Chapter 6 Pizza and Promises

POV: Silver Preston

I've barely managed to extract my toiletries from the depths of my duffel bag when Americus materializes beside my bed like a sequined genie, hands planted firmly on her hips.

"We need a bonding night. Mandatory roommate tradition."

I look up from where I'm arranging my sparse collection of belongings on the narrow desk. A few textbooks I ordered online, my phone charger, and a small bottle of prescription pain medication I try to keep out of sight.

"Mandatory?"

"Obviously."

Americus already has her phone out, fingers flying across the screen with the speed of someone who treats texting like an Olympic sport.

"Dorm room decorating can wait. The fairy lights will still be fairy lights tomorrow. First things first, pizza. Nothing bonds souls together like grease, cheese, and questionable life choices made at nine PM."

Before I can formulate an argument, or even a coherent response, Americus is already spinning toward our door with characteristic dramatic flair.

"Riley's coming too. You're going to love her."

"Riley?"

"My other half. The calm to my storm. The method to my madness."

Americus pauses, one hand on the door handle, grinning with the kind of mischief that probably gets her in trouble on a regular basis.

"You'll see."

The pizza place turns out to be exactly the kind of establishment that every college town seems legally required to have.

A narrow slice of real estate squeezed between a used bookstore and a laundromat, with neon signs buzzing in the window and an interior that looks like it hasn't been updated since the Carter administration.

The smell hits me the moment we walk through the door.

Melted mozzarella, garlic, yeast, and that particular aroma of a place where generations of students have fueled late night study sessions with carbohydrates and caffeine.

Mismatched vinyl booths line the walls, their red surfaces cracked with age and patched with duct tape that's been applied with more hope than skill. The floor is a checkerboard pattern of black and white tiles, several of which have been replaced over the years with pieces that don't quite match.

Behind the counter, a massive pizza oven radiates heat that makes the whole place feel like a sauna, and the walls are covered with signed photographs of Yale students spanning what looks like decades.

I lean against the scarred wooden counter, watching as Americus orders with the confidence of someone who has clearly done this many times before.

"Two large pies. One pepperoni and mushroom, one with everything that won't kill us. And three Cokes. The real kind, not the diet stuff. We're living dangerously tonight."

We claim a booth by the window just as a girl with soft chestnut hair and the kind of genuinely warm smile that can't be faked appears in the doorway.

She spots us immediately and makes her way over, balancing three sodas with the practiced ease of someone who has worked in food service.

"Silver, meet Riley Giles," Americus announces with characteristic dramatic flair, gesturing between us like she's introducing heads of state. "The yin to my glittery yang. The peanut butter to my jelly. The voice of reason that keeps me from getting arrested on a weekly basis."

Riley slides into the booth across from me, rolling her eyes with obvious affection.

"Hi. Americus told me you were mysterious and possibly dangerous to know."

I blink, caught off guard by the directness.

"Dangerous?"

"She has a tendency toward hyperbole," Riley explains, shooting Americus a look that manages to be both fond and exasperated. "I've learned to automatically divide everything she says by about three to get the actual truth. It's safer for everyone involved."

Despite myself, I feel my lips twitch upward.

"I'll keep that in mind."

The pizzas arrive in a cloud of steam that makes my stomach growl with surprising intensity. I hadn't realized how little I'd eaten during the stress of travel and move in.

Americus immediately claims a slice loaded with enough toppings to constitute a small ecosystem. Pepperoni, olives, pineapple, and what looks like three different kinds of cheese.

I hesitate for a moment, then reach for a more conservative piece with just cheese, the grease immediately soaking through the thin paper plate.

For a while, conversation flows around the usual freshman orientation topics.

Which professors are rumored to be impossible, which dining halls have the best coffee, whether the Gothic architecture is inspiring or just intimidating.

Americus carries most of the verbal load, her voice bright enough to compete with the neon signs outside. Riley contributes quieter observations that somehow manage to ground Americus's more dramatic proclamations in something approaching reality.

I mostly listen, content to let the chatter wash over me while I process this strange new experience.

It feels almost surreal to sit in a booth with girls my age who aren't competitors or training partners, who don't know my ranking or my personal best scores.

No one mentions triple Lutzes or spiral sequences. No one asks about my injury with that particular combination of curiosity and pity I've grown to hate.

They're just normal college freshmen complaining about textbook prices and wondering if their professors will actually notice if they skip the occasional lecture.

After we've made significant progress through both pizzas, Americus turns her attention fully to me with the kind of laser focus that probably makes her an excellent student when she chooses to apply it.

"Okay, mystery roommate. Time to spill. What's your actual thing?"

The question hits me like a physical blow, even though I've been expecting it all evening.

My thing has always been so obvious it barely needed stating. Silver Preston, figure skater, national competitor, Olympic hopeful.

Until three months ago, when all of those labels were stripped away in the space of a single disastrous landing.

"Nothing much," I mutter, picking at the crust of my pizza slice.

"Absolute lies," Americus declares around a mouthful of what appears to be her fourth slice. "Everyone has a thing. It's like a fundamental law of human existence. Riley's thing is being secretly brilliant at everything while pretending she doesn't know what she's doing. Mine is obviously being fabulous and spreading joy through the strategic application of glitter. Yours is...?"

Riley, apparently sensing my discomfort, leans forward slightly.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to. Americus comes on strong, but she means well."

I feel a wave of gratitude for the easy out, but Americus just grins wider.

"Mystery adds intrigue to any social dynamic. I'll figure you out eventually, Preston. I'm like a detective, but with better fashion sense."

I roll my eyes, though I can feel a genuine smile threatening to break through my carefully maintained defenses.

The evening stretches on as the pizza disappears slice by slice.

The neon signs outside paint everything in alternating washes of red and blue light, and the steady hum of college town nightlife filters through the windows. Students calling to friends across the street, car doors slamming, the distant sound of music from someone's dorm room party.

For the first time since my fall at Nationals, I feel the constant tightness in my chest begin to ease just slightly.

Americus leans back in the booth, using a stack of napkins to clean pizza grease from her rings.

"Okay, I'm officially declaring this a success. We're a trio now. Yale's resident chaos agent, secret genius, and..."

She points directly at me with renewed theatrical flair.

"Brooding mystery girl with hidden depths."

"I don't brood," I protest, though my tone lacks any real conviction.

"You absolutely brood," Americus shoots back immediately. "It's like your signature move. Very dramatic. I respect it."

Riley laughs, the sound soft but genuine.

"She kind of has a point. You do have a certain mysterious wounded heroine thing going on."

I shake my head, but the warmth spreading through my chest is becoming harder to ignore.

Maybe I don't entirely hate this new dynamic after all.

Then Americus's eyes light up with the kind of dangerous sparkle that probably precedes most of her best and worst ideas. She leans forward across the table, lowering her voice to what she probably thinks is a conspiratorial whisper but which carries clearly to the neighboring booths.

"I know exactly how to take this bonding experience to the next level. Want to meet my brothers?"

I frown, trying to process this sudden shift in conversational direction.

"Your brothers go to Yale too?"

Americus's grin widens until it threatens to split her face entirely in half.

"Not exactly brothers. More like... chosen family. The kind of boys who've collectively adopted me as their little sister and would probably commit actual crimes if anyone ever hurt my feelings."

She pauses for maximum dramatic effect, clearly savoring the moment.

"Hockey players."