Chapter 8
PIPPA
Thumbs hovering over my cell phone’s digital keyboard, I’m about to reply to my sister’s text, but as if on cue—because remember, this is me we’re talking about—my phone screen goes dark.
Maybe it really did self-destruct. Either that or the battery died, which is more likely the case.
I cannot be bothered to charge the thing, let alone tote it around with me everywhere.
Even though I’m a modern woman, I prefer regular cameras, my news in print, and a phone conversation on dial-up rather than a disjointed video call where we inevitably talk over each other.
I’m awkward enough as it is. The cell phone seems to demand attention and divide the attention of the user from whoever they’re interacting with.
Or perhaps that’s just me.
You can’t expect ogres like Pippag Thomzeg to understand digital technology.
Speaking of batteries, mine starts to drain, but the show must carry on. At least Marlow insists it must by the way she encourages me to tell the Pippa Pig Pen story. “Come on. It’s hilarious.”
“This isn’t comedy hour. We were talking about candles.” Always a winning topic of conversation. One that Abigail, Olivia, Chelsea, and Samantha seem genuinely interested in.
“Come on. You can’t leave them hanging,” Marlow says.
I click my tongue dismissively. “It’s in the past. I haven’t been to London for months after moving to Concordia for work. Any new coffee shops or bakeries I should try before I leave tomorrow?” Turning to the girls, Phoebe would applaud me for the swift change of subject.
“So, you grew up in London?” Abigail asks.
“We went to boarding school together,” Marlow says as though making one last pitch for the Pippa Pig Pen story.
Mercifully, the conversation detours as everyone swaps the names of the schools they went to and makes connections over mutual teachers, friends, and events we have in common.
“Wait, you went to Hinnifin Hall?” a woman with auburn hair asks. “Me too. I’m Lilly Cameron. Lovely to meet you.”
She’s new to our conversation circle, but I don’t quite remember her from high school.
“If you were a few years ahead of me, you must have known Chase Collins,” Lilly says.
I imagine that the smile I wear at the mention of his name can only be described as misshapen, mutant, ogre-like.
It feels like my eyes are two different sizes, my lips ripple instead of lift, and the apples of my cheeks consist of melted wax beads tinted crimson.
I know, weird, but I blame being around Marlow and repeatedly being reminded of The (unrequited) Crush List.
The other women in the group go silent at the mention of the infamous Chase Collins.
I don’t blame them. The guy was a legend—a high school American football hero with a jawline that could double as a sword.
The kind of flirty, dimpled smile that slayed and eyes that sparkled with what felt like a secret between him and the girl he gazed upon.
Okay, I’ll slow my roll.
“Every freshman girl had a major crush on him,” Lilly says.
And a senior as well. Namely, me.
“His parents are here somewhere.” Abigail glances around the room. No surprise that she knows everybody, considering this is her parents’ party.
“And he’s on the Boston Bruisers now,” Lilly adds with stars in her eyes.
The women erupt into a hen fest, exclaiming how handsome Chase Collins is. They may as well have a stats sheet on him with the way they highlight his height, build, eye color, and good looks. Of course, I, too, have this information documented and in dry storage.
It’s like we’re in high school all over again, by the way their voices rise in pitch as they flutter and giggle over the quarterback. I keep the fact that he’s Freddie’s best friend to myself because then they’ll want me to make introductions.
Chase has made it clear that he doesn’t want to come within twenty feet of Pippag Thomzeg—don’t worry, he didn’t put a restraining order on me. I may be hapless, flakey, and accident-prone, but I’m not dangerous. Then again, there was that time I caught a cupcake on fire. Don’t ask.
It’s more like Freddie treated me, his twin, like his pesky little sister whom he tried to avoid at all costs, so Chase took that as permission to do the same.
“Did you hear about moon-gate?” Samantha asks in a hush.
I roll my eyes. New pranks, different day. Thankfully, I wasn’t the target this time. No doubt, he and Freddie were behind some of the ones that struck me back in the day.
The girls gather around someone’s cell phone and scroll through a social media feeding frenzy with the tag #BruiserButt.
