think she could do this? Why did she think she wanted to do this? She could have followed Fran’s lead, into the family business.
She could be home right now. Or out on a date like a normal person. Once, becoming a teenager had been her life’s ambition. Now she was nearly out the other side of the era, and she was sitting in a crowded dorm room, with no Diet Pepsi, buried under a course load for the insane masochist.
She was eighteen years old and hadn’t had sex yet. She barely had what passed for a boyfriend.
Bella was getting married next month, Fran was practically beating guys off with a stick, and Xander plowed happily through what their mother called his bevy of beauties.
And she was alone on a Saturday night because she was as obsessed with finals as her dorm mate was with Mariah Carey.
Oh no, now it was Celine Dion, she realized.
Just kill me now.
It was her own fault. She was the one who’d studied her brains out in high school, and worked more weekends than dated. Because she’d known what she wanted. She’d known since that long hot week in August.
She wanted the fire.
So she’d studied, with her eye focused on more than learning. On scholarships. She worked, tucking her money away like a squirrel with nuts in case the scholarships didn’t come.
But they had, so she was here, at the University of Maryland, sharing a room with her oldest friend, and already thinking about the grad courses down the road.
When the semester was over she’d go back home, work in the shop, carve away most of her free time down at the fire station. Or talking John Minger into letting her do ride-alongs.
Of course, there was Bella’s wedding. There’d been little on the menu but Bella’s wedding for the last nine months. Which, come to think of it, was a really good reason to be here, alone in her room on a Saturday night.
It could be worse. She could be back at Wedding Central.
If she ever got married—which meant she’d need an actual, official boyfriend first—she was going to keep it simple. Let Bella have the endless fittings of the elaborate dress—though it was gorgeous—and the endless, often weepy debates about shoes and hairstyles and flowers. The plans—more like a major war campaign—for the enormous reception.
She’d rather have a nice family wedding at St. Leo’s, then a party at Sirico’s.
Most likely, she’d just end up being a bridesmaid, perennially. Hell, she was already an expert in the field.
And for God’s sake, how many times could Lydia listen to the theme from Beauty and the Beast without going into a coma?
On a sudden inspiration, Reena sprang up, kicked her way over to the portable CD player and pushed through the masses of jewel cases.
With her teeth set in a fierce grin, she plugged in Nirvana and blasted “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
While the war raged between diva and grunge, the phone rang.
She didn’t turn down the music—it was a matter of principle now—just shouted into the phone.
A third blast of music assaulted her ear as Gina shouted back.
“Party!”
“I told you I have to study.”
“Party! Come on, Reene, it’s just starting to roll. You gotta live.”
“Don’t you have a lit final Monday?”
“Party!”
She had to laugh. Gina could always make her laugh. The religious phase she’d gone through during the summer of the fire had morphed into a poetry phase, into a rock star phase, then a fashion diva phase.
Now it was all party, all the time.
“You’re going to tank it,” Reena warned.
“I’m putting it all in the hands of a higher power and am reviving my brain with cheap wine. Come on, Reena, Josh is here. He’s asking where you are.”
“He is?”
“And looking all sad and broody. You know you’re going to ace every damn thing anyway. You better come save me before I let some guy take advantage of my drunken self. Hey, on second thought . . .”
“Jen and Deb’s place, right?”
“Party!”
“Twenty
She could be home right now. Or out on a date like a normal person. Once, becoming a teenager had been her life’s ambition. Now she was nearly out the other side of the era, and she was sitting in a crowded dorm room, with no Diet Pepsi, buried under a course load for the insane masochist.
She was eighteen years old and hadn’t had sex yet. She barely had what passed for a boyfriend.
Bella was getting married next month, Fran was practically beating guys off with a stick, and Xander plowed happily through what their mother called his bevy of beauties.
And she was alone on a Saturday night because she was as obsessed with finals as her dorm mate was with Mariah Carey.
Oh no, now it was Celine Dion, she realized.
Just kill me now.
It was her own fault. She was the one who’d studied her brains out in high school, and worked more weekends than dated. Because she’d known what she wanted. She’d known since that long hot week in August.
She wanted the fire.
So she’d studied, with her eye focused on more than learning. On scholarships. She worked, tucking her money away like a squirrel with nuts in case the scholarships didn’t come.
But they had, so she was here, at the University of Maryland, sharing a room with her oldest friend, and already thinking about the grad courses down the road.
When the semester was over she’d go back home, work in the shop, carve away most of her free time down at the fire station. Or talking John Minger into letting her do ride-alongs.
Of course, there was Bella’s wedding. There’d been little on the menu but Bella’s wedding for the last nine months. Which, come to think of it, was a really good reason to be here, alone in her room on a Saturday night.
It could be worse. She could be back at Wedding Central.
If she ever got married—which meant she’d need an actual, official boyfriend first—she was going to keep it simple. Let Bella have the endless fittings of the elaborate dress—though it was gorgeous—and the endless, often weepy debates about shoes and hairstyles and flowers. The plans—more like a major war campaign—for the enormous reception.
She’d rather have a nice family wedding at St. Leo’s, then a party at Sirico’s.
Most likely, she’d just end up being a bridesmaid, perennially. Hell, she was already an expert in the field.
And for God’s sake, how many times could Lydia listen to the theme from Beauty and the Beast without going into a coma?
On a sudden inspiration, Reena sprang up, kicked her way over to the portable CD player and pushed through the masses of jewel cases.
With her teeth set in a fierce grin, she plugged in Nirvana and blasted “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
While the war raged between diva and grunge, the phone rang.
She didn’t turn down the music—it was a matter of principle now—just shouted into the phone.
A third blast of music assaulted her ear as Gina shouted back.
“Party!”
“I told you I have to study.”
“Party! Come on, Reene, it’s just starting to roll. You gotta live.”
“Don’t you have a lit final Monday?”
“Party!”
She had to laugh. Gina could always make her laugh. The religious phase she’d gone through during the summer of the fire had morphed into a poetry phase, into a rock star phase, then a fashion diva phase.
Now it was all party, all the time.
“You’re going to tank it,” Reena warned.
“I’m putting it all in the hands of a higher power and am reviving my brain with cheap wine. Come on, Reena, Josh is here. He’s asking where you are.”
“He is?”
“And looking all sad and broody. You know you’re going to ace every damn thing anyway. You better come save me before I let some guy take advantage of my drunken self. Hey, on second thought . . .”
“Jen and Deb’s place, right?”
“Party!”
“Twenty
Similar Books
