The Education of Hailey Kendrick - Eileen Cook [10]
I unlocked the door to my dorm room and plopped everything down onto my bed. My room was in Elsie Hall, built in the 1920s. There was wood paneling on one wall, and the floors were a gray slate. It had one of the fireplaces my dad had seen in the brochure, although there was a strict no-fire rule. I’d put a collection of candles in the hearth. We were allowed to paint our rooms, and I’d painted the other three walls a thick cream color that reminded me of French vanilla ice cream.
Kelsie had gotten practically nothing done on the time line, and what she did have completed, I wasn’t sure I could trust. Knowing Kelsie, she would have General Electric listed as one of the leaders, along with Captain Kangaroo. She was a great friend and would lend you her last cashmere sweater, but academics weren’t her thing. I was mad at her for not coming through, and even more mad that I felt I couldn’t tell her I was upset, because of how she would react. She would make it into a huge drama and fall over herself to apologize. It would take me longer to sort it out than it would to do the project myself. If we stood any chance of acing American History, it was going to be up to me. It was going to be an all-nighter if I was going to get it done. I pulled off my shirt and yanked on my mom’s old Yale sweatshirt. I thought that I might as well be comfortable.
I wandered down to our common room to get a bottle of water. I couldn’t do anything about missing sleep, but at least I could stay hydrated. Dehydration can lead to kidney failure. Also, it’s bad for your skin. Besides, if I had any more coffee, I was going to get the shakes. There was a group of freshmen piled all over the lounge. They had a movie on the TV and were doing facials and painting one another’s nails. Their giggling stopped when I walked into the room.
“Hey, Hailey, you want to watch a movie with us?”
I looked over. It was some slasher flick. I never saw the point in horror movies. Real life is bad enough without having someone chopping you up in your dreams as a form of entertainment. “Sorry, guys. I’ve got homework.”
“Is it true you went to the Oscars last year with Tristan’s parents?” a bucktoothed girl asked me, her mouth hanging open.
“No. They limit how many people can get into those award shows. Tristan and I just went with them to some of the after parties.”
“Oh my god, that is still so cool. Did you meet anyone famous?” The group of freshman girls was now in a circle around me. I felt like someone who had introduced fire to a group of cavemen.
I pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and wiped it clean with a paper towel. You don’t even want to know what kind of germs are on those things. You might as well clamp your mouth down on a toilet. “Sure. We ate dinner with Johnny Depp. It was cool, but once you meet a few of them, you realize famous people aren’t really any different from anyone else.” This was true. Tristan’s parents once invited me to a dinner party they had, and the guy next to me had been in a zillion box office hits, but apparently didn’t know basic oral hygiene, because his breath smelled like a sewer grate. “Have fun with your movie.” I raised my water bottle as a good-bye gesture.
“You can’t go. Stay and tell us more about who you’ve met, and I’ll do your nails,” one girl said.
“No can do. History project due tomorrow.” I turned to leave, but the girl grabbed my arm to try to convince me. She must have forgotten that she was still holding a bottle of nail polish, because a spray of bright red polish glopped onto my sleeve. We both looked down at the paint.
“Oh my god. I am so sorry.” She wiped at the polish, smearing it over a larger area.
I yanked my arm back. This was my mom’s sweatshirt. The one she wore when she went to Yale. It was one of the only things of hers that I had