XOXO Roosevelt College 1 1st Edition

Christina Lee
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/xoxo-roosevelt-college-1-1st-edition-christina-lee-2/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

XOXO Roosevelt College 1 1st Edition Christina Lee

https://ebookmeta.com/product/xoxo-roosevelt-college-1-1st-
edition-christina-lee-2/

Until We Meet Again Roosevelt College 2 1st Edition

Christina Lee

https://ebookmeta.com/product/until-we-meet-again-roosevelt-
college-2-1st-edition-christina-lee/

Class and Campus Life Managing and Experiencing

Inequality at an Elite College 1st Edition Elizabeth
Lee

https://ebookmeta.com/product/class-and-campus-life-managing-and-
experiencing-inequality-at-an-elite-college-1st-edition-
elizabeth-lee/

THE ROOSEVELT CONSPIRACY An Archaeological Thriller 1st

Edition Matt James

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-roosevelt-conspiracy-an-
archaeological-thriller-1st-edition-matt-james/
Her Striker College Secret Society 1 1st Edition
Charlene Raquel

https://ebookmeta.com/product/her-striker-college-secret-
society-1-1st-edition-charlene-raquel/

Stealing A Second Chance Sarasota Sharks 1 Kristin Lee

Lee Kristin

https://ebookmeta.com/product/stealing-a-second-chance-sarasota-
sharks-1-kristin-lee-lee-kristin/

american-english-file-3e-level-1--teachers-guide 3rd
Edition Christina Latham

https://ebookmeta.com/product/american-english-
file-3e-level-1-teachers-guide-3rd-edition-christina-latham/

Offsides With My Ex-Boyfriend (Falling For A Tomboy #1)

1st Edition Christina Benjamin

https://ebookmeta.com/product/offsides-with-my-ex-boyfriend-
falling-for-a-tomboy-1-1st-edition-christina-benjamin/

The Fever King Feverwake 1 1st Edition Victoria Lee

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-fever-king-feverwake-1-1st-
edition-victoria-lee/
XOXO
CHRISTINA LEE
Copyright © 2023 by Christina Lee

All rights reserved.

Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with
copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any
form without prior written permission by the author(s), except where permitted by
law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

All products and/or brand names mentioned are registered trademarks of their
respective holders/companies.

Published by Christina Lee in the United States of America

Illustrated Cover Design by Seaj Art

Professional Beta Read by Abigail Brown and Charity VanHuss

Edited by Keren Reed

Proofread by Karen Meeus, Virginia Tesi Carey, and Lyrical Lines

 CONTENTS

Blurb

Prologue
1. Lark
2. Henry
3. Lark
4. Henry
5. Lark
6. Henry
7. Lark
8. Henry
9. Lark
10. Henry
11. Lark
12. Henry
13. Lark
14. Henry
15. Lark
16. Henry
17. Lark
18. Henry
19. Lark
20. Henry
21. Lark
22. Henry
23. Lark
24. Henry
25. Lark
26. Henry
27. Lark
28. Henry
29. Lark
30. Henry
31. Lark
32. Henry
33. Lark
34. Henry
35. Lark
36. Henry
37. Lark
Epilogue

Afterword
Also by Christina Lee
About the Author
 BLURB

Lark Levitt doesn’t belong at Roosevelt College, at least in theory.

Most students who attend the private university come from wealthy
families, and Lark is only a scholarship and a bus ride away from the
trailer park where he lives. It’s also a dream come true because
dance is his life, and their program is one of the most prestigious in
the country. But there are bumps in the road, like running into
someone from a difficult time in his childhood. Someone who now
pretends he doesn’t exist.
Henry Albrecht survived childhood cancer and is now a Roosevelt
quarterback and model student. His past is something his father
insists Henry keep private, and though his dad has his reasons, it
makes his remission feel like a dirty secret instead of a triumph. He
has few precious memories from that time in his life, except for a kid
from the hospital who made his recovery manageable. A kid who’s
all grown up now and at Roosevelt, jeopardizing everything Henry’s
carefully kept under wraps.
They decide the best course of action is to keep their distance.
Easier said than done. Their renewed connection brings solace,
clarity, and a raw intensity that awakens a spark between them. But
hiding their history is exhausting, and soon enough their secret
meetups are in danger of being exposed. Henry will need to face his
fears—and his father—or lose the only person who’s ever understood
the real him.
*TW: Discussions of cancer treatments and depictions of mental
heath struggles
PROLOGUE
 SEVEN YEARS AGO

