16. Priestley
PRIESTLEY
I’m able to put the whole debacle with Will out of my head enough to focus on our group project. And I’m reluctantly impressed when Will is, too.
We are professionally courteous during group meetings, before going our separate ways. If the other members of the group have noticed a rift, then they haven’t mentioned it.
We should be confident going into our final presentation. Even Peter has pulled himself together enough to look presentable when we turn up to class on the day.
Except, I’m not confident. For the first time in god knows how long, I’m not certain I’m going to ace something.
I hate this … this uncertainty. And it’s all Will O’Reilly’s fault.
If it weren’t for him, I’d be top of the leaderboard.
And without our stupid rivalry, our group wouldn’t be sitting at the bottom of that leaderboard either.
I sit up straight while Alice Liang’s group give their flawless presentation, trying hard not to grit my teeth loud enough for people to hear.
When it’s our turn, I get up on unsteady legs and make my way with the rest of the group to the front.
We already arranged that I would start us off. I clear my throat and begin to speak.
The presentation goes by in a blur. I usually never allow myself to slip into autopilot, but I’m sure I must have this time.
I have to turn to Will the second we sit down. “How did it go?” I whisper.
He flinches at the sound of my voice, though I notice the slightest softening around his eyes.
“It went well. Don’t worry.”
When the final group finishes their presentation, I have to sit on my hands to stop them from shaking. What if we’re still bottom of the leaderboard? My father is bound to find out. How am I going to fix it before he does?
Professor Moreno spends an agonizing amount of time reading through the notes in her journal before getting up and taking an eraser to the group leaderboard.
I take the fact she erases our name from the bottom as a good sign. If everyone moved except us, surely she’d just leave us down there? Or is Professor Moreno really that evil?
She puts a new group in bottom place. My heart lifts. Am I really this relieved over not being dead-last?
Another team goes into third place, and then in second—it’s us. Alice Liang’s group is still first, of course.
“Well done, all,” Professor Moreno says, turning to us with her wolfish smile. “Please don’t be disheartened if you’re not number one, the competition is fierce this year. You should all be proud of yourselves.”
She looks at me. Is she talking to me? My spirits lift a little more, but at this point, it feels like I’m scavenging for crumbs.
My feet carry me automatically alongside Will to the library, but when we get there, he turns and looks at me.
“Why are you following me?”
“I …”
“Our group project’s over. You don’t need to be seen with me anymore. You’re free to get back to your scheming and elbowing me out of the way.”
That’s a good thing, right? So why doesn’t it feel good? Please don’t tell me I’m broken.
I square my shoulders. The last thing I want is for Will O’Reilly to think he’s rattled me.
“Who died and made you king of the library?”
He raises an eyebrow that tells me exactly what he’s thinking—I’m being immature.
I don’t care. I storm past him without a glance back.
It’s only when I’m sitting in my room later that night and a message comes through the group chat that I allow myself to even think about Will O’Reilly again.
Scott: Celebration tonight?
Celebration? What are we celebrating? Being slightly less pathetic losers than we were before?
I warn myself to ignore it, but I can’t.
Priestley: We’re number two.
Peter: Better than last.
Peter. Of course he’d say that.
Will: Peter’s right.
Priestley: Count me out.
Will: Fine.
Priestley: Fine.
The group chat keeps pinging while I try to study, arranging where and what time they’re going to meet.
The student bar at 7pm, of course. How original. How classy.
I will not allow them to distract me. I put my phone on silent and leave it face down on the desk while I plunge deeper into the books.
WILL
I should be happy Priestley didn’t show up. Scratch that, I shouldn’t be surprised Priestley deemed this little get-together too beneath him to show his face.
But something about celebrating without him feels wrong. Whether I like to admit it or not, Priestley was a big part of this project and a big part of us moving up that leaderboard.
He’s infuriating and pompous, sure. But he’s also seriously smart, hard-working and really fucking good at keeping us on track. If I’d wondered how he became president and captain of everything he ever joined, I don’t need to wonder anymore. He’s amazing at that stuff.
I try to enjoy myself, drinking the beer Scott just put down in front of me, but I can’t stop thinking about Priestley’s nervous face after the presentation.
The way his hands shook on the table before he shoved them under his thighs.
Priestley never lets anyone see him ruffled.
It was like seeing Santa without his beard on. It was just wrong.
“What’s wrong, man?” Scott asks, clapping me on the shoulder.
