by Kim Holden
I shake my head. “Nope.” That probably kills my chances, but I’m sure as hell not going to lie to her.
“You have any experience with gardening?” I feel like I’m being interrogated on some sort of crime show, and surely her partner is watching from the other side of a one-way mirror.
I shrug. “My last landlord, Mr. Yamashita, was a gardener. I suppose that doesn’t count? Too many degrees of separation?”
She huffs. Yes. She’s a huffer. I love her now. “Can you tell a carnation from a rose?”
“Sure.”
The hard-ass façade remains, but to my surprise she says, “Get your butt behind this counter and help me out. I’m buried this afternoon. We’ll see how you do.”
I put on the apron she hands me. “Dude, that was one hell of an interview. You had me sweating.”
She rolls her eyes at my sarcasm. “Whatever. Dude.”
The shop is small and old-fashioned. And by old-fashioned I don’t mean outdated, I mean charming. There are several antique tables on the customer side of the counter that display plant and flower arrangements. It’s cute. And the smell … oh the smell, it’s heaven in here.
Behind the counter I notice that everything has its place. It’s organized, obsessively orderly. Shelly works like a tornado. She’s all over the room working on four arrangements simultaneously. I watch and listen, trying to pitch in where I can. Mostly, I fake it.
We work in silence for an hour, which is hurting my ears. “Don’t you have a radio or something?” I ask.
She points to the shelf on the other side of the room without looking at me.
I feel like I should ask, because I don’t know if she just gave me permission or not, “Do you mind if I turn it on? This place could use some background noise. The silence is deafening.”
She shakes her head.
I march over and turn it on because I need music when I work. Hell, I need music all the time, but especially when I work. Music grounds me. It’s pure emotion and I need that extension.
I fiddle with the tuner for a minute until I find a station. Shelly perks up at the sound. “This is a good song. They just started playing it last week. The guitar is fierce. Have you heard it?”
I nod my head as I return to our work station. I know the song and she’s right about the guitar. I heard this song for the first time four or five months ago when this album was released, but I don’t want to come off as some sort of know-it-all asshole, so I don’t let on. “Yeah. It’s good. Is this a local station?”
Shelly grunts out her response bitterly. “Yeah, this is the college station. It’s all we have. All the other local stations are shit.”
I elbow Shelly in the side. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those music snobs, Shelly?”
She raises an eyebrow like she knows she’s been caught. “Guilty. I love music and it’s so hard to find the good stuff.” Her face softens a little. “I sound like a damn junkie, don’t I?”
I know how she feels. Gus and I scour the internet all the time in search of the newest musical diversion, like a couple of addicts looking for their next fix. We’ve shared our music collection for years, and it’s beyond extensive. My iPod is maxed out and the rest fills the hard drive on my laptop. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right dealer. I’ll bring in my iPod some time. Do you have a dock or a speaker I can hook up to?” I love connecting with people about music, especially when I can turn someone on to new music they haven’t heard before. Discovering something new is like magic. Music is out there to be heard and I am of the opinion that as many people as possible should hear it. All of it. Because music is powerful. It connects people.
She hesitates, then nods. “Okay, yeah I have a dock I can bring in. What do you listen to?”
“Oh, I’m all over the board. I listen to just about everything, though I can’t bring myself to get on board with country. It sounds artificial. I don’t know how to explain it, but it makes my teeth hurt it’s so sweet. And it’s kind of depressing, even the happy stuff.” She nods in agreement. “Generally I tend to gravitate toward lesser-known bands. I like to see the little guys make it, you know. And I have to support California bands. It’s like this guilty, loyalty thing. Good thing they can bring it.”
Her eyes widen infinitesimally like she’s just figured out some sort of puzzle. “Of course. You’re from California. I’ve been trying to figure it out all afternoon. I figured somewhere sunny since you’re so tan, but I thought the ‘surf or die’ T-shirt was too obvious. So are you a poser or do you really surf?”
I laugh at the blunt accusation. “I surf, sure.”
“Really?” She doubts me.
“Yeah.”
She nods. “That shirt is pretty sick by the way. Where’d you get it?”
I shrug. “I made it.”
Again, the doubt. “Really?”
The scrutiny doesn’t bother me. “Yeah. I make all my shirts.”
“Huh,” is all she says, and although she looks mildly impressed, I have a feeling it would kill her to admit it. She doesn’t hide her emotions very well. They peek through the stern mask if you’re paying attention.
We continue listening to the college station and it’s actually pretty good. Almost all indie and alt rock, it makes me think of Gus. He would love this station. I half expect to hear a Rook song start blasting through the speakers.
Shelly slaps me on the back when we’re done. “You did all right for someone who has no idea what she’s doing.”
I frown. “Thanks … I think.” And then I smile so she knows I’m teasing.
Her eyes allude to a smile, but they never fully commit. “Whatever. Can you work afternoons on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and the occasional Saturday?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re hired.”
I’m doing cartwheels inside, but I’m outwardly calm. “Thanks.”
“I assume you’re a student, too, though I never asked. I’m a senior this year at Grant. Music major, classical piano.”