Henry

I shuffled toward the common room of the children’s ward at Mercy

Hospital, wearing a hoodie over my thin gown because of the chill in
the air and fuzzy socks with grippers so I didn’t slip and fall. It was
standard wear for all patients, so I no longer felt self-conscious
about it, and some days I was too sick to care.
My heart leaped when I spotted Lark working a puzzle at a round
table. It was one of his favorite activities, especially putting together
the famous painting with the ballerinas. He’d sworn me to secrecy
before sharing his dream of dancing on Broadway someday. He liked
putting earbuds in and listening to soundtracks from his favorite
musicals. I’d been to quite a few with my parents and only enjoyed a
handful. But Billy Elliot was a memorable one. Not that I was as
obsessed with the story as he was, but it helped us find common
ground. Lark had taken dance lessons his entire life, but his cancer
treatments had set him back.
“Guess what?”
 “Chicken butt?” Lark replied, and we smiled at each other.
“I’m being discharged tomorrow,” I said, and though I was
excited, I was also sad to leave my new friend. I had what the
doctors called a successful bone-marrow transplant for leukemia. But
only time would tell.
“Awesome,” Lark responded around a cough.
I sat down in an orange plastic chair. “You get better too so you
can go home.”
“I’m trying my best.” He slid an apple Jolly Rancher across the
table to me, then pulled down his mask and popped a watermelon
one in his mouth. It was his favorite flavor, and his mom kept his
hard-candy obsession well-stocked.
I slid a corner piece over to him, though he could probably do
this puzzle with his eyes closed at this point. Lark’s cancer was a bit
trickier than mine because they also found spots of it on his lungs.
He had Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and people often got our two types of
cancers confused. But mine started in my bone marrow and his in
his lymph nodes. And yeah, we both knew way too much about the
disease.
We’d been in this hospital for the better part of two months, both
receiving treatment and fighting for our lives. The hospital staff tried
to treat us as the kids we were by offering activities during the day
as long as we wore our masks and washed our hands before and
after leaving the room.
One of my favorite days was when they brought the adorable
therapy dogs. My least favorite was when one of us died.
Lark and I had grown close, maybe because we were a similar
age—him being eleven and me twelve. But it seemed more than
that, even if on the surface we had few shared interests. I loved
sports and played them all my life. My cancer had also placed me on
the sidelines, and my dad worried it might ruin my high school
football chances. I was actually more worried about surviving.
“Should we exchange numbers?” I asked Lark as I sat down
across from him.
He frowned. “I don’t even own a cell phone. But maybe our
parents can?”
“Sounds good,” I replied, though we both knew it was unlikely.
Our parents barely saw each other and hadn’t spoken more than a
sentence or two. Talk about having little in common.
My parents ran a prestigious real-estate business in Hunterdon
County—at least that’s how they always described it. They were
usually busy and sometimes seemed more worried about how my
illness might affect them more than me. Don’t get me wrong, they
were scared and sad when I was first diagnosed; it was written all
over their faces. But soon enough they put on a brave front and
offered plenty of reassurances—maybe too many. As if my cancer
was only a blip on the radar that was my life. Of course, one could
only hope. But in the thick of it, I needed all the support and
comfort I could get. They offered it, but I always felt like they never
really sank into it with me.
And I got it. They wanted to remain optimistic. But as soon as
they heard I was being discharged, they were already talking future
plans and what private high schools I should apply to with
prestigious football programs. There was that word again.
Prestigious.
I didn’t tell Lark any of that, but I wanted to. I felt like I would
be betraying my parents if I did. They were always worried about
appearances, and though I knew I had grown up not wanting for
anything, sometimes I wished they would be more like other
parents. Like Lark’s mom and stepdad. He wasn’t around a lot, but
she was, and she was so warm, caring, and awesome.
But there was another layer to all this, and it had to do with my
father. He’d had epilepsy as a kid but eventually got better. Mom told
me that Dad had too much pride to admit how his memories of
being discounted and excluded as the sick kid at school had affected
him his whole life. He focused on how he and others with chronic
illnesses had managed to go on and have happy, productive lives. He
thought I should follow his lead when it came to my own illness—like
my cancer was a dirty family secret—despite times and attitudes
having changed.
Lark crunched his candy, which was followed by another hacking
episode.
“Your cough sounds a little better,” I said. That was a lie. This
bout seemed to be lingering. And he knew it too because he gave
me a look without calling me on it.
“I’m gonna miss this place,” I said as my gaze caught on the
large painted rainbow that lined the far wall. Animals and kids were
featured on the others.
Lark scoffed. “You will not.”
I laughed. “Well, then maybe I’ll just miss you.”
Our eyes met, and he looked away first as he swallowed. I
wondered if he was thinking the same thing—about the night I’d
sneaked into his room when he was really sick after a chemo
treatment. I’d taken the wet rag from the basin and wiped his head,
then climbed beside him in bed to offer some body warmth because
he was shivering so badly.
When he’d finally fallen asleep with his head against my shoulder,
I breathed out in relief. We might not have had a lot in common, but
nobody could say they had experienced any of this. The IVs and
bags of fluids, around-the-clock nurses, doctors, and the morose