From what I heard earlier and what I gather now, four of the Boston Bruisers football team players took it upon themselves to show the world their backsides. Or prank one of their fellow teammates, depending on whose story you believe.
Unfortunately, the team commissioner, his daughter, and some other important people were caught in the crossfire.
“Do you think they’ll get kicked off the team?” Chelsea asks.
“I don’t know how American football works, but they’ll probably just have to pay a fine.” Olivia, who I learn is dating a Brazilian soccer star, shrugs like it’s no big deal and happens every day among the rowdy footie players.
“I bet his parents are mortified.” Looking around, as if scandalized on their behalf, Abigail presses her hands to her lips.
“Was he always such a prankster?” Samantha asks.
The answer is a definite yes, but before I can respond, another one asks, “Was he always so dreamy?”
The others probe for more. I pray no one catches wind that Freddie and he are best bros. They want all the details: was he as perfect-looking in real life? Did he have good breath? Was his hair as soft as it looked?
Marlow wears a sly smile. “Didn’t you sit with Chase at lunch once? I vaguely remember. Tell us that story.”
The others urge me on, wanting all the sordid details.
Panic floods me, my battery runs dry, and the lions lick their chops in the distance. I’m not so sure I was cut out for gladiator sparring, but I do my best to rise to the occasion. Also, this situation shouldn’t surprise me, considering my weird luck.
There is no getting out of telling the sponge cake prank. Setting the scene, I say, “I was walking with my lunch tray and I admit I was a bit distracted by,” I clear my throat, “by Chase and I tripped. He was very apologetic and helped me up.”
“Such a gentleman,” Olivia says approvingly.
“He offered for me to sit with him,” I continue.
They let loose a chorus of oohs.
“He had a slice of cake.”
“Sponge cake,” Marlow interjects.
“Not chocolate, I hope,” Chelsea says.
I shake my head. “He offered me a bite and I took one. It was a sponge alright; a cleaning sponge covered in frosting.” My heart sinks as I recall the deep humiliation as I rushed out of the dining hall. I add, “The worst part was he had no idea about the mega crush I had on him.”
I expect a giggle or two from the women, but they don’t come.
“At least I didn’t have melted chocolate in my pocket and tomato sauce on my skirt, but still, it stung because of the whole mega crush thing senior year.” Oops. I did not mean to say that, signaling it’s time for me to retreat, so I don’t do anything else to embarrass myself.
The other women stand frozen in silence, staring. Eyes wide. Mouths open.
I blink a few times, slightly confused, and then identify the looks on their faces. They’re swooning.
But at what? Who?
Abigail begins to lift her finger, pointing behind me.
Relieved by their lack of laughter, for a second there, I forgot I was in the gladiator arena. But I instantly know what’s happened. A lion, no, THE LION must be behind me.
My throat is suddenly dry. My eyes bulge. My cheeks flame the exact color of a firetruck.
“He’s behind me, isn’t he?”
Ever so subtly, Abigail nods in affirmation.
My surroundings go fuzzy, but I’m not at risk of swooning. More like fainting from embarrassment.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly turn my head. The frame doesn’t quite come into focus, but I glimpse a blurry shock of brown hair, the shelf of a broad pair of shoulders, and the edge of a smile that threatens to send me scurrying for shelter.
He tilts his head in surprise.
I open and close my eyes, and probably look like a short-circuiting lady robot trying to bat her eyelashes.
Strong jaw? Light blue eyes that sparkle? Impossibly perfect hair? Check, check, and check.
Is Chase Collins as dreamy as ever? Check.
Is the universe impossibly unfair for having him appear at this very moment? Check.
If my life were a movie, it would be a romantic comedy of errors.
I make it a habit to laugh so I don’t cry.
But this moment results in a laugh-cry hybrid of me choking back surprise, which nearly turns into a sob. Social circuit board fried, the lady robot is going haywire.
If I could text Phoebe right now, it would say SOS—social operating system shutdown imminent. Instead, breaking all the rules I work hard to follow, I stand there frozen, whisper screaming like a weirdo.