IT’S A SATURDAY afternoon in January, halfway through my second week of college. Mom and Dad agreed to let me reapply for the winter term. I did the Today show interview but didn’t tell all, in case I do decide to write a book about it. And then I spent the rest of the summer finishing the third novel of my series and the fall on my last tour for a while.
My hope was to start up another series right after that, so I could stay home a while longer. But I sat for the better part of a week, staring at the blank screen of my computer.
Tons of ideas floated around in my head, and I started several times, but nothing stuck. There seemed to be no point in putting off school any longer.
I had no more excuses for staying out of the real world.
So after the first of the year, I packed up my black Honda Civic with no vanity plates—I felt the need for a less flashy replacement—and headed to Eugene.
I don’t know when—if—I’ll start another novel. I kind of like school, my classes. I’m surprised that I do, considering I haven’t been in a classroom since eighth grade. I’m still not putting myself out there much. Maybe I’m waiting to find someone who has something in common with me. I seem to be the only one on my floor actually from Oregon. This place is like Cal State Eugene.
But I guess it’s enough that I’m here, someplace other than home.
Small steps.
I’m in the dorm lounge, a space of plush chairs and couches in bright colors. Everyone else is at the basketball game, which is why I actually came out of my room.
Groups of students still get my heart pounding. I want to belong, but it’s so much easier to not try. Also safer.
I’m on a couch, reading “The Pit and the Pendulum” for a class.
“Livvy?”
I look up and see a girl from down the hall. I stifle a groan. Her mailbox is next to mine. Once when we got our mail at the same time, she recognized my name on an envelope, and now she won’t leave me alone. I avoid her whenever possible, but now she has me trapped.
She smiles and hands me an envelope. “Got this in my mail by mistake.”
“Thanks.” Without looking at it, I set it beside me on the couch. Go away.
She waits a moment, for what I’m not sure.
I hold up my book. “I’ve got a test Monday.”
“Well, see you later.” She leaves and I go back to reading.
A deep voice says, “Not my favorite of Poe’s.”
My heart stops.
Standing in front of me is a dark-haired, blue-eyed guy, dressed in jeans and a green T-shirt with a yellow O.
Rory.
I swallow.
Obviously not the fake Rory invented by Wesley. But this non-Rory looks so much like that picture I ripped up so many months ago that I can’t breathe.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
On second thought, he doesn’t look as much like Rory as I thought. Maybe that picture has dulled in my mind, but this guy’s jaw seems more square, his eyes a darker blue. Plus, the guy standing in front of me is real.
“I recognize you from class.” He points at the literature textbook on the cushion next to me.
He’s in my class? How have I never seen him?
Because I sit in the front row and never look around.
Despite my big plans for taking control of my life, I am still hiding and shy. My chance to start fresh is staring me in the face, and I am letting it slip by.
Grow some, Livvy.
Grab on to life and start living.
I smile. Holy crap, what did one even say to an actual living, breathing guy who isn’t separated from me by half a country and a nonfunctioning webcam?
What do you say to someone you want to get to know?
I have no clue.
And what comes out of my mouth is something I’ve been thinking for days but haven’t had the nerve to say to anyone. “So our prof sure likes to listen to himself talk.”
“Right?” He picks up the envelope and my textbook and plops down beside me. “It’s like, Shut up already, dude.” He grins, revealing dimples, and then sticks out his hand. “I’m Nick.”
His warm, strong hand around mine sends a shiver straight up my arm. Yet I manage to say, in a somewhat normal tone of voice, “Livvy. And I’m really glad to meet you.”
I’m disappointed when he releases my hand, but then he says, “Pretty quiet around here today. Want to go to dinner later? Hear they’re making that mac and cheese with the bread crumbs on top.”
“Okay.” A rush of heat runs up my neck.
“Meet here at five?”
I nod, unable to speak.
“Cool.” He gets to his feet, and the envelope flutters to the floor. He hands it to me. “See you later.”
I smile and watch him go, my heart pounding. I glance at the envelope. My name and address are typed, and there’s no return address. I open it and pull out a folded sheet of paper. Something falls to the floor.
I lean over to look.
Next to my foot is a dead wasp.
I kick it away and scream, then slap a hand over my mouth. I grab my books and run back to my room. I realize I haven’t looked at the paper. I sink down on my bed. My hands are shaking so bad that I have trouble unfolding it at first.
There, in childish handwriting, someone has scrawled:
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I crumple up the paper and throw it to the other side of the room.
It’s just a sick joke, I think. A terrible prank. It doesn’t mean anything. Someone saw the interview and thought to have some fun at my expense.
“That’s it. That has to be it. Just someone stupid, just someone—”
And then I can’t breathe as the truth dawns on me.
In the interview, and then article after article, so much came out about my time in the basement, so many details.
But not once did I ever … tell anyone … about the box of bees.