Apparently, privacy isn’t a priority for the Mother’s Club, but in this case, I’ll use it to my advantage. Due to my plotting, I barely hear the plan outlining a walk to Arden Lake directly following the orientation. The woman at the podium said something about finding a group? People in the auditorium are beginning to get up and mill around the exits.
“I must’ve been day dreaming there at the end. What was that part about Arden Lake?” I ask Alfred as we rise from our seats.
He stretches his arms as he says, “Oh, we’re supposed to find our groups for the walk to the lake just off campus. It’s a Crestwood tradition for the freshman class to go there for a barbeque. I think your group is that way,” he points, “with the first part of the alphabet. You’re a C, right?” he asks me.
I follow his line of sight to a group of students mingling near the doors at the side of the auditorium. They’re all BlackBerryjammed together, trying to turn the ring tones of their phones back on.
“Yeah,” I say absently, “I’m a C.”
I miss whatever it is that Alfred says next because I inadvertently stop listening. Instead, my entire focus is riveted on the perfect features of the guy from earlier—the angry one. He is leaning casually against the door to the exit, being surrounded by coeds with flushed, adoring faces. Among his pack of admirers is a cute little blond freshman playing with her cropped hair and touching his arm flirtatiously over something he is saying. As she taps the clipboard in his hand, I wonder if he is the guide for our walk to the lake.
After taking a couple of steps in my group’s direction, I pause because the strangest thing is happening to me. The fluttering, weightless feeling in my stomach that I’ve had since arriving at the auditorium, seems to be increasing in intensity as I move forward. It’s as if velvet-winged Monarchs are taking flight inside of me.
Unconsciously, I take another step in the direction of my group, but I stop when Alfred points and says, “I think that’s my group over there. I wish we were walking together. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat when we get to the lake?” he asks, while looking down at his shoes when the last words are spoken, making him seem really vulnerable. Suddenly, I feel even more protective of Alfred.
“That sounds good, Alfred—um do you have a nickname? Something less formal than Alfred?” I ask as he stares at me. When he doesn’t answer I go on, “You know, like what do your friends at home call you?”
“Umm, my friends, they all call me Alfred,” he replies.
Smiling, I roll my eyes, before asking, “No one calls you Al or Fred, something that doesn’t make you sound like somebody’s grandfather?”
“Uh, no, just Alfred,” he says, mirroring my smile.
“Well, I think that, since we’re going to be friends, and since I’m going to insist that you call me Evie instead of Genevieve, it would be sweet if I could call you by something less formal than Alfred…like Freddie?” I ask, hoping that he won’t object to the nickname.
“Yeah, that’s fine…that’s good…Freddie,” he grins at me, seeming in a daze.
“Okay, we had better go and join our groups,” I say, looking around.
My group appears about ready to leave, but before I join them, I assess Freddie critically. He looks like he’s ready to go on a march with a fascist dictator, not a nature walk to a lake. His white oxford shirt is tightly buttoned at the collar and tucked into a pair of khaki shorts, which is being held up by a navy blue belt. Impulsively, I unbutton the top button of Freddie’s oxford shirt. Then, I muss up the perfectly straight, side-parted hairstyle he is sporting because it looks like Lego hair, like he had snapped it on his head this morning before going out.
“There,” I breathe. “That’s better. Now, untuck your shirt and I’ll see you at the lake.” He walks away from me smiling and untucking his shirt, which is amazingly unwrinkled for having been shoved in his shorts.
As I walk slowly over to my group, I study the face of our handsome group leader as he stands in the same position by the door. When I near him, his eyes lock with mine while his expression darkens into a frown.
It is me! I think anxiously, He hates me! Maybe he only likes blonds. Nervously, I play with a strand of my hair and scan the crowd ahead of me, trying to find a tall person to stand behind—one that will shield my 5’9” frame from his line of sight. I locate an extremely tall male and tuck myself behind him.
You’re being a coward and completely irrational, I think, trying to rally my fragile ego. You must be misreading something. He doesn’t hate you; he doesn’t even know you. Maybe he’s having a bad day, or maybe you remind, him of someone he does hate.
The distinctive fluttering in my stomach flares up again, making me feel like I’m being propelled lightly forward in the direction of the exit—his direction. Peeking out from around the wall of male I’ve strategically maneuvered behind, I see him coming toward me. Shoot! Here he comes! I think, bracing myself.
In seconds, I’m face to face with the most stunningly beautiful person I’ve ever met. Well, maybe not “face to face” as he is at least five inches taller than me. He’s standing so close to me, that I have to crane my neck to see his eyes; they’re green and almost gray around the edges of his irises.
Leaning in closely to my ear, his breath stirs my hair as he says softly, “This is not your group, and it is time for you to leave now.”
His voice sounds like silk, but there is something very wrong with it. It’s echoing and shifting within my mind, making it seem to go on, like whispering hisses that linger even after his lips stop moving and his breath no longer tickles my hair. A small shiver of fear slips down my spine as every hair on the nape of my neck stands straight up in that moment. Stepping back and looking at his exquisite face, I see an air of expectation in his eyes.
“How do you know I have the wrong group? Have we met?” I ask, quirking my eyebrow, not even attempting to conceal the irritation in my voice.
Confusion briefly clouds his eyes as he processes my response. He seems surprised at my reaction to his directive. He’s probably used to getting his own way. I bet women line up for a chance to please him.
“What is your name?” he asks in a soft, urgent tone, leaning near my ear again. I stiffen again because his voice is making that hissing sound once more.
My eyes narrow, “What’s yours? Mephistopheles?” I counter. “And, what’s with your voice anyway? It’s making my skin crawl,” I ask, rubbing my arms absently in an attempt to alleviate the goose bumps. His voice is more than annoying; it’s insulting. It’s making my brain feel itchy, but I can’t scratch it through my skull.
I am gratified to see that I have startled him; he hides it well, but there had been a definite widening of his eyes and pupil dilation. If I hadn’t been so focused on his eyes, I might have missed it. His face is losing its menacing expression as it’s becoming devoid of emotion. It bothers me because without some indication of his emotion, it is hard to tell what he’s thinking. I glance around in frustration, seeing that we are rapidly gaining the attention of the rest of the group. In fact, the cute blond he had been talking with earlier is assessing me as one does a rival on an opposing team.