by Penny Wylder
I draw myself straighter and look her dead in the eye. “I figure why lug everything I own all over the place?” I shrug one shoulder, let it fall. “If I forgot anything important, I can just buy something new.”
Bette grins. Maybe I’m better at this than I thought. “You know, you’re so right. I’ll have to remember that next time I’m packing—I’m the worst, Keanen always says.”
When I don’t react, she tilts her head to the side, as if I’ve made another social misstep, although I can’t imagine what.
“But you do know Keanen, of course. Keanen Kross, my older brother… The quarterback of the Jaguars.”
Oh, of course. As if I should have memorized the entire roster of every sports team on campus before I arrived for my first day of classes. Still, I did think her name was familiar. And at least she’s being nice to me about all this. I don’t want to put her off. So I force a broad smile. “Right. Wow, he’s your brother? That’s so cool.”
She tosses her long hair over one shoulder and shrugs. “I suppose.” She side-eyes me again, a little more closely this time, and I resist the urge to cringe. I picked out my outfit so carefully. A nice top—though not too nice, don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Just a preppy silk-blend blouse, mixed with artfully torn jeans—I did the tearing myself, since for some reason it costs extra to buy them that way. As long as she doesn’t notice my ratty Converse, I should be able to pass for at least middle class.
Still, my stomach tightens at the way Bette stares. What’s she thinking? Can she tell? Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have just admitted to my blue-collar background and come to school owning it. Maybe…
My thought breaks off as Bette shrugs again. “Well, I’ll see you around, then, Missy. By the way, I like your Converse.” Damn it. “So retro.” She vanishes before I can manage a thank you in response.
The moment my door swings shut behind her, I let out a sigh of relief. That went… okay. Right? At least she didn’t seem to completely despise me straight off the bat. Maybe I can pull this off after all. Blending in, pretending I belong here.
Maybe Mom was right.
I glance into my floor-length mirror and flash myself a smile. “You’ve got this, Missy,” I tell myself. Then I cross over to my desk and pull out my computer. Because if I want to keep up these appearances, then I have one more order of business to sort out before classes begin.
The bar is a dingy hole in the wall. It takes me three times passing the spot where it’s marked on Google maps before I find the actual door, hidden behind a row of communal dumpsters that serve what looks like half the block.
But that makes it absolutely perfect for what I need. The kind of crappy dive bar that nobody from Tanglewood University would even think about frequenting.
It’s already 7pm—my bar back in Boston would’ve been open for hours already, to catch the happy hour crowd. But this town’s a lot smaller, and further inland than the big city. The crowd here doesn’t seem like the happy hour type. More like the post-shitty shift at the kind of job where you get whole-body tired instead, and where the work doesn’t finish until well into the evening.
There are no posted hours on the door, no sign to indicate whether it’s open or not. The only thing in the window is a BARTENDER WANTED sign, yellowing with age. But when I try the knob, it turns all right. Inside the greasy windows, the bar looks dim enough that I have to squint, even though it’s early fall and still daylight outside.
“Hello?” I call into the dim.
“We’re closed!” comes a gruff voice from the rear. A guy, from the sound of it, and older, too. “Come back at 8.”
“Actually, I wanted to ask about the sign. You’re looking for help?”
There’s a long pause, followed by a series of crashes and bangs. Finally, a gray head of hair emerges from the rear. The owner looks exactly as I would expect: like the kind of guy who grew up on the docks down in Boston, or in a more rural part of the state. He’s got that weathered, sea-battered, sun-beaten look. But a friendly smile, all the same.
He squints, giving me the once-over, just like Bette did. But unlike her, I don’t feel nervous when this guy does it. Because I know we’re on the level.