“No shit? Classical piano? Righteous, Shelly.” I know I sound a little surprised, but I am. She’s hard as nails and I never would’ve pegged her for classical piano. “I’m a few credits short of a sophomore, so yeah, I’m a freshman.” I cringe, thinking about my unusual path to college.
I graduated a year and a half ago with a full ride music scholarship to play violin here, but then life happened ... so I stayed in San Diego. I worked in the mailroom with Gus at his mom’s advertising firm part-time and took classes at the local community college. I was happy. Everything was looking up. And then three months ago, in June, another bomb dropped. This one turned my fucking world upside down. I needed to get out of San Diego. So even though the fall semester was quickly approaching, I applied to Grant again, minus the violin. I figured I didn’t have anything to lose. I sweat it until mid-July when the letter arrived announcing that not only did they accept me, but that they were awarding me an academic scholarship that pays my tuition and room and board. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I gave notice to Mr. Yamashita and moved out of his garage the last day of July and moved into Audrey Hawthorne’s spare bedroom where I stayed until I moved here a few days ago. Gus’s mom is like, one of my favorite people on the planet. I’ve known her my whole life. When I think of the word “mother” I think of Janice Sedgwick, but when I think of the word “mom” I think of Audrey. Gus still lives with her too. He’s such a mama’s boy.
Shelly gives me this sad look. “So you’re in the dorms?”
“Yeah, all freshmen have to live in the dorms, right?”
The sad look remains. “Right,” she confirms.
“I drove past them today. They look great. I’m kind of stoked about it.” I really am.
She pats me on the shoulder. “You just stay stoked.” She’s having fun mocking my vocabulary. “But a word of warning, this is a small school and very cliquish, if you know what I mean. There are a lot of entitled, trust
-fund, spoiled brats here. Don’t let them bust your balls is all I’m sayin’.”
I nod, thankful for her concern. “Point taken. Good thing my balls are virtually bust-proof.”
I swear she almost smiles.
We part ways and I poke my head in at Grounds to thank Romero for the job lead before I head back to Maddie’s. I make the trip in nine minutes this time and can’t help but feel optimistic about my first day in Grant. I knew it was the right choice.
It’s still early in Cali and Gus is at work, so I text him my good news.
Me: Got a job at a flower shop today.
Gus: Sweet! Gotta jet to a band meeting after work. Talk to you tomorrow? Love you.
Me: OK. Good luck. Tell everyone hi. Love you.
Thursday, August 25
(Kate)
The highlight of the day: Gus and I try out Skype and decide that the person who invented it deserves to win the Nobel Prize, and/or a congressional medal of honor, and/or some other outrageously huge commendation even if it’s not technologically applicable, because Skype is genius.
The not-so-highlight of the day: I had my first appointment with Dr. Connell at Methodist Hospital in Minneapolis. It was pretty much what I expected. Just like Dr. Ridley in San Diego, Dr. Connell approached my situation with realism, which I appreciate, and respect. He gave me a rundown of treatment options and a treatment schedule. He’s a more-is-more doctor; he wants to go all in. I’m a less-is-more girl; I don’t. He wasn’t happy about that. I left with his business card, an appointment date for a month from now, and his worried face etched in my memory.
Doctors usually have a better poker face. One thing’s for sure. If I ever go to Vegas, I’m not inviting Dr. Connell to play the tables with me.
Friday, August 26
(Kate)
I’m running late as usual, so as I enter the cafeteria I scan the room quickly for any and all open seats. There are a few at every table, but I stop when my eyes land on a smallish guy sitting alone. He’s wearing a vintage pinstriped mailman’s shirt, a plaid bowtie, intentionally short red dress pants, blue argyle socks, and a pair of black and white wingtips. Somehow, I know that’s where I’m supposed to be. He’s got great style, and to wear something so bold you’ve got to have some pretty bold character to match. I decide that I need to meet him. As I approach I can tell he’s trying to be stoic, but his shoulders look hunched, and he’s got to be nervous as hell. I want to pat him on the back to relieve a little of the tension. But I don’t. I’m a little touchy-feely, and I’ve learned through trial and error that it freaks some people out. Introductions first.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask politely.
He starts at the close proximity of my voice, but turns to face me.
I smile. That bowtie is too damn cute. I ask again, “Is this seat taken?” gesturing specifically to the seat right next to him, even though every chair at the large table is empty.
As his smile widens his shoulders start to relax. “No. No, one’s sitting here. Go right ahead.” I know that the term “pixie” isn’t exactly a masculine description, but it’s the first word that comes to mind when I see his smile. He’s a well groomed, well-dressed little pixie.
“Dude, that shirt is the shit,” I say motioning as I take a seat. It’s even got a vintage nametag— Frank. He didn’t miss a thing. “I’m Kate.” I extend my hand which he grips lightly and shakes once. His hands are soft.
“Thank you … I think. Is Kate short for Katherine? I’m Clayton.” He’s formal, but not in a stuffy, snooty way. Formal in a subtle, sophisticated way. Still, this guy needs to relax. