The Fifteenth Minute Read online

  The problem crackles quickly through my chest, the way a sheet of ice breaks in every direction at once. There is no way to save the evening that I’d planned.

  I turn around and exit Gino’s.

  Walking away, I wonder what to do. I step under the awning of the check-cashing place across the street and pull out my phone. Shit. I don’t want to cancel on Lianne. But what choice do I have? I could make up some stupid excuse and ask her to dine elsewhere with me. It’s too crowded. I don’t feel like pizza.

  But I don’t want to lie. And there’s the real problem. If I go out with Lianne tonight, lying is exactly what I’ll be doing. Even without the snafu at Gino’s, I’ll be pretending to be just another happy-go-lucky Harkness guy taking a girl out for dinner— not a guy with an ax hanging over his neck.

  I tap Lianne’s number and listen to it ring.

  “Hello? Am I late? I thought I was early,” Lianne says into my ear.

  Just the sound of her voice makes me ache. She’s so fucking cute. “You’re fine,” I say, and I mean it. There is nobody finer. I can’t imagine why she wanted to go out with me, even for pizza, when she could have anyone. “But, uh, I can’t make it tonight. I’m really sorry.” More sorry than she’ll ever know.

  At the distant end of the square, movement catches my eye. I spot Lianne moving toward me. Her hair shines under the street lights. She stops walking, and there’s a beat of silence on the line. “You’re not coming? Why?”

  The pressure in my chest redoubles. “I…” I’m such an asshole. “I can’t. Something came up.” Lamest excuse ever.

  Her voice drops. “I see.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, as if it matters. You don’t cancel on a girl, even if she’s someone who has lots of better things to do. It’s rude. But I have no choice.

  “Right,” she sighs. “I see. Then goodnight.” The line goes dead, and I see her jam her phone into a little bag she holds. I expect her to turn around and disappear. But that’s not what happens. Instead, she walks into the square, crossing the street, entering the tiny park. She stops for a second as if lost, her eyes on the glowing store-front of Gino’s Appizza. Then she sits down on one of the cold benches. She puts her hands on either side of her knees and drops her chin.

  Shit!

  I can’t even breathe now. Lianne shouldn’t sit here in this dodgy little park alone. That’s a terrible idea. She should get up and head back to campus. Or call a limo to take her to the city, to somewhere movie stars go on a Thursday night. She has better things to do than eat pizza with me, anyway. “Come on,” I whisper under my breath.

  But she doesn’t move. And all at once, I understand that Lianne does not, in fact, exist on some higher plane. Celebrity or not, she feels the sting of rejection the same way anyone would. Even if it comes from the likes of me.

  Her narrow shoulders droop, and I’m in fucking agony. Unlikely as it seems, I’ve hurt this girl, which is something I never wanted to do. I hurt her, and it’s because I have to avoid another girl who says I hurt her. But I didn’t.

  Every time I try to get away from it, even for a couple of hours, it just drags me back down.

  While my heart breaks into smaller and smaller pieces, I stay in the shadows watching Lianne, even though her defeated posture kills me. But I don’t like her sitting there alone in the cold.

  Please go home, I beg silently. Please.

  Eventually she straightens up. That’s it, I coach. She reaches up and unwinds the scarf she’s wearing, which sparkles when it catches the light. Inexplicably, she tosses it onto the bench beside her. Then she stands, turns, and heads back toward campus.

  After she’s gotten half a block away, I cross the street and rescue her scarf off the bench. The fabric is light and gauzy, with a subtle shimmer. It looks expensive, and I don’t have a clue why she’d leave it behind. I tuck the thing into my jacket and then follow her to the corner. From the shadow of another building, I watch as she reaches the art school, then passes a coffee shop with students spilling out of it.

  She’s safe now, and I don’t have to worry. But my feet follow her anyway. I’m so torn up inside. If I go home now, I’ll only end up on the bed in my room, staring at the ceiling.

