Playing Tyler by T L Costa Page B

Ani.” She loves to play up to my feminist side. Loves it.
    â€œAlright. When are grades due?”
    â€œThe profs put them in by midnight on the ninth.”
    â€œGot it, consider it a C.” I scribble down the info. I’ll do it after class.
    â€œLove you, Ani! And ditch the guy from the other school, it’s a waste of time!”
    She makes kiss-smacking noises into the phone and I give her a half-hearted goodbye. Ditch the guy. She’s right, of course, I have to just forget him. I can’t break my contract with Mr Anderson. I can’t. He helped me out of an impossible situation. He not only helped me out of it but also offered me a job, a way to pay for a college as amazing as Yale.
    Fingers seeming to move on their own, I stare at Tyler’s latest email:
    SlayerGrrl, you out there somewhere?
    My fingers hover over the keys.

 
    CHAPTER 8
    SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 29
    TYLER
    Saybrook College isn’t really a college. It’s a lie. I guess saying “dorm” is just too lowbrow for Yale. They even each have their own dining halls and shit. Probably separated by income bracket. Like the George W Bushes and the John Kerrys are kept on one side of the campus and the kids of the doctors and lawyers and the Asian kids on scholarship are kept on the other.
    I kick a pile of dead leaves. Check out the fliers on one of the poles in Saybrook College’s courtyard. Blowing air into my hands to warm them. I should have worn gloves, man, it’s cold.
    Scanning the rain-beaten multicolored fliers tacked up on the post I see nothing, nothing that looks like SlayerGrrl would be a part of. Foreign film festivals and fundraisers. Guess they don’t advertise the secret societies, huh? Too bad, would have been fun if I snagged one of their fliers for B. He likes that stuff.
    I shove my hands into my pockets and walk over to a bench. Guess I’m gonna wait here. I sit. My ass is cold. Stupid jeans. Stupid fall. Stupid Tyler thinking that the whole stalker routine is gonna work. Peanut and Alpha told me not to come, maybe they were right.
    â€œHey.” A guy walking as he talks on his cell stops, comes over to me on the bench. “Hey, man, I know you! You’re that guy, MacIvrish, no, wait, MacCandless, right? With the show… the vlog? I loved it, man, what was it called, Divergence ? Why’d you stop?” He looks so happy. Black hair and thick black glasses and short leather coat contrasting with the wild yellow of the leaves on the tree behind him. Like a black spot on the sun, almost. His eyes are wide, like I’m somebody.
    I get even colder. “Nah, man, that’s my brother, Brandon.”
    â€œOh, man, sorry.” His eyes narrow, just a bit. His enthusiasm leaks away. “Hey, where is he going to school, does he still have a vlog?”
    My fingers clench into a little ball and try to find the right words, the nice words, the words that will be nice to this poor guy and to Brandon. But I can’t. What would Brandon say? Damn, he’s good at this stuff. Everything was always so easy. Especially with words. I say, “Nah, he doesn’t do that anymore. He’s” – think, Ty, think – “on sabbatical.” Totally a word B would use.
    â€œOh.” His face softens, and he shuffles his feet, breath leaving cotton-ball puffs in the air. “Well, if he ever starts one up again, let me know, just post it on the Yale message board, OK?”
    â€œYeah, sure.” God, please let that happen. He walks away, and I wonder what it would be like for Brandon to have been here. He would love it here. He would love all of this. His grades were good, too, man. He belongs here, not… not where he is now.
    I should sit outside the buildings that have the classes. No. They have class all over New Haven. Could be anywhere. Damn. I don’t even know what she’s studying. I don’t even know why I’m here, really.