“I’ve got references.” I slap my résumé—freshly printed at the library on campus, but only after I made sure I was seated at a far corner where no other students could look over my shoulder and see it. “You can call, if you want, but I’ve worked in pubs before. I know all the basic drinks off top of my head; and I’m not shy about hard work. I’m willing to barback or clean if you need that instead of a front of house person.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, then grimaces and peers around the bar. “You’d make a far sight prettier front of house rep than me,” he replies. Then he eyes me again, more suspiciously this time. “What’s a nice girl like you doing down this end of town, anyway?”
“Believe me,” I reply, letting my Boston drawl come out on full display now. “This is the end of town I’m used to.” I follow his gaze around the bar. It’s dingy, yes, but I’ve seen a lot worse. You don’t even want to know what the kitchen at my old place looked like after a busy night.
He chuckles. “Well, it’d be a probationary period at first, just to see how you get on. Some of our customers are the, ah, rougher sort…” He eyes me again, as though waiting for me to flinch or react to that. When I don’t, he shrugs. “When can you start? Because that sign’s been posted for weeks, and—”
“Do you need anyone tonight?” I ask, cutting him off.
His eyebrows rise. “All right then.” He juts his chin toward a supply closet on the opposite end of the bar. “Cleaning supplies are in there. I’ve just been going through the books in the back, but if you want to get started up here, we’ll work faster. Doors open at eight.”
“I’ll be done in half an hour then,” I reply, surveying the place with confidence.
He chuckles again and slaps the counter on his way into the back. “You keep up that attitude, and you’ll definitely keep this gig.” Then he vanishes, and I get to work.
3
By the end of the first week of school, I’ve gotten into a rhythm. Classes in the mornings, followed by lunch with one or another girl from my dorm, before splitting my afternoons between either study sessions or more classes.
I’ve found a few decent acquaintances—at least enough that I don’t need to eat any meals alone in the dining hall, although I wouldn’t say we’re exactly friends yet. We don’t hang out outside of mealtimes. But I’m confident I’ll get there, eventually.
I’ve only seen Bette once since our initial meeting, and she was warm enough, stopping to say hello to me in the middle of the campus green—all while the two girls from our floor who I’d been working with stared at me agog. Afterward, I asked what the big deal was, and they burst into gushing whispers.
“Bette’s family owns half of Boston, don’t you know?”
“Shipping empire heiress—”
“Her brother is the hottest—”
“Believe me, if she likes you, you’re in, here.”
The other girls’ words buoyed my spirits. Between that minor amount of social success, and the fact that I’d managed to keep my job a secret so far, I was on track for a great first year here.
My job is the only slight potential snag in my plan. It means I don’t have free time in the evenings, so after dinner I have to constantly make up excuses for why I can’t hang out in Leah’s dorm room, or go to the movies with Sara, or meet Yvette at the club on Friday.
The other girls are clearly all starting to think I’m a homebody. But that’s better than them suspecting the truth.
On Friday, I wait patiently in my room for the sounds of other voices on our hallway to die down before I slip out the door, dressed in the head-to-toe black that makes up the unofficial uniform of the dive bar industry. I wait until I’m off campus entirely to head toward my real destination, weaving through t
own to reach the bar via the long way around. I get there just before my weekend shift starts, at 10pm sharp.
When I step inside, Henry is already behind the bar, flooded with more customers than I’m used to seeing in the tight space.
“Where have you been?” he barks. Over the last week, we’ve reached an accord of our own. He knows I’ll stay late to tidy up after my shifts, as long as he lets me come in a little bit later than the opening hours, since I have to sneak off of campus first.
I’m already shrugging out of my coat and ducking under the counter to join him. “Sorry. Got caught up with homework.”
“College kids,” he grumbles to one of our regulars, Pat, a man around Henry’s age who works at a mechanic shop on the corner.
“You should be proud of her,” Pat argues. “She’s trying to make something of herself. Not like us old lazy grumps.” Pat winks at me elaborately behind Henry’s back, and I laugh, rolling my eyes.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I scold him. “Besides, piecing cars back together is a lot more impressive than memorizing some mathematical theories. At least, if you ask me.”
“You’re majoring in math?” Pat shakes his head, clucking his tongue. “Never mind. I take it all back.”