faces of our visitors. It made our connection even stronger.
I’d eventually fallen asleep beside him, only to be found by the
night-shift nurse and shooed off to my own bed. But she’d winked at
me as she helped me get settled in my room, so I knew I wasn’t in
too much trouble.
The next day was a flurry of activity as my parents showed up to
whisk me away from what they called “that god-awful place.” But it
wasn’t that bad, not with Lark there. Mom and Dad were always
dressed for work, even at home, and the comparison couldn’t have
been starker than when Lark’s mom and stepdad showed up in
jeans. Lark’s mom always wore these flowy shirts with beading or
embroidery, and my parents referred to her as a bohemian. Like it
was a bad word. I just thought she was cool and free-spirited. But it
was obvious they looked down on her, which was one of the reasons
I’d never shared more about Lark. The one time I’d tried to tell them
about my new friend, they’d given me disapproving eyes.
“Don’t get too attached to someone you won’t ever see again,”
Mom had said, and I could read the underlying pity in her eyes,
either for him or me. What she didn’t say was that his family would
never measure up to their society friends.
The truth was we were the same when it came to our health.
Just blood and bones and a pumping heart. Ironic, huh?
“Let’s get a move on it, son,” Dad said. “We have a busy day
ahead of us.”
“It’s important for Henry to rest when he gets home,” the nurse
warned.
“Yes, of course,” Mom replied with a tight smile, as if they knew
better than her how to care for me. I felt my face get hot as I turned
away to gather my things and place them in the designer tote bags
with the logo I recognized all too well. They would never dream of
letting me use the plastic bags the nurse had provided.
I hesitated as I followed them into the hallway. The discharge
papers had come earlier than expected, and I wondered if my
parents had anything to do with that. They had made calls to
doctors and demanded stuff before.
“Wait. I’ll meet you at the nurses’ station. I want to say goodbye
to someone.”
“Henry,” Dad said sternly.
“Just five minutes.”
I jogged to Lark’s room before they could say anything else.
He was in a chair near the window, reading a book and twirling a
strand of his wavy blond hair. One of his nervous habits. That or
biting his lip until it became swollen. But I never called him on it. He
had every reason to be worried. We all did.
After watching him for a beat more and thinking he looked like a
delicate bird right then, I cleared my throat. “I came to say
goodbye.”
“Oh, they’re letting you leave early.” His smile was sad as he
stood up. “I’m glad you let me know. I was hoping we’d get in one
more game of Monopoly.”
My stomach lurched. Lark always thought it was cool that the
street names were the same as the ones in Atlantic City, but we
always folded early because the game ran too long.
“Yeah, my parents are a bit anxious to get me home.”
“Makes sense.” We stood there awkwardly until he blurted, “I
hope you make it.”
“I hope you do too.”
The idea that one of us might not sat heavy in my gut.
 “Okay, well…bye.” I lurched forward to draw him into a loose
hug. His arms gripped my waist tightly, making my skin tingle. His
scent was a mix of watermelon and hospital antiseptic, but I didn’t
hold it against him. I probably smelled the same, minus the candy.
But it would always remind me of him.
“I’ll miss you,” he said as he drew back. “Wish we lived closer.”
But we were on opposite sides of town.
“I won’t forget you. How could I with a crazy name like Lark
Levitt?”
He’d told me his mom was fond of nature and especially birds,
which made a ton of sense. She even wore a birdcage necklace. Still,
a funny name to give your kid. But also cool too. My parents
would’ve only considered giving me some family or important-
sounding name.
“You neither, Henry Albrecht. The third.”
I rolled my eyes. “Henners, remember?” It was my nickname at
school and on the football field.
Lark smiled. “I remember.”
“Okay, well…” I awkwardly inched toward the door.
“Oh, one more thing.” Lark strode to the drawer, opened one of
his notebooks, and retrieved an envelope. “You can read it later.”
Just as he passed it to me, I felt his warm lips against my cheek,
and my whole body buzzed to life. I gasped as if I had been shocked
—and maybe I had. He stepped back warily and glanced out the
window. Not wanting him to think he’d done something wrong, I
leaned forward to swipe my mouth against his cheek too. Except he
turned his head right then and I kissed the corner of his lips instead.
“Sor…sorry about that.”
His face flushed. “I didn’t mind it.”
 It felt like pins and needles were pricking me. And not the kind
from the chemo.
It was hard to leave that room, but I forced my feet to move,
forced myself not to look back.
There was a lump in my throat the whole way home, like I was
leaving him to die there. Okay, that was being dramatic. But I felt so
closely tied to him through our shared experience that it was hard to
imagine parting ways. I had never felt that connected to another
human being before, not even my parents.
I carefully opened the envelope in the back seat, hoping my
parents didn’t hear the rustle of paper. A watermelon Jolly Rancher
fell to my lap, and I smiled.
I pulled out the folded note and read it.
Henners,
You mean a lot to me.
I’ll never forget you.
It’s been really hard, but you made everything better.
I’ll be rooting for you. Good luck.
XOXO,
Lark
I sucked in a sharp breath at the XOXO written there. That
meant like, hugs and kisses, right? I could still feel my lips tingling
from that accidental kiss.
Was it accidental?
My heart clenched, aching the entire way home.
“You mean a lot to me.”
I resumed my life almost immediately—my parents made sure of
that—and soon enough the hospital stay became a blur. Like looking
out of a back window as you drove away from a lengthy trip abroad.
Not that a hospital room was a vacation, but Lark had helped
alleviate some of the stress.
We never saw each other again. But I would never forget him
either.
1
 LARK

