Begin Again

“Okay,” says Shay. “I’m ready to get turned into a human slushie.”

“You really don’t have to do this,” I say for maybe the umpteenth time today.

We’re not sure what the ribbon event is this afternoon, just that we’re supposed to meet up in the quad and “dress warmly,” because it has something to do with the fresh coat of snow over campus. It’s a miracle we’ve even gotten that much of a hint from this morning’s broadcast—whereas all the blue-ribbon events of January were strictly trivia-based, the red-ribbon events of February seem to be anarchy-based. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. So far I’ve been sent to the student life building for a challenge to make silly meme versions of our college brochure, to the yard outside the physics building to help paint the school logo on a brick wall, and now, I suppose, to the quad to freeze our tails off.

Shay throws on her coat. “I know. And if it’s dumb, I will bail,” she jokes. “But I meant what I said. I’ll help you get your ribbons so you and your Lifetime movie cutout of a boyfriend can get your happily-ever-after.” She pauses as she reaches for her gloves. “Also, I heard a rumor about free hot chocolate.”

I bite down a smile, because we both know full well Shay has access to free hot chocolate at Bagelopolis for no less than eternity. We pass Milo’s room on our way out, both of us glancing at the shut door that means he must be in an afternoon class. This morning was the second Friday in a row he tried to get me to take over the show; I’ve still adamantly refused, and he’s still adamantly stuck to his new catchphrase of “next week, then,” and I’ve still pretended it doesn’t matter to me when it might just be the one thing that matters most.

“So how exactly did you end up working with Milo on the radio show?” I ask Shay as we make our way to the quad. The flurry of snow from this morning has long since stopped, and now the entire campus is under a blanket of white, the little roads and sidewalks cleared like paper cutouts. “And how did Milo end up working on the show?”

“He told me he started out in the cafeteria for work-study his freshman year. He’d have to do announcements on the loudspeaker sometimes, like if they’d run out of a certain dish, or if campus safety wanted to reiterate something for the fiftieth time while everyone was eating. I guess he added some Milo flair to it and . . . boom, recruited.”

“Do I even want to know what kind of flair?”

“Eh, you know his thing with the work-studies. Apparently he started mouthing off about the program when he saw all the students elbowing each other for positions in the cafeteria and did some digging into it. Probably good thing he got recruited for The Knights’ Watch, because he was probably one snarky remark away from getting fired.”

“But who recruited him?” I ask.

Shay shrugs. “Some faculty member. Anyway, I ended up finding out at the beginning of first semester because Milo was taking a power nap during his break at Bagelopolis, and he talks in his sleep.”

“He confessed to being the Knight while he was asleep?”

“Oh, no, worse. He was full-on doing the morning broadcast in his sleep, Milo radio voice and all. Except his weather forecast was about flying dogs.”

I look up at the gray post-snow sky. “I can get behind that.”

When we reach the quad, we find at least a few hundred freshmen also gathered in anticipation. After a few moments of hovering on the edge of it, a hand catches my eye, and I see Harriet and Ellie not too far off. I wave back and we start walking over to them just as someone gets on a loudspeaker to address all of us.

“Your task is to build a snowman. Your team has to have a minimum of three people, max of six, and your snowman has to be at least five feet tall. The more creative your snowman, the more ribbons you’ll qualify for,” says the upperclassman, holding a fistful of red ribbons. “You have one hour. Go!”

Before we even reach the other girls, students start diving into the snow like they’re going to run out of it. Ellie freezes, her eyes going wide, and Harriet scans the quad with mild amusement. I shove a hand into the space between all three of us, using the knowledge from the one or two sports movies I’ve seen in my life to say, “Hands in.”

Then I make eye contact with everyone in turn. “Shay and I will get the snow for the base. Harriet, you can get the snow for the middle tier. Ellie, you’re on top tier, and also we’re going to need your belt. Okay, three, two, one, go!”

We all scatter, and Shay and I both start haphazardly gathering snow and rolling it as I try to come up with a plan. “We can make it upside down,” I say, out of breath. “So it’ll stand out.”

A bunch of kids I grew up with in Little Fells perfected the art of upside-down snowmen when we were nine or ten. It was my dad who taught us how to do it one winter, when we seemed to have endless snowstorms and endless energy. A lot of the neighborhood parents would send their stir-crazy kids out into the quiet street to burn it off, but if my dad wasn’t working, he was always the first to join in and lend all his know-how on igloos and snow angels and homemade sno-cones.

My throat tightens—not just at the memory, but the guilt. I haven’t sent the “Bed of Roses” clips to him yet. I haven’t said much of anything to him since I found out about Kelly’s daughter. I wonder if he’s in the snow with her right now, teaching her the same tricks.

“If you think we can pull that off, sure,” says Shay, pulling me out of the thought.

I push it further down and smile at her cheekily. “Maybe it’ll ignite your passion for architectural soundness, and that will be your major.”

“As someone who once accidentally sat on her sister’s dollhouse, I sincerely doubt that,” says Shay. “Do we have a theme?”

She took the words right out of my mouth. “There are some bagels in my bag?” I think out loud. “For like . . . Mickey ears or something?”

Shay hums doubtfully, and I rack my brain for some other idea. I usually work well under pressure. What I don’t work well under is the shadow of a tall person staring down at me. I blink up and see Tyler squinting at the four of us, a Chipotle burrito in hand.

“Okay, I’m late,” he says. “But is it okay to join your team if I have an idea?”

“Permission granted,” I say breathlessly, after heaving our snowball another few feet. “What do you have in mind?”

Tyler’s eyes gleam. “Well . . . if you’re committed to the whole upside-down thing . . .”

Tyler runs off to a neighboring dorm and comes back five minutes later with one large bucket and zero explanation, and twenty minutes later, we’ve perfected our snowman. He is just over five feet tall—we used my five-foot-one self as a measuring stick, as did several other teams nearby when they overheard us doing just that—and upside down . . . on top of a “keg.” Ellie sacrificed her BB-8-themed belt, so it’s now protruding from the snowman’s mouth into the bucket. The bagels in my bag make up the eyes and nose, which Harriet artfully added a spare nose ring to. And after several doomed attempts to name him, Shay was the one who decided on “Slushed,” which is precisely what we tell the judge when she comes around.

“Top-notch work, Knights,” she says, clearly delighted by our creation. When we present our white ribbons, she hands me and Harriet and Ellie each three red ones, which I already know from watching the other judgments is the most you can get in this round. “I’m impressed.”

We’re still admiring our work when the first hit takes Harriet down—a snowball that lands squarely in her side with enough force to knock her into Ellie, who then falls into Tyler, like human dominos. We hear someone yell “SNOWBALL FIGHT!” just as the quad erupts into lawless, snowy chaos around us.

I turn to Shay, expecting her to bail, but she’s already scooped up a fistful of snow straight from Slushed’s butt and is aiming it at the crowd. “Not on my turf,” she mutters.

I file away a note to re-add “Drama” to her prospective majors, because this scene is nothing short of theatrical. It’s like Werewolf night in the dorm, only with a bajillion more people, no clear alliances, and—

“Honey Nut Cheerios!” I yelp when someone clocks me right in the hip.

Shay attempts to snap her gloved, snowy finger at me. “Keep your head in the game, Rose.”

I shove my ribbons into my jacket pocket and do a quick spin around to see if there are any more incoming snowballs headed my way when I spot a tall, mildly alarmed head bob briefly above the fray. Milo must have been distracted by his phone and walked straight into the melee.

“Target acquired,” says Shay, “aaaaand locked.”

When her snowball makes contact with him square in the chest he doesn’t so much as flinch, glancing over at us mirthlessly. “Uh-oh,” I mutter, wondering if we’ve actually upset him. But then he pulls a snowball out from behind his back and returns fire at Shay so fast that he must have been hiding his ammo the whole time.

“Watch out!” I yell, diving in front of Shay.

It would have been action movie-worthy. Slow-motion splendor, an orchestra welling up in the background, a close-up of my heroic but determined face. That is, if the snowball didn’t end up lodging itself precisely between my coat and my jeans.

When I manage to recover from shock as the ice leaks from my hips all the way down to my knees, I see Shay laughing hysterically and Milo with his mouth tweaked in that almost-smile of his. Maybe it’s the near frostbite, or the sleep deprivation, or the sugar from all the cookie dough cream cheese I’ve eaten today. But something compels me to follow that hint of a smile by loading up a snowball of my own, and charging straight for him.

“Aw, c’mon, new kid,” says Milo, standing still as a statue in the midst of the chaos. “Cut me some—oof!”

Ellie, bless her heart, has tag-teamed with Harriet to hit him with two snowballs from behind. I launch my own at him while he’s distracted, but apparently he’s not distracted enough, because he opens a gloved hand and catches it.

“Hmm,” he says, examining it, then examining me. “What ever should I do with this.”

We’re at close range now. If he throws it I’m going to become a human icicle. “You wouldn’t.”

One of the corners of Milo’s lips quirks. I quirk mine right back, but only because I can see the scene unfolding behind him. Tyler has returned with another bucket full of snow, and he shows no mercy. Before I can give myself away by laughing, Tyler has emptied it directly on top of Milo’s head.

This time he’s the one to give out a graceless yelp, and he launches himself forward so fast that I don’t account for how little space was between us until he is, quite literally, on top of me. He seems to realize we’re toppling to the ground before I do, grabbing my shoulders and pivoting us around so that we land in the snow with him hitting first, me landing on top of him with a breathless thud.

For a second we’re both too stunned to move. The noise of the snowball fight drowns out around us, and we’re both wheezing into each other’s faces, Milo’s rib cage expanding and contracting under mine with enough force that it feels like our hearts are pressed together. I’m about to apologize profusely, but before I can I’m blinking into the green of Milo’s eyes, and there’s this heat creeping under the surface of my skin that feels downright unnatural given the amount of snow currently lodged in my pants.

It’s Milo who breaks the silence. “You okay?”

I have no idea, but I nod slowly anyway. It’s like my mouth has forgotten how to make words. Milo reaches a hand up then, pulling something out of my hair—a chunk of snow. I only notice it in the periphery. I can’t seem to tear my eyes off his.

I can feel my common sense slowly returning to me—that “get your body off of your RA” voice starting to clear its throat in the back of my head—but my phone pipes up before it can, blasting “Immigrant Song” by Led Zeppelin.

“Connor,” I gasp, rolling off Milo so fast I end up in the snow with yet another frosty thud. I yank the phone out of my coat pocket and swipe open the call as fast as I possibly can. “Hello?”

“Hey, Andie.”

“Hey,” I say back. “How are—”

“Wow, it’s—can you hear me? I can’t hear you—”

“Yes, I can—sorry, I’m just in the middle of—”NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

“Andie?”

I scramble to my feet, looking for the quickest exit out of the quad I can find. It’s easy enough, only because it’s the path that Milo’s taking. He’s already far enough away that I can barely see him through the fresh snowfall that just started coming down.

“Yeah, hold on,” I say, readjusting my soaked coat and pants. “Just a second, I’ll . . .”

I try to follow Milo out of the maze, but when I look back up, he’s already gone.