curtain. Once you're there, take off your shoes and socks and step up so the ladies can get a good look. At your feet only!” He paced a few steps, scanning the group like a drill sergeant searching for people who weren’t standing at attention.
“If one of them likes what she sees, she’ll call your number.
Slide one card through the slot, then head into the hall to meet up with her.
Show your other card to prove you're the right guy. She’ll have the scavenger hunt instructions.
” He clapped his hands once. “Questions? No? Move along!”
We inched forward in a single-file line, trying to get through another door.
“Bro, do you happen to have nail clippers in your pocket?” Fletch asked behind me.
“Fletch, why would I have nail clippers?”
He swore.
I took my cards from Leroy. Number 167.
Leroy grinned. “Good luck, boys.”
“168,” Fletch read his card to himself.
We entered a long hallway split in half by a curtain spanning its entire length. We went to the right, behind the divider. Fletch and I found our numbers side by side, three-quarters of the way down.
I quickly took off my shoes and socks, only stopping when Fletch yelped.
I snorted. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” It looked like he was ripping all the hair off the top of his feet. “I’m getting myself a date.” He tossed a tuft onto the floor and went back for more.
“Dude.” I shoved my socks into my shoes, feeling weird standing on a tile floor that might not have been mopped in a year.
When I turned around, Fletch’s feet were mostly bald, with the exception of a couple of hairs that had broken off. He sat criss-cross, lifted his left foot, and chewed his toenails.
“Oh my gosh.” I burst out laughing.
“Shhh,” he snapped and went right back to it.
“Eeewww,” the guy on his other side said.
Fletch spat out a nail clipping. “Mind your own business. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
Fletch was no quitter. But maybe he should’ve been. The tops of his feet looked red and raw and two toenails were bleeding from being chewed to the quick. But he finished just in time.
A buzzer blared. The door opened and my stomach dropped. High-pitched laughter erupted on the other side of the curtain. My gut fizzed like I’d dropped an Alka-Seltzer straight into my bloodstream. What had I gotten myself into?
Squeals broke out.
“This one! No, that one! Wait, I can’t choose!”
“122, you’re mine!” a girl yelled within 10 seconds.
“111!”
“166!”
The guy on my other side grinned. “That’s me.”
“You don’t say,” Fletch deadpanned.
“Good luck, boys.” 166 jogged away.
“I’m going to take this one,” a girl said confidently. “Number 167. Those toes are ten out of ten.” Her voice was soft and smooth, like velvet. And unlike most girls from Virginia, she didn’t have a southern accent.
I preened at the compliment. I did take my toe hygiene very seriously.
Fletch gave me a double thumbs-up. She sounds hot, he mouthed.
She did. But really, is that something you can tell from someone’s voice?
“Wait—look at 168,” she said, and my hopes belly flopped. “Maybe they’re friends. We could double.”
Oh good.
“Yes,” Fletch said to the curtain. “Great idea. We are friends.”
“See?” Velvet said excitedly.
“Oh, girl. No.” Velvet’s friend had an accent. “I’m ninety-eight percent sure that guy has leprosy. Ain’t nobody got time for a chronic bacterial infection.”
“You’re not going to play footsie with him,” Velvet said. “You’re going on a date.”
“Leprosy is transferred by respiratory droplets,” Foot Cop puffed. “You of all people should know that. I plan to win that money, and I have to kiss my date to do that. Kissing a Middle-earth troll is gonna be a no from me.”
I snickered. Fletch glowered at me.
Velvet was laughing so hard she had trouble saying, “I-It’s nothing that a couple of r-rounds of high-powered antibiotics won’t cure.”
“I don’t have leprosy,” Fletch said.
“Then what’s wrong with your feet?” Foot Cop snapped.
I made a slicing motion across my throat. Don’t do it, I mouthed.
But Fletch—a future lawyer—was truth on legs. “I have hairy feet, okay? So when I found out we were being judged on our plantar surfaces, I tore the hair out.”
One of the girls gasped.
“You’re a psycho and a hobbit?” Foot Cop balked. “It’s a definite no.”
Velvet wheezed. “Wh-what? W-why?”
“I can’t pass those genetics on to my babies,” Foot Cop shot back like it should be obvious.
“If he doesn’t murder me on our wedding night, I’ll spend the rest of my life chained to a stove, cooking second breakfast, elevenses, and who knows what else.
I am not waking up at the butt crack of dawn to make biscuits for a man who could braid the hair on his toes.
I have dreams, okay? Now take your Pretty Boy and let me go before all the good ones are gone. ”
Poor Fletch had never looked so dejected.
“Why do you think I’m a pretty boy?” I asked. “I could be the one who looks like a hobbit.”
“Did you hear that?” Foot Cop whispered. “How is his voice soft but rough at the same time?” Was it? I knew that’s how people described my uncle Ford’s voice. “Everything about him is pretty, I bet. His toes, his voice. What color are your eyes?” she asked me.
“Uh…” I stammered. “Is this a trick question?”
“They’re pretty,” Fletch answered, like it pained him to admit. “A light gray. And his hair is dark, almost black, so they really pop.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. They really pop?
“They’re gray…and his hair is dark?” Foot Cop said like her friend had won the blind date lottery. “Hold up. Are you sure they aren’t just blue and you’re trying to make them sound cooler than they really are?”
“Nope,” Fletch said with a sigh. “Gray. Girls are always going crazy over them.”
“Girl,” Foot Cop said. “Snatch up your Henry Cavill lookalike before I do.”
“Hmm,” Velvet mused. “I think I will. 167, may I have your card?”
“You may.” I grabbed one from my back pocket and slipped it through the slot in the fabric.
“He even has nice hands,” Foot Cop said.
“He has one nice hand,” Fletcher said. “The other one’s basically a sad little T. rex arm growing straight out of his armpit.”
“Seriously?” I jammed both hands through the slit and flapped them together. “See? Two perfectly nice hands.”
“Yep. Still a fan,” Velvet said.
“Do not mock the limb-different,” Foot Cop barked at Fletch. “You know there are people who are actually born that way. I’m outta here,” she said to Velvet. “I cannot—no—I will not settle for…that.”
Fletch threw his hands up as they walked away.
“Sorry, dude,” I said. “Good luck.”
His shoulders slumped. “Thanks. I’m gonna need it.”
Shoes back on, I jogged past the other guys, surprised by how stupidly excited I felt.
When I got to the door, I took a deep breath, prayed she was as beautiful as she sounded, and stepped into the hall.