  Outside the coffee shop two students are hawking T-shirts. Last year I’d found their designs novel, so I have several of them. There’s the Huck Farvard shirt, a perennial favorite. And another that reads, “Go ___!” And underneath: “(Harkness has no mascot, but we’re very fierce. We swear.)”

  A new shirt catches my eye, and I have to stop and stare. It says:

  Yes, I go to Harkness.

  No, I don’t know Lianne Challice.

  Seriously?

  I turn my head abruptly, scanning for Lianne’s retreating back. I don’t see her anymore. I’d been watching when she walked past this spot, though. She’d passed these shirts without so much as a stutter step. Perhaps she didn’t notice, or else she’s seen them before.

  Either way, it’s freaky. I don’t think I realized what she was up against before tonight. How weird it was to be her.

  “See something you like?” one of the student vendors asks. She’s wearing mittens and doing a fidgety dance to stay warm in the January chill.

  “Nope,” I say, and there’s an edge in my voice. How could someone possibly think this shirt was funny?

  Spinning around, I head home again. Where I have nothing to do and nobody to talk to.

  7

  The Biscuit in the Basket

  Lianne

  I thought that moving to New England meant I’d experience four perfectly picturesque seasons. But apparently, that’s not how it works. Harkness, Connecticut is its own weird climate, where winter brings a lot of dreary weather, but nothing you can make snowballs from.

  As I walk to my art history class on Friday, it’s raining. Or maybe it’s almost snowing. As the little blobs of ice-cold precipitation begin to pelt me in the face, it’s hard to say which.

  Yippee, it’s…snaining.

  As I walk, I’m composing an item of hate mail. Dear January. You are killing me, you know that? You and I have to have a talk before things get out of hand. Listen—I understand December was a tough act to follow. You’re under pressure, and I think it’s making you a little crazy.

  In December, I did Shakespeare at the Public Theater in New York, while staying at Bella’s house on the Upper East Side. I went ice skating at Wollman Rink and went out for dim sum with Bella and her sister. Good times were had.

  But, January? It’s like you’re not even trying. First you dump this whole sex scene thing in my lap. Thanks for that. And then I get stood up on the first date I’ve ever (not) had.

  Really? That’s just mean. Like Shawshank Redemption mean. But without the redemption. Luckily it’s only the tenth of the month, though. There’s plenty of time to make it up to me. So see what you can do.

  I run through the snain and into the big old lecture hall. There are rows and rows of old wooden seats with red velvet cushions. The stained glass windows lining one wall depict scholars in mortarboard hats and Latin encouragements. The Harkness motto is lettered across the top. Esse Quam Videri. To be, rather than to seem.

  When I’d chosen Harkness College, this is just what I’d pictured—a dusty old building, a mahogany lectern at the front of the room, and a professor in a lumpy sweater with elbow patches. I settle myself into a seat in the back row, notebook and pen at the ready, hoping the hiss I hear from the old heating system can dry me off before it’s time to go back out into the January chill.

  The professor is still adjusting his clip-on microphone when I hear the first hint of trouble—it’s a sound that’s dogged me my whole life. The rapid firing of a Nikon camera’s shutter.

  Oh no. Here?

  My stomach drops to the floor, and I begin evasive maneuvers. I swivel my body away from the sound, then dig into my bag for my phone.

  “Excuse me,” the professor says into his microphon
e, addressing my harasser. “This is private property. You’ll have to leave.”

  The asshole with the camera will never obey him, though. It’s a lesson I learned early in life. Paparazzi make their money by not listening. They are professional assholes.

  I tap on a number that’s stored in my phone. I’d hoped to never use it, but when campus police picks up, I’m happy that my overbearing manager had thought to make me store it. “Hi,” I tell the dispatcher who answers. “My name is Lianne Challice and I’m a freshman. I’m trying to attend a lecture in the Masterson building right now, but a photographer is disrupting the class, and he won’t leave. The professor has already asked him to.”

  “A…photographer?” the dispatcher asks. I’ve confused him. Most calls to campus security are probably about lost wallets or drunkenness.