I snort. “I don’t know what I’m majoring in yet,” I call, as I skip toward the far end of the bar to serve a rowdy group of middle-aged businessmen banging on the bar top for attention. “Still have to decide that.” I signed up for a wide range of classes, just to get a feel for everything. So far, I’m not loving my Calculus course, which I signed up for because it’s a prerequisite for a ton of different math and science majors. But I’m fascinated by my Intro to Psych class, as well as by the linguistics course I chose on a whim.
Still, a little voice at the back of my head whispers at me to be practical. I know mathematics is what I should be studying. It’s the quickest way to get ready for a post-college career that will earn me enough money to both pay back my college loans and start to save for Jake’s future college expenses, too.
But there’s a little part of me that can’t help noting: I’ll be just as bored in an engineering job as I am right now in this math class. Doesn’t that count for anything?
No, I remind myself, scooping the group of rowdy businessmen’s empty glasses off of the counter and setting about pouring them fresh pints of beer. Not unless you want to spend the rest of your life working in places like this.
I need to get my head in the game. Be smart about this opportunity. If I want to make the most of my life, both during and post-college, than I need to pick a practical major. Something that will help my family and me out from here on.
“Missy.” Henry’s voice breaks through my reverie. I startle and realize that one of the pints I’m pouring has overflowed.
“Crap. I’m so sorry,” I call over my shoulder to the customer, one of the more red-faced of the business group.
“That’s all right.” He eyes me from the head all the way down to my toes and back—although he lingers for a longer time than is comfortable on my chest. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart.” He actually winks, then, and I cringe internally.
Much as I enjoy tending bar for the nicer customers, I can’t deny that we see a lot of men like that in this line of work, too. I turn my back to finish pouring his pint, and I don’t bother to wipe all the excess foam off his glass before I pass it back to him with a tight smile.
He makes sure to touch my hand while he takes the glass from me, and I smile through gritted teeth, fighting an urge to roll my eyes. Or to toss the beer in his face, when he drops his gaze to my chest again, his upper lip curling in a leer.
“Dear God,” a voice cuts in, from the other side of the bar. “I knew this place was known for has-been clichés, but I didn’t realize they’d all be quite this obvious.”
“’Scuse me?” The drunken business creep spins around, sloshing half the beer I just refilled all over his shoes as he does.
“My apologies, did I use too many big words for you?” The guy who spoke is a lot younger—around my age, I would guess—but he also stands a head taller than the creep. He’s thin, but not in a scrawny way. Just long, lean muscles. And the kind of glare that looks like it could kill a man at ten paces. “Leave the lady alone.”
The creep glances from the guy to me and back again, sputtering. “I didn’t even say anything—”
“And yet, we could all tell exactly what you were thinking. This poor girl most of all, bless her.” The guy shoulders past the drunk, which leads to more beer sloshing. But he doesn’t even seem to notice. He turns his back with the casual ease of someone who’s used to getting into fights. Or used to ending them, anyway. He doesn’t even view the older man as a threat, clearly.
Something about that move clues the older man in, too. I expect him to keep arguing—I’ve seen enough borderline blackout drunks like him in my day to know that once the testosterone spikes, they are ready to throw down no matter what. But instead, he turns around and retreats back to his cluster of friends in the corner, cowed.
My eyebrows rise. “Wow. That was impressive.”
The guy snorts. “Please. That was nothing. You should see me in an actual negotiation.” He scans the shelf behind me. “What’s the least poisonous thing on the menu?” he asks.
But I don’t reply. Because suddenly, my voice has frozen in my throat, choking me.
I didn’t notice until he was leaning right up against the bar. But I see it now, clear as day, and I wonder how I’d missed it earlier. The guy is wearing a jacket with the Tanglewood University crest emblazoned on the pocket. I’ve seen coats like this—the upperclassmen all wear them. I’ve heard rumors about the crests each meaning something, different levels of academic success. This guy’s is embroidered in gold, which I’m pretty sure means top marks.
