Page 42 of Waking Olivia

As is everything involving Olivia Finnegan.Everything.

“I’m sorry, Jeff,” I say through gritted teeth, “but there’s not much I can do about it at this point.”

“Just keep her away from my team, okay? I have no idea who this girl is or what’s so magical about her, but I don’t need any more of my guys on the bench this season.”

If this were about any other girl on the team I’d be pissed at him for pinning the blame on her. I’d point out that maybe he should be discussing this with the drunk assholes who did the fighting. But instead I’m fucking enraged at Olivia myself, and I’m pretty sure it’s not for the right reasons.

30

Olivia

I’m summonedto Will’s office on Monday afternoon, which can’t possibly be a good thing.

"I've been hearing some stories," he begins, leaning back in his chair. "Big fight this weekend. Over a girl."

I roll my eyes. "I wasn't fighting over a girl if that's what you're accusing me of. I don't swing that way."

"I’m glad you find this so amusing, Olivia,” he says, his eyes narrowed. “Because the story I'm hearing is this girl at the party was another athlete, and she was kind of encouraging both of these guys, kind of egging them on. And they're getting drunker and drunker, and so is she, and she just thinks the whole thing is funny, the way these two guys clearly want to beat the shit out of each other. And she just keeps encouraging it until it finally happens. And then sheleaveswith someone else. So I hear this story and the first thing I think—the very first thing—is 'please don't let Olivia be the girl.’"

"Seems sort of unfair, the way you assume the girl was me."

"The girlwasyou, Olivia.”

"Okay, fine. So what? They weren't on the track team."

"Because we are all part of a larger team! What don't you get about that? We all work on behalf of the school, so when you mess with one part of that, it has repercussions everywhere. And now I've got the football coaches breathing down my neck because one of their guys has to sit on the bench all season with a busted hand."

I slouch in my seat. "I didn'ttellthem to fight," I mutter. "And if you ask me, this is all pretty misogynistic on your part. Two grown men decide to pummel the shit out of each over some girl who isn't interested in either of them and she's the one at fault?"

“I’m not saying you’re at fault, but you sure weren’t trying to help the situation either, were you?”

“Oh my God. Big fucking deal,” I say with an exaggerated exhale. “I'd just had too much to drink.”

"And that's the other thing. You weigh next-to-nothing soaking wet. So don't you think it's maybe not the greatest idea to get completely trashed at a party with a bunch of testosterone-fueled guys who are more than twice your weight?"

"I can take care of myself."

"Yeah? And how did taking care of yourself work out for you at your last school?"

My whole body tightens like it's imploding. It makes me hate myself, the decisions I sometimes make and how stupid and unjustifiable they are. And I hate him even more for calling me on them. "You've made your point. Are we done here?"

"Olivia, you're going to do what you're going to do. But I'd better not hear another 'Olivia was so fucked up' story for the rest of your tenure here."

I stand and walk out without saying a word because, just like the nightmares, there's not a chance in the world I can make him a promise like that.

For the restof the week, Will is unreasonably rude to me. He’s angry and critical and doesn’t smile at me once. I think he’d like me to just disappear.

The whole thing is ridiculous. Okay, maybe I sort of enjoyed their idiocy at the party. That doesn’t make me evil. How was I supposed to know one of them would wind up with a broken hand?

On Friday morning, I'm eating when a tray slides next to mine. For one horrible moment, I worry that it's Landon or Jason. But it's not. It's Evan, which is almost worse. Sure, he was nice about everything that night but it's awkward. I'm embarrassed by the way I freaked out if nothing else.

"I've been looking for you," he says.

"Why?" I ask coldly.

He grins, not dissuaded at all by my chilly reception. He’s really hot. I thought maybe my memory was beer-influenced, but it wasn’t. His black hair is cut almost military short, highlighting the structure of his face—hard jaw, nice mouth, mischievous eyes. "You're much nicer when you've had a bunch of beer."

"Everyone is nicer when they've had a bunch of beer," I retort, returning to my newspaper. "What do you want?"

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