FOR THE SECOND TIME, I woke up in Bella’s bed.
When I opened my eyes, I saw her slanted ceiling. She was lying on her side, her butt tucked against me, the soles of her feet against my calf. Carefully, I turned my head to see her more clearly. Her back rose and fell slowly as she slept. Relaxed in her sleep, she looked sweet and so vulnerable. I had a strong urge to roll onto my side and curl up around her body.
Not going to happen. I’d had that chance once, and I’d handled it very poorly.
Quietly, I got out of bed. She didn’t wake at all, not even when I fumbled into my shoes.
Grabbing my book off the floor, I tiptoed out, leaving her to rest.
I didn’t speak to her on Monday at all, though I did get a glimpse of her when she came through the lunch line. She wore a long-sleeve T-shirt and jeans, and a tight expression on her face. Since she was up and around, I counted it as a win.
Monday night her light was out when I got back from the library. So I left her alone. Tuesday morning we had Urban Studies together.
She didn’t show.
I sat through the lecture, worried about her. The only thing that kept me from ditching class to check on her was the fact that Professor Giulio was lecturing about the affordable housing movement, which Bella and I would need to understand to complete our part of the project. So I did my best to take notes.
The minute class was over, I got up and headed back to Beaumont House. Thankfully I wasn’t on the lunch schedule today. Knocking on Bella’s door got me nowhere. “It’s Rafe,” I called, as if that would make a difference. “Are you in there?”
Silence.
After a moment, Lianne’s door opened behind me, and I spun around. She beckoned, and I followed her into her room, letting the door fall closed behind me.
“I have to show you something,” Lianne whispered. She waved me toward a seriously grand computer setup — the girl had several monitors lit at once.
As I stood behind her, the computer screen in the middle loaded a web page called Brodacious. I’d seen this website once before. It was a catalog of fraternity boasts and pranks. Bickley had forwarded a link last year when some frat managed to hang a fifteen-foot banner off the top of Harkness Chapel illustrating the relative size difference between a Harkness guy’s dick and a Princeton guy’s.
Classy, right?
This time what I saw on the screen was much worse. It was a photo of Bella sprawled on a floor somewhere. Her face was mostly obscured by one arm thrown over her eyes. But anyone who knew her could identify her. She’d been wearing the same clothes as in the picture when I’d carried her up the stairs, but I’d know her distinctive curls anywhere.
“PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT. STEER CLEAR OF THE HOCKEY MASCOT,” the text screamed. “DIRTY PUSSY ALERT.”
Jesucristo.