But that doesn’t matter, because the much bigger problem is he cannot know I work here.
“S-sorry,” I stammer, backing away from the counter. “I, um, I forgot something…” I’m about to flee toward the back and beg Henry to cover this half of the bar, when the guy peers at me more closely, his forehead bunched with concern.
“Are you all right?” he asks quietly. “That guy didn’t freak you out, did he? Because I know where he works; if he did anything to you, say the word and I’ll make sure he’s out on his ass by Monday.”
Who is this guy?
My stomach tightens, and I manage to shake my head, just once, hard. “N-no. Thank you. I mean, he’s fine. It’s not that.”
“Okay, because you’re acting like you just saw a ghost or something, so…” The guy trails off. Something about his stare, its intensity, makes it impossible to look away. His eyes are so dark that in the dim light of the bar, they almost seem black. I can’t tell where the pupils end and the irises begin.
And now I’ve been staring for way too long, especially to judge by the little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth…
I’m considering possible escape routes, the best way to recuse myself from this situation without anyone catching on, when Henry shuffles into view.
“Keanen.” He extends a hand, and the guy reaches out to accept the handshake, although still without taking his gaze from mine. “Long time no see. I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten all about me.”
“The man who served me my first beer at the ripe old age of fifteen? Never.” Keanen grins, and my heart sinks.
In that one motion, I can see the resemblance, clear as day. At the same time, I remember Bette’s words, clear as day. Keanen Kross, my older brother… The quarterback of the Jaguars.
Shit. I take a slow, sliding step back from the bar while Henry chuckles at Keanen, hoping both of them will somehow forget I’m here, allow me to melt into the background.
But then Henry glances at me, still grinning. “Keanen here attends Tanglewood too. He’s a good one to know actually, Missy. Senior this year, so he’ll be leaving soon, but he can introd
uce you to all the right people. Loves to make connections, that boy, just like his father.”
“You go to Tanglewood?” Keanen’s gaze sharpens, focused right back on me.
I wish I could disappear. Melt into the floorboards, never to be heard from again. Barring that, I force a weak smile. “Uh… yeah. Freshman. Just started this year.”
Keanen nods. “My sister did too.”
“Bette?” I blurt, before I realize how that makes me sound. Like some kind of crazy stalker who knows all about his life already. “Um, I mean, yeah, I met her, actually. She mentioned you. Not that I recognized you, when you came in, or anything, but I…” My face feels so red I’m afraid it’s going to set off the smoke alarm in the bar soon. I glance at Henry, wild-eyed, desperate for help.
Henry just smirks and retreats back toward his side of the bar. “Go easy on Missy here, Keanen,” he says as he leaves. “It’s hard enough to find good help these days.”
Keanen watches Henry go, and then leans against the bar, studying me more closely now. “So, Missy,” he says, his smile sharpening at the edges, “about that drink.”
The entire night, I can feel Keanen’s gaze on me. Boring into me. He’s sitting in the corner with an older guy, someone I don’t recognize—and someone who looks too old to be a student at Tanglewood, thank God. But one person knowing my secret is bad enough.
Especially when that someone doesn’t seem like he’ll be quick to forget it. Every time I manage to forget Keanen’s sitting there, I catch him out of the corner of my eye or in the mirror behind the bar, his dark eyes zeroed in on me. Once, I turn to look at him pointedly, wondering if he’ll break eye contact or at least pretend he wasn’t staring.
Instead he raises one hand and waves, just once. Subtly enough that his conversation partner doesn’t notice. Then he smirks, and turns back to the guy he’s sitting with.
Shit.
The whole time, my heart hammers in my eardrums. I can’t stop thinking about how screwed I am. Less than one week at college, and I’ve already blown my mother’s advice—done the one thing she warned me not to do. She told me to fit in, to pretend I belong here. But no self-respecting highbrow Tanglewood student would be caught dead working in a dive like this.