W ith my nose pressed against the glass, I watched the sparrows in

one of the many feeders Mom had hung outside. She was obsessed
with birds, and though our two-bedroom trailer wasn’t really
conducive to her dream of looking out a bay kitchen window to the
trees in her backyard, we made do. Since our trailer park was near
some woods that led to a man-made lake, plenty of birds came to
visit.
My heart was throbbing this morning as nerves set up camp in
my stomach.
I curled my hands into fists, feeling the blunt edges of the Band-
Aids on my fingers, two on each side.
I won’t chew my cuticles raw, I’d told myself last night. Then
promptly failed.
My nervous habits had taken a turn for the worse since my
hospital stay as a kid, despite my making it through. But as the
saying goes, habits were hard to break. The pediatrician said my
anxious condition was likely something called dermatillomania, and
he gave me pamphlets on it, which I ignored. No way would we be
able to afford more doctors or therapy. Besides, I’d come up with my
own solutions that worked—sometimes. But certainly not the night
before a major turning point in my life.
I heard the padding of small feet before I felt Star, my four-year-
old sister, twist her tiny hand around my finger and yank. “I’m
hungry.”
“What are you doing up so early?”
She shrugged and pulled me toward the kitchen table. Her name
was short for Starling, so you could tell Mom was on a roll naming
her kids after her favorite subject. Add in her so-called pagan
worship, hello summer and winter solstice, and you could imagine
how our family was seen as unconventional in certain circles.
Hopefully, I’d blend in better in college. Famous last words. “I’ll fix
you some cereal.”
“I’ve got it,” Mom said, padding over to us fresh from the shower.
“You finish getting ready for your first day.”
Roosevelt College had a dress code for the guys that essentially
consisted of wearing collared shirts and no denim. It was similar for
girls except that skirts were optional and had to sit at the knee—
same as in high school, as if the girls were responsible for how the
boys might respond if they saw some thigh. Mom complained that
most dress codes were archaic and wouldn’t change without some
pushback.
Mom and I had gone thrift store and clearance shopping over the
summer and had gotten me some polo shirts and khakis along with
some other button-downs. But today I slipped on the sleek black
jacket I’d thrown in the mix because it felt more like me. Besides, it
was a chilly morning in Jersey, which was unusual for a late August
day. But it was another sign that the season was about to change.
“You look handsome,” Mom said as I joined them at the table and
tried to tamp down my unruly blond hair that I could rarely tame.
“Nervous?”
“A little.” I was nervous as hell but also excited to have been
accepted at all—and on a dance scholarship no less. Dance was my
absolute first love, and I’d been lucky enough to be involved in
dance my entire life in one way or another, outside of the months of
cancer treatment when I was a kid.
Money was tight, especially since my stepdad ran off with his
secretary and Mom was left with all the bills. He left her the house in
the divorce, likely out of guilt, the bastard. But between my medical
bills and the mortgage adding up, she’d decided to sell it. Moving
into the Lakeview Trailer Park was supposed to be temporary, but it
wasn’t so bad. Especially if I still got to dance.
Mom’s friend owned a studio in Trenton and offered us a discount
as long as I helped behind the scenes with costumes during recital
season, and I certainly didn’t mind gluing rhinestones to add some
bling. I was one of only a few older males in the classes—the
younger ones normally dropped out by middle school—but the
performances brought me one step closer to my dream of being
onstage in the big city, and the regular exercise it provided kept me
lean and healthy.
“I have no idea what to expect. But anything would be better
than high school,” I said around a bite of toast.
“You hold your head high, you hear me?” she said, and I nodded.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive you on your first day?”
“No, the bus is fine. It drops me off a block away from the
school.”
Besides, her car had seen better days, and she needed to reserve
gas for errands and her job.
“Okay, honey.” She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Don’t
forget to come home directly after.”
 Mom worked most nights at Shorty’s Diner, named after the
owner and chef, and I was in charge of my sister during her shifts.
The schedule worked well for us, especially so she didn’t have the
additional cost of daycare. Star attended preschool three mornings a
week, and Mom tried to be around on those days.
“I will,” I replied, but my stomach was quivering.
I left the trailer and waved to a couple of elderly neighbors who
whistled at me, as if I were headed to a fancy ceremony instead of a
college classroom. My friend Pete, who lived three doors down and
across the way with his father, caught up to me, also ready for his
day. After high school graduation he went to work in his uncle’s
junkyard business. We both helped most summers and weekends for
cash, but Pete liked it well enough to join him full-time. He hoped to
inherit it someday, and for someone like Pete, who’d had a rough
childhood after his mother passed away, that was a big deal.
“Look at you! So collegiate,” Pete said, thumping my shoulder.
“Before I know it, you’ll leave us behind.”
We’d been inseparable since freshman year when our paths
intersected at the trailer park bus stop, and we’d been there for each
other ever since. When I was bullied relentlessly in high school for
being a queer ballet dancer, he’d stuck up for me, which only
solidified our friendship.
“Not a chance. I might decide that place isn’t for me.”
Orientation had definitely been eye-opening. Right away I
noticed the class differences, and we fell squarely on the low-income
side. Despite Pete thinking I looked the part, I knew I would never
measure up to the other students who came from wealthy families.
But since the university was known for its fine arts program, I still
had hopes I’d find more students like me.
 “Nah, you’ll figure it out because you’re brilliant. Plus, it’s
everything you dreamed of.”
My chest filled with warmth. “Thanks, man.”
I got to the bus stop just in time, stepping up and scanning my
pass so I could ride to the other, less run-down side of Forest Glenn.
The bus jostled me as it got rolling, but I was able to hang on and
move down the aisle to take a seat beside an older woman with a
kind smile. I offered her a Jolly Rancher after I popped a
watermelon one in my mouth, but she declined.
Twenty minutes and many stops later, I stood as the bus jerked
to a halt and got out, my heart pounding in my throat. I walked a
block until the university came into view, stealing my breath.
The campus looked like a postcard with its rolling hills, stately
brick facades, and the bell tower that stood like a tall beacon over all
of them. I suddenly remembered the student tour guide telling the
group that the buildings were a blend of Georgian, Gothic, and
Victorian styles and that the bell in the tower was the original from
the 1800s and was rung every morning at eight, even on holidays,
by the groundskeeper. It was to signal the start of classes, but
university life had changed since, and obviously not all students had
early classes. Still, I thought it a cool tradition.
I blinked as I came to a stop at the ornate iron gate that bore
the Roosevelt College seal, unable to believe I was a student here on
my first day of college.
As I made my way down the grand walkway lined with towering
pine trees and lush gardens, the students came into view, sprawled
over tables, on benches, and on the patch of grass near the main
building. There were enough of them to make you wonder if most
did, in fact, start their classes early. The student center, if I
remembered correctly, led to sheltered walkways that connected to
several other buildings. Apparently, it was one of the updates made
a decade ago to help students traverse the campus in inclement
weather. And there were plenty of those days in Western New
Jersey.
Suddenly my legs felt like cement, and I considered turning and
running the hell back home. No way did I belong with these other
students, who had an air of sophistication about them. But then I
thought of my mom’s advice to hold my head high, so I took a deep
breath and kept going. I got some curious looks, but luckily, my feet
never faltered.
“Who the hell is that?” I heard as I passed by a group of
students seated at a table. “And why is his jacket so shiny?”
“Made of vinyl, maybe.”
“What’s with the Band-Aids on his fingers?”
My cheeks heated, and I curled my hand, wrapping it tightly
around the strap of my backpack. If I’d known I’d be scrutinized that
closely, I would’ve worn gloves or something. They definitely didn’t
want to see the raw, red skin underneath the Band-Aids.
Don’t look. Keep walking. But I couldn’t help myself. I glanced
over my shoulder at the group of students, most of whom looked
bulky—let me guess, football players?
My gaze landed on a handsome guy with dark hair, who was the
only one not snickering in my direction. In fact, he seemed annoyed.
And he looked older—or was it more mature?
Why did he look so familiar?
All at once the bell clanged noisily—so that was what it sounded
like—and my head whipped toward the tower standing prominently
behind the gardens. On cue, most students rose, likely those of us
who had classes at ten after eight, and converged toward the steps
leading to the main building while a few walked in other directions.
 I was hyperaware that the group poking fun was behind me, and
not wanting to entertain anymore scrutiny, I stepped aside to let
them pass.
“C’mon, Henners,” one of the guys said, jostling the handsome
dude’s arm. He seemed in a daze, or maybe just tired on a Monday
morning.
Suddenly a memory from my time in the hospital hit me: “My
teammates call me Henners.”
No, it couldn’t be. Henry Albrecht? His hair was longer on top
now but still cut short on the sides, his bangs framing those dark
eyes. Except now he was a giant. Tall and hulking, he could probably
lift me off my feet with one arm.
When I saw the scar bisecting his eyebrow, I knew I couldn’t be
mistaken. He’d told me the story during arts-and-crafts hour—how
he’d received the injury during soccer practice at a young age.
My stomach dipped with excitement. Holy crap, my old friend.
I lifted my hand in a wave, but he just stared at me like I’d gone
mad.
I spluttered, my lips unable to form words and explain that he
looked familiar, that maybe I was mistaken, but it was too late; he’d
already walked inside. I put my head down and followed behind the
other students.
2
 HENRY