  “He’s a paparazzo,” I try to explain. And he’s coming closer. I can hear the camera sounds and nothing else, because the whole lecture hall has gone quiet.

  My back is suddenly sweaty. Rising out of my chair, I abandon my bag, my notebook and my coat. My face is mostly hidden by my phone on one side and the brim of my trusty baseball cap, which I tug as low as I can. The asshole photographer knows exactly who’s under here, but I don’t want him to get any shots he can use.

  Charging up the aisle, I see amusement on the faces of my classmates. This doesn’t usually happen in a history of art survey on a Friday afternoon. I’m actually glad they find it funny instead of maddening. Though I’d like to bite someone.

  “A paparazzo?” the dispatcher asks in my ear.

  “Yes. He’s trespassing. It’s illegal,” I point out.

  “I’ve already sent a unit to Masterson Hall,” the officer assures me. “ETA is two minutes.”

  I don’t answer right away because I’ve picked up my pace. I shoot out of the lecture room and take a quick right down a gloomy old hallway. There’s a ladies’ room down here. Running now, I reach it ahead of the photographer and yank open the door. This will only work if it’s the kind of bathroom with a lock on the inside—paparazzi don’t care about rules.

  Dashing inside, I push the door shut. And? No lock. This is a bathroom with three stalls.

  Thanks January. Thanks a crap-ton.

  I do not rush into one of the stalls. There’s no point. At least now if I end up having to try to sue this guy or get a restraining order, I can say that he followed me into the ladies’ room. That sounds pretty sleazy. Also? This room isn’t that big, which means the asshole will have to refocus, maybe even switch lenses.

  “The security officers have entered the building,” the dispatcher says into my ear.

  “I’m in the ladies…”

  The door flies open in front of me, and a giant camera lens is shoved into my face. “Smile, Lianne.”

  I put my elbow in front of my face just as the shutter starts its machine-gun patter. I hear feet running toward us across the stone floors.

  “Hey!” a masculine voice cries out. “You can’t go in there!”

  The shutter whirrs. Paparazzi don’t care about the rules. They care about the shot and about their precious equipment. That’s it.

  “Step out or we will forcibly restrain you,” the voice warns.

  The clicking stops. I don’t drop my arm, though, because it’s probably just a pause.

  “Step out. I’m arming the taser.”

  Now that’s exciting. I’ve never seen a paparazzo tasered. I peek under the crook of my elbow to see what’s happening.

  The asshole has lowered his camera and is backing out of the room. “Don’t touch my camera,” he barks. “I always win my lawsuits.”

  A real charmer, my stalker. I recognize him, too. He’s the one they call Buzz. To go with their stupid jobs, paparazzi tend to have stupid nicknames.

  One of the policemen snaps handcuffs onto Buzz’s wrist. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right…”

  “You cannot be serious,” Buzz argues. “It’s just a fucking picture.”

  “Step outside.”

  “You’ll see me again soon, Lianne!” the photographer calls over his shoulder.

  And I’m sure he’s right. The paparazzi are like roaches. Nothing stamps them out.

  They disappear, but the second officer stays with me. He’s an older man with a grey military cut and friendly eyes. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I assure him. What I am is embarrassed. So much for blending in.

  “Good. I’m going to need your statement.”

  “Okay, but I really need to be in that lecture hall right now. Can I give it to you afterward? Please?”

  I have succeeded in looking sufficiently pitiful, because he caves. “All right. But come to the station right after class, you hear?” He hands me a business card with an address on it and sends me back to class.

  When I slink back into the room, a hundred pairs of eyes turn in my direction.

  “Is it safe to begin the lecture?” my professor asks from the podium, his voice bouncing off every mahogany surface and then right into my very soul.

  My head bobs with an awkward nod. “Must be a slow news day,” I mutter.

  Nobody laughs.

  Damn it. You only get one chance to make a first impression. There went mine.

  By that evening, I’ve never been so happy to see the backside of a week in my life. Seven o’clock finds me lying on my bed in sweatpants, perusing the menu of a Thai restaurant that delivers. And because I’m a wild and crazy girl this semester, I’m considering ordering noodles instead of steamed veggies.

