I poke at my bowl of cheesy grits and shrug. “Just focusing on school stuff. I got a C minus on that English test, so it’s clearly warranted. What were you saying?”
“A C minus? Matty, you’ve never gotten anything below an A in English in your life. What’s going on?” Alice tilts her head and fixes me with a stare. I stare back. After a moment of silence she sighs, wrinkling her mouth and nose together. “I said I know you don’t have a dress for the gala thing this weekend. We should go shopping after class. There are a ton of boutiques downtown, and I saw some sales.”
I look away and gnaw at the inside of my cheek. “Yeah, about that. I’m not going.”
Alice rears back, gawking at me like I’ve grown scales. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
I blink. “I decided not to go through with that group. So, I’m not going—”
“Hi, yes, hello. I regret to inform you that you’ve had a temporary lapse in judgment. These things happen, and I’m going to try not to make you feel too badly about it. But you’re going to that gala.”
I groan. “Alice, I don’t want to go.”
“You are going to that gala, Matty, even if I have to force you into one of Charlotte’s dresses!” Alice says, her eyes gone flinty behind her frames.
I sigh and fold up the greasy newspaper as neatly as I can, then toss it onto my tray. “You don’t understand.”
Alice crosses her arms over her chest. “I understand you’ve suddenly stopped talking to a hottie-hot boy who adores you, and you won’t explain why, and it sounds like he did nothing wrong. I understand you have an invitation to a black-tie event that you seem to want to toss in the trash. And I understand that I begged my parents to let me stay on campus this weekend just so I could help you get ready, and honestly, Bree, we were way too nerdy in high school for me to let you throw this opportunity away!”
I gape at her. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Sixteen years of Disney movies that I know you watched just as much as I did, so what’s really going on here?”
“I don’t want to go!” I’m loud enough that Alice flinches, and the two girls sitting beside us turn their heads in our direction. I pull my bag out from underneath the table and start zipping it up. “And I need to get to class.”
Alice watches me, shaking her head. “This ain’t it, Matty.”
“What’s not it?”
“This.” She waves her hand at me. “A couple weeks ago you were all over this group, texting this Nick kid all the time, going to therapy, staying out late. And this week all of that’s gone? You get back to the room earlier than I do? Spend more time studying than I do? Read the school newspaper? And I know you’re not sleeping.” She shakes her head again. “This ain’t it.”
“You get mad at me for not taking school seriously enough, and now I’m taking it too seriously?” I scoff. “A couple weeks ago I came home crying, too. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not. But…This week you’re a zombie. You know what you need?”
I stand up and sigh. “You gonna say Jesus?”
“No.” She points at me. “You need homeostasis.”
“Did you just… biology me?”
“Sure did.”
I falter, no comeback in sight. In the end, I give up. “I gotta go,” I mutter. I pick up my tray and leave, ignoring the look of disappointment on Alice’s face.
* * *
That night I lie in bed with the window open, twisting my hair and listening to the shouts and conversations on the busy sidewalk below. Old East is close to the north perimeter, so I suppose every week we’ll be able to hear the undergrads leaving the campus grounds and heading to the main drag for the bars and clubs. For a moment, I wonder if I’ll hear the Legendborn. Maybe they’ll go back to the biergarten to celebrate the end of the Trials.
I make myself imagine the gala, even though it hurts. A grand room, hundreds of people in formal wear. A stage. When I imagine Nick in a tuxedo and bow tie, I curl into a tight ball of want on my bed. I lean into the vision to remind myself of the loss. I see him. Tall, handsome, and—for a short while, a quick moment, a heartbeat—mine.
On the other side of the room, Alice’s snores are light and even. I know she’s right. I don’t have homeostasis. I don’t have equilibrium, no matter the stimuli. Patricia knew it, saw it, and wanted nothing of it.
My agony has a hunger, I’ve discovered. It doesn’t want the truth. Not really. It just wants to feed itself sorrow until no other emotion is left.
* * *
My father calls before eight on Friday morning. He knows I don’t have an early class on Fridays, but he rarely calls me before noon, especially this close to the weekend when his shop is busiest.
“Dad?” I say, holding my phone to my ear as I pull on a pair of jeans.
“Hey, kiddo.” I half expect to hear the heavy clink of a dropped tool on concrete and the high-pitched whirr-whine of a pneumatic wrench, but there’s nothing like that. “You busy?”
“Nope. My first class is at ten. What’s up?”
“Come have breakfast with me. My treat.”
I chuckle. “If only.”
“Naw, kid. Meet me downstairs and bring your books.”
I freeze. “You’re here?”
“Yep. Sittin’ in the lot.”
“… why are you here?”
“Oh, just in the area.”
It’s a four-hour drive, and if he’s here, that means he took off work. No “in the area” about it. I close my eyes and sigh. “Alice.”
“Is a good friend,” he finishes with a warm laugh. “Better hurry before one of these meter cops gives me a ticket.”
* * *
My father has worked with cars his entire life. Starting in the shop before moving up to manager ten years ago. He still gets into a repair every now and then; it shows in the ever-present gray-black line of grime under his short nails and the faint grease fingerprints on the upholstery of his car door. He’s my height and stocky, and if he’s not in the shop polo and khakis, he’s in a tracksuit and a cap. His skin is a deep, earthy brown the color of fallen pine needles. When I open the passenger side door, he smiles, and his entire face rises until his eyes tilt up at his temples.
“Seat belt.” His eyes flick down to my waist and then to his side mirror as we pull out of the drive. Black and blue striped tracksuit today. White cap with a blue Tar Heel.
His car smells like home. I expect to feel the twinge of pain in my chest, and I do, but it’s chased by warmth.
* * *
The Waffle House is thick with the smell of processed syrup and stale coffee. Mostly empty booths line the wall to our left, and a mottled gray counter runs down the right. The quiet murmurs, the sizzle of the griddle in the kitchen, and the low jukebox music remind me that there’s life outside UNC. The woman behind the counter barely glances up when we enter.
Dad leads us to the empty booth that looks the least sticky. The red cushion backs hiss and sigh when we slide in, and there’s a constellation of crumbs strewn across the creaky table.