“Nothing,” I shake my head. “Just wondering what Priestley’s doing.”
Emily snorts. “Probably sacrificing virgins on his altar.”
“No, he’s sticking pins in voodoo dolls of us,” Peter jokes, before getting suddenly serious and gulping.
“Maybe he’s looking up the legal implications of selling his soul for a top spot on the leaderboard.” Scott laughs.
I can’t join in this shit. It’s not nice.
“Priestley might be an annoying as shit, stick-in-the-mud, but he worked his ass off for this group. He deserves a little respect.”
The laughter dies instantly. Peter looks down guiltily into his beer and Scott rubs the back of his neck. But Emily scoffs, reaching for another chip.
“Come on, Will. He hates you!” she says. “He literally screwed you over with that country club shit.”
Does everyone know I don’t have a membership to the country club?
If they do, at least Priestley’s the only one who’s honest about it.
I push my beer away, not feeling like it anymore, not without the person who made this celebration possible anyway.
“I’ve gotta go.”
Scott and Peter make a few halfhearted attempts to get me to stay but Emily waves them off. As I walk to the door, I hear her say, “Leave him.”
I’m not used to being unpopular or having to call people out. That was always the captain’s job, or the coach’s. It can’t be an easy one, but it’s one Priestley’s excelled in for years, despite how unpopular it makes him sometimes.
I stop by a liquor store on my way to Priestley’s dorm and buy a cheap bottle of champagne.
I think he’s going to leave me standing out in the street when he doesn’t answer his phone or the buzzer even though I press it multiple times. But eventually, his voice comes out, loud and clear, telling me to go away.
“It’s me. Let me up.”
He groans before letting out a string of expletives under his breath.
“You could at least take your finger off the little speaker thing before you curse me out, Rosie. That’s not very nice.”
“Go away.”
“Nope.”
There’s a pause. My heart pounds in my ears. Why does it matter if he lets me up or not? Because it’s the right thing to do, I tell myself.
“I brought you a gift.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Come on. I thought you had manners.”
He sighs. “You can come up and leave it and then you can go.”
He presses the buzzer and the door gives under my weight.
I’m only embarrassed of my meager offering when I get to Priestley’s floor and he opens the door, looking immaculate despite the fact he’s probably holed up in here studying like a hermit.
Something gnaws in my stomach at the sight of him in his only slightly less stuffy chinos and college sweater. He runs a hand through his hair and I get a waft of his cologne. I follow his gaze to the cheap bottle in my hand.
“What is that?”
“It’s champagne.”
“That is not champagne.”
“Can you stop being a snob for five seconds and let me in?”
He huffs, turning and letting me into the room. It’s more of a self-contained apartment than a dorm room. He has his own regular-sized kitchen and a nice, brown, fabric couch with a decent TV. Big windows looking out onto a lush, green lawn.
I try not to look around at everything with greedy eyes.
“You got glasses?”
“No.”
“You don’t have glasses?”
“You mean champagne flutes, so no. I don’t make a habit of drinking … whatever that is … here.”
“You must have something to drink out of around here.”
I start rifling through cupboards, finding them depressingly empty. He does have jars of that expensive-looking food my mom goes into department stores looking at around Christmastime. Preserves with ornamental lids and fancy, stuffed olives.
“Is this really your diet, Rosie? Thought you were an athlete.”
He ignores me while I keep looking, finally finding a tumbler and a mug with the college logo on.
“You’ve got to be joking,” he says when he sees me plop them onto the counter and start opening the bottle.
“What?”
“You can’t drink ‘champagne’ from a mug, or a tumbler.”
“Why not? Thought it wasn’t ‘champagne?’”
“That’s the wrong use of quotation marks. It really isn’t champagne, champagne is only considered champagne when it hails from the region….”
I roll my eyes. For some reason, Rosie’s constant niggling isn’t making me want to punch something. It’s making me kind of warm and fuzzy. Maybe I’ve got Stockholm Syndrome or something, because the way he needles me is becoming pleasantly familiar.
“Tumbler or mug?” I ask, holding the options out to him.
He crosses his arms over his chest.
“You look like Chase right now, you know that right? You know he’s a little kid.”
“Yes, thank you, I’ve met your brother.”
“And you remembered his name.”
“I remember everyone’s name. Don’t flatter yourself.”
He keeps glaring at me and I try to hold in my smile. “Tumbler or mug?”
His shoulders come up with the weight of his sigh. “Tumbler … I suppose.”