I was chilling with my teammates in the crisp morning air the first
day of my sophomore year at Roosevelt College. It was a refreshing
contrast to the hot summer football practices, which had been
brutal, not only physically exhausting but also mentally, from all the
expectations put on us—on me—by the school and my father. But at
least we were ready for the season.
This was my dad’s alma mater; he and Coach went way back, so
Coach had agreed to keep my health records on the down-low. Dad
insisted I do the same—no way would he want a repeat of his own
experiences with an illness. Besides, he only wanted me to succeed.
The pressure in my chest every time he reiterated the sentiment
didn’t help either.
“Who the hell is that?” asked Frank, a.k.a. Flash, our all-star wide
receiver. “And why is his jacket so shiny?”
“Made of vinyl, maybe,” replied Bruce, nicknamed Bones because
he was a linebacker and built solid.
“What’s with the Band-Aids on his fingers?” A-Train asked. His
real name was Allister, which he hated. He was our kickass center
and blocker.
 My head whipped in the direction of the guy walking toward the
entrance wearing tan pants, a polo shirt, and a black leather jacket.
He screamed freshman, and not only because he seemed timid and
a bit lost. I wasn’t one to fuss about clothing or labels, but it was
obvious his worn jacket wasn’t real leather. More like pleather or
maybe vinyl as Bones had pointed out. But who cared? Maybe it was
a favorite and he thought it balanced out the nerdy, preppy
wardrobe the university’s dress code encouraged. After all, most of
us were dressed the same.
When the bell in the tower rang—a sound I’d come to enjoy—I
hopped off the table to head inside to my first class, absently
wondering why the freshman looked so familiar.
Something about the unruly curls or his green eyes that held a
hint of melancholy? Had he heard them making fun of him, or did he
always look like that?
When his eyes met mine and he awkwardly lifted his hand in a
wave, I was thunderstruck, my feet briefly faltering as I was jostled
alongside my teammates into the building.
My stomach tumbled, like it always did when I thought a guy was
attractive, but I ignored it. There was no room for that in my life.
Once I got inside, it all came flooding back. I was twelve and in
the cancer ward and had met this kid named Lark whom I wasn’t
sure I’d ever see again. Partly because I’d wondered if he’d even
make it. If I would make it. The idea that you might not wreaked
hell on your psyche.
The relief that both of us had pulled through swamped my
system, and I felt momentarily light-headed.
All those days spent in the children’s ward, where I was sicker
than a dog, but having another kid there my age had helped. When
Lark had arrived, he was small, with plump cheeks and thin, gangly
limbs. I wasn’t much better, having lost a significant amount of
weight. But now he was all grown up—taller, though still small-
boned, with angular cheekbones and thick eyelashes.
Back then, Lark was usually reading or listening to music in his
earbuds—normally tracks from Broadway shows—his fingers tapping
on his thigh when he didn’t think I was looking. And here he was
again, an enigma.
“You know that kid?” asked Spencer, my roommate and best
friend. He was also our talented team kicker.
“Not sure, Spence. Maybe from middle school?”
“Seriously?” Bones asked as if it couldn’t possibly be true
because I’d attended a private school—we all did—and Lark clearly
didn’t belong there, or here for that matter.
“He’s obviously a scholarship kid.” This from Flash. It was
something he and others liked to point out every semester. Let’s
tease the kid that had to work hard to get here. That never made
sense to me. They were essentially making fun of themselves.
Did Lark still dance? Was he here for Roosevelt’s reputable
program?
I knew that much, at least. Football wasn’t the only
extracurricular option. In fact, I’d argue that the dance program was
more successful than the university’s contact sports, even if our
games drew larger crowds.
“Or maybe he’s a fan,” A-Train said, tongue in cheek. “All hail
Henners, the quarterback God.”
I rolled my eyes, though it was true that students recognized
some athletes. But I didn’t revel in it like some of the others did. I
only came to Roosevelt because my dad had insisted, despite Mom
claiming it was my decision. Yeah, right. I wouldn’t have heard the
end of it. But the school’s engineering program was top rated, and
as long as I earned my degree, I’d make my parents proud.
After my hospital stay, they’d sent me off to a private high school
where I played football and was scouted by several colleges, finally
settling on this one. I loved football, was good at it, but I didn’t think
it was sustainable long-term. And not for a kid who’d recovered from
cancer. Not that I wasn’t in top shape, but because deep down my
fears about relapse practically ruled my thoughts every time I got
sick with something as common as a cold.
I was officially in remission going on seven years now, and my
parents still acted like my time in and out of the hospital wasn’t a
huge turning point in my life. They rarely discussed it—except to
donate to cancer organizations every year.
But now that Lark was here and knew my secret, I wasn’t sure
what to do.
“Catch you later, guys.” I followed one of the pathways to the
engineering building, which seemed the quickest route on the
sprawling campus. I stepped inside my first class, which was
technical writing, and greeted a couple of familiar kids from the
program. I was good at my core subjects, especially calculus, and
had even volunteered for peer tutoring in a freshman class called
Pre-calculus Review. It earned me a credit and would likely be a
breeze this semester.
Thankfully, this stuff came easily to me. I could barely
concentrate all through class, which was just as well because we’d
only gotten through the syllabus so far. Everyone looked just as
bored, so hopefully that wasn’t a preview of the rest of the semester.
Doubtful, though. I drifted into the space of my own thoughts again.
Had Lark earned a scholarship like Flash suggested? Not that
Lark’s parents couldn’t afford it, necessarily, but I remembered our
conversations about medical bills, public schools, and his mom’s job
in retail, if my memory served me right. None of that mattered, not
really. But it certainly did to other people. Like my parents.
Lark being somewhere on the same campus right then was
surreal. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d thought about him
over the years and had even kept his letter in a drawer at home.
What would he make of that, I wondered.
I’d hoped against hope that he went into remission, and now I
had my answer.
Lark Levitt had survived and then some.
3
 LARK