  A Hollywood girl knows how to live large, you feel me?

  Just as I considered this sacrilege, Bella taps on my door and then opens it. “Let’s go, Lianne! Hockey game starts in half an hour.”

  I’d forgotten about the hockey game I’d said I’d go to. “I’ll have to pass. I’m beat.”

  Bella makes the sound of a buzzer. “Brrrrrp! Sorry. You do not get to flake out on me here. I’ve been waiting all week to watch my team beat Saint B's and to show you the glory that is hockey. And I already got your ticket. So put your skinny ass in some jeans because I don’t want to miss the first faceoff.”

  “But I’m comfortable right now.” Damn it, I’m whining now.

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Did I mention they sell hot dogs and popcorn?”

  Hmm… That does sound promising. “Does the popcorn have butter?” Weirdly, millions of people have eaten popcorn while watching one of my movies. But I’d been dieting for so long that smelling it at a premier was as close as I’d come to the stuff.

  “Probably. Now hurry up.”

  Groaning, I get off the bed. “Remind me why I have to go with you?” It’s not like Bella had never been to a game before.

  “Because you’re Fun Lianne now.”

  I pull on a pair of jeans. “It’s cold in the rink, right? Do I need to bundle up?”

  “You won’t even notice because the players are so hot.” She tosses me my coat. “Wear this. Let’s roll.”

  Bella wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted to see the puck drop. It wasn’t enough that I’d gotten ready in all of five minutes. She soon has us practically sprinting up Science Hill toward the rink.

  “I’m wearing only one coat of mascara for you. And you didn’t mention there’d be a death march first,” I complain as we speed-walk.

  “Not my fault you have tiny little legs,” she says. “And we’re almost there.”

  Ahead of us, people are streaming into the arena. Bella leads me over to the student section door and pushes two tickets at the staffer guarding it.

  “How much are tickets?” I don’t want her to have to pay for me.

  Bella waves off the question. “They’re free if you pick them up ahead of time.”

  “What? I thought you meant that if I didn’t go to the game, you’d be out money…”

  She gives me a wink. “Got you here, didn’t I? You can hit the concession stand if you
want, I’m saving us seats.”

  An hour later, I’m having a hell of a lot more fun than I’d expected. Sitting in the student section with Bella, I eat a soft pretzel and a box of popcorn. Then I go back for a hot dog with all the fixings.

  In between bouts of screaming at the players, Bella tries her best to explain the game. “There’s two defensemen, and… HIT HIM TREVI! CRUSH HIM LIKE A BUG!”

  I am probably going to end up deaf in one ear. But I’m not sure I mind, because hockey is exciting. Unlike baseball, which I consider to be a cure for insomnia, this game is nonstop action—the players flying past me at warp speed, the puck pinging from stick to stick so fast my eyes can’t track it. And every few minutes a player slams another player into the boards, and my heart leaps into my throat. It sounds violent and yet I feel a very inappropriate thrill each time it happens.

  “FUCK HIM UP!” Bella hollers beside me. Her voice is half gone already. “Come on guys!” she cheers, clapping. “Put the biscuit in the basket! Bring mama’s cookies to the kitchen!”

  Then I feel her go tense beside me, and the whole student section seems to lean forward. A Harkness player has broken away from his pursuers. It’s just him and the puck and the other team’s goalie, who also tenses.

  Our guy—Rikker—feints to the left and then fires the puck like a missile. I can’t see it anymore, but a lamp lights on the plexi behind the net, and half the arena stands up and screams.

  We scored! And now I’m hugging Bella and there’s music and it’s thrilling!

  Omigod. Hockey. Who knew?

  When we sit down again I’m flushed and happy, as if I did something right. All I did was watch, but it feels bigger than that. It’s a strange sensation, and I file this away to think about later. I’m still holding the hot dog I bought. I lift it for a bite, and my eyes travel to the other side of the rink. Where a giant camera is pointed in my direction.