I was still completely distracted that I’d seen Henry Albrecht.

Despite that, my first period English class seemed promising—I was
always good at expressing myself on paper and through music. I
was also required to take general education classes such as science
and math, which was unfortunate since I was less proficient in those
subjects. But I definitely looked forward to my afternoon History of
Dance course, as well as tap and ballet tomorrow.
I even made a new friend, though probably acquaintance would
be a better word. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I wasn’t the best
at retaining many friends outside of Pete, mostly because I’d been
made fun of so much I had learned to close myself off. But any
amount of social interaction might help me get through the semester
if Henry planned to ignore me the whole time.
There was still the possibility that he just didn’t recognize me.
For now, I’d go with that.
“Hi,” my now new friend had said as soon as I sat down beside
him. I recognized him from audition day and possibly orientation too.
“I’m Emil. I see you got in.”
If I remembered correctly, he came out of his audition smiling,
knowing he’d rocked it. The only rocking I’d done was in my bed at
night, imagining myself blowing it. “You too.”
My hands had shaken opening the acceptance letter last year,
and then I shouted so loudly I’d woken Star from a nap. But Mom
and I had celebrated that night with store-bought cake, eating it
right from the container. Pete was there too, and we’d hung out until
late into the night, talking and dreaming.
“What do you think so far?” Emil asked.
I snickered. “I don’t know. I just got here. But I suppose it holds
promise. Anything would be better than high school.”
“Tell me about it,” he muttered, and suddenly I liked him even
more. “I’m from Hoboken. There weren’t many guys in dance class
either.”
“I hear you. Nobody really got it—got me.”
“So maybe this will be different,” he replied dreamily.
“Here’s hoping.”
We fist-bumped.
“Do you live on campus?” Emil asked.
I shook my head and looked down. No way could my family
afford that additional cost. “You?”
“Yeah, and my new roommate is already a complete slob.”
I grinned. Be careful what you wish for. My current roommate
was Star, and she was pretty easy to deal with, especially since her
bedtime was way earlier than mine. There were only two bedrooms
in the trailer, but I didn’t mind it too much. For now.
Emil motioned to my bandaged fingertips. “Did you have an
accident?”
My cheeks warmed. “Yeah, uh, burned myself.”
I was too embarrassed to admit I chewed my cuticles raw.
While waiting for class to start, we compared schedules, realizing
we both had the same ballet period, which was cool. We also
decided to meet for lunch in the student center dining area since our
schedules were free around the noon hour most days of the week.
The university offered paid lunch options for commuters, but it was
too pricey for me, so I’d brought along a sandwich.
When the professor entered the room, the talking died down.
“Good morning, class. Give me a couple of minutes.”
He busied himself with pulling out folders and notebooks from his
bag while the students’ eyes stayed fixed on him. After he passed
out the syllabus, we reviewed it, and I wrote all the assignments’
due dates in my calendar, hoping to keep as organized as possible.
I didn’t see Henry as I shuffled from the building behind the
student center to the next across campus, trying to remain invisible
as I was scrutinized by upperclassmen. Or maybe it just felt that
way. I could easily spot the other freshmen, who seemed as
bewildered as me.
Even though pre-calculus was considered a remedial class offered
to those who sucked at math like me and didn’t meet all the
requirements from high school, I would probably still struggle with
the material. Why did I need this again? Unfortunately, even the
Bachelor of Fine Arts required two core math classes to graduate, so
this one and the next would satisfy those for me.
If they didn’t kill me first.
The professor seemed friendly enough, and instead of going over
the syllabus, he passed out a review quiz that wouldn’t count toward
a grade. He wanted to see what our knowledge level of the subject
matter was, and given the sullen looks around the class, it was just
as nerve-racking for everyone. I only got two right using the
formulas provided on the board, and that was mainly due to lucky
guesses.
 Thankfully freshmen were automatically scheduled for a pre-
calculus review period afterward using the same classroom. That
should’ve been my first clue that the assignments would be next to
impossible, and I was already feeling anxious that I wouldn’t pass.
We stayed seated after the first hour of class ended, and the
teaching assistant explained that upperclassmen would be joining us
for peer study sessions to act as mentors. Likely students who’d
already aced calculus. And this was only the preview course.
Anything harder seemed unfathomable.
I held in my gasp when I spotted Henry walk into the room
behind the other mentor students.
When our eyes met, he studied me hard for a brief second before
guiltily looking away. Maybe I was reading the situation wrong, but it
sure as hell seemed like he recognized me. Otherwise, why wouldn’t
he at least offer a smile or wave? Especially after I’d made a fool of
myself doing the same earlier.
If he wanted to play that game, I would too—though I wasn’t
sure what the reason behind it could be. Was it because his football
buddies would disapprove of him being friendly with someone like
me? Was he too pretentious or popular? He’d never acted that way
in the hospital, which was in stark contrast to how his parents spoke
to the nurses. Not exactly mean, but more like condescending.
I thought this bullshit would be over after high school, but
apparently it followed you to college too. But maybe it made sense
since this place was considered elite and I was only here on a
scholarship. Jesus, would I be reminded of that fact every single
day?
I didn’t make eye contact with him the rest of the period, as he
thankfully—or maybe purposely—helped students at another table.
But I could hear his voice, which now was a deep timbre and turned
up the butterflies in my stomach. I had known I was into boys even
back then, so it sucked that I found him attractive despite his
ignoring me.
I had a break between my morning and afternoon classes, so I
headed to the dining hall to meet Emil, my stomach feeling so
wobbly after that non-encounter I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to
eat.
“Lark,” someone called behind me, and I recognized his voice
immediately—that rich tenor and deliciously deep. Nope, not going
there with him.
I turned to find Henry standing there, all tall stature and perfectly
styled hair, like he belonged in a catalog for hot college guys.
“So you do recognize me,” I said, and he winced. “And now that
your friends aren’t around and we don’t have an audience, it’s safe
to acknowledge me?”
“I…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. At first, I wasn’t sure if my
eyes were deceiving me. You look… You’re all grown up.”
I smirked. “So are you.” I refused to take in all those muscles and
the five o’clock shadow on his jaw that I could never grow no matter
how hard I tried. I would probably remain baby-faced until middle
age.
“I know I sound like an idiot. I just mean…” He leaned toward
me and lowered his voice. “Nobody knows about me. About what I
went through back then.”
I felt gobsmacked. “That you had cancer?”
“Shh, lower your voice.”
“It’s not like we had leprosy. We’re both alive and should feel
thankful.”
“Of course I’m thankful. Every damned day.”
 My thoughts drifted back to seven years ago when he walked out
of my room that final time and how hot my face was from that
accidental kiss. I’d been curious ever since whether he’d made it or
not. “Did you ever relapse?”
“No, you?”
“I thought… There was one time when my fever spiked for a few
days.” My stomach constricted as I remembered how worried my
mom was. “But then it broke and ended up being the flu.”
“I’m glad.” His smile was genuine. “I’ve wondered over the
years.”
“Me too.” His gaze took me in from my hair down to my toes, and
my cheeks caught fire. I stared at a fixed point over his shoulder,
which helped me school my features. “Do you, uh, still love sports?”
His lips parted as if he didn’t think I’d remember that detail about
him. “Uh-huh.”
“And let me guess, the friends you were with this morning were
teammates?”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” His face blotted red. “I, uh, play
football.”
“What position?”
“I’m the Sentinels’ quarterback.”
“That explains everything.”
If it was the same as the jocks in high school, then they were
tight-knit and pretty exclusive. Even after you gave one of them a
blowjob. Though I could still thank him for the crash course.
His eyebrows drew together. “It does?”
“I mean, mostly?” I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, feeling way
too fidgety. “Your teammates wouldn’t understand about your
cancer?”
“I need to be strong to lead the team.”
 “And surviving cancer is a weak look?”
What the hell?
“It’s my parents… They have tons of expectations. They think
keeping my health history on the down-low is for the best. This is
where my dad went to college, and he knows the coach and the
dean…”
And must’ve made a hefty donation to the school as well.
“Is there a building named after him around here or something?”
I quipped.
He quirked a smile. “Probably will be at some point. They’re
actually not as bad as some of the other parents.”
“Okay, then.” I guess I wouldn’t know what it was like to have
that sort of pressure from your well-to-do parents. “But just so I
understand, admitting you had cancer would somehow ruin your
reputation—or is it your status on the team?”
“My dad doesn’t want anyone to have preconceived notions
about my health or…”
“How very ableist of him.”
“You’re right, of course, and we’ve argued about it, but…” He
made a frustrated sound like even he didn’t understand it. “Maybe I
don’t get his logic, but I’m just trying to get through college.”
By using his parents’ money. Like most of the other students.
Again, it was likely the kind of pressure I couldn’t relate to. Except
the part about making it through as well.
“No worries. I get it…I think.” It wasn’t like we were going to be
friends; that was obvious, so what did it matter if I got it or not?
“Anyway, your secret is safe with me.” I turned to leave, but his
fingers wrapped around my wrist.
“Wait, are you here because—”
“Of a scholarship, yes.”
 His face turned scarlet. “That’s not what I meant.”
“For dance.”
He smiled a little. “I remember how much you loved music.”
“Yep, still do.” I waited another beat, then said, “Well, see you
around, Henners.”
He gasped and stared at me.
“That’s your nickname, right?”
Another jock ritual was to have ridiculous nicknames. Though I
did like Henners. It had a nice ring to it.
“You remember that?”
“No. Well, not until I heard your friends call you that.”
He grimaced as if recalling the morning interaction. “What else
did you hear?”
“Enough,” I replied, and he frowned. “But I’ve…gotta go.”
No way I wanted his sympathy, so I forced my legs to move
toward the dining hall.
“Lark?” he called after me.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
“You, uh, look good.”
I inhaled sharply because damn him. “You too.”
I noted the hint of a smile before I turned away and continued
walking.
I guess Henry Albrecht was in my life again. Sort of. At least from
a distance. But now everything was different. We weren’t kids with
cancer anymore.
4
 HENRY

T he following day in the dining hall, I glanced toward the table

where Lark sat by himself, intently studying his phone. I felt guilty,
like I should invite him to eat with us, but we didn’t have anything in
common, did we? Maybe we never did, except for being two bored,
sick kids in the hospital.
Or maybe not. They kept us occupied with activities like movies
and animal therapy, yet we somehow always found a way to sit by
each other and talk about all sorts of things. So why would it be
different now?
Besides, this wasn’t necessarily about our friendship, but about
making a freshman feel welcome. I lifted my hand to wave him over
when a short guy with brown hair walked toward him and sat down.
At least he’d already made a friend.
When Lark smiled at him, my stomach felt all funny.
XOXO. Four little letters that likely meant nothing, but ones I’d
clung on to for years for no good reason. Or maybe reasons I didn’t
want to admit.
I needed to stop thinking about dumb shit from when we were
kids.
But I couldn’t deny he was attractive as hell as an adult.
 Lark didn’t make eye contact with me, and that was just as well
after our conversation yesterday. He probably thought it was fucking
weird that no one knew about my past, not even my best friend, and
I had trouble rationalizing it, even to myself.
“So you do know him!” Spencer said when I lowered my hand.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Lark, and he’s in my pre-calc review period.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes. “You seemed to know him before
that.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t sure at first.” I popped a fry in my mouth. “But it
was definitely from middle school.”
“Didn’t you always go to private schools?” Flash asked.
“And?”
“He just doesn’t seem…” Flash waved a hand. “He looks like a
product of public school.”
I clenched my jaw. “Christ, do you hear yourself sometimes?”
“What? His clothes are a dead giveaway.”
“And you won’t get rid of your holey sweats because of some
superstition about game days.”
His cheeks colored. Good. These guys were my friends, but
sometimes they were ridiculous. They wouldn’t know what to do
with themselves if they were ever disowned. They’d never suffered a
day in their lives. In a warped way, I was thankful for my childhood
illness because it made me see the world differently. How your
creature comforts could be snatched from you in the blink of an eye.
But I couldn’t fool myself. My illness aside, I wasn’t much
different from them. I also did everything my parents asked of me—
and sometimes I wondered why it even mattered since Dad had
stepped in before I’d sent off my college application. He’d already
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,

Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to

the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without
widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can
be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the
widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small
donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax
exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating

charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and
keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in
locations where we have not received written confirmation of
compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of
compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where

we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no
prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in
such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make

any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of
other ways including checks, online payments and credit card
donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project

Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed

editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,

including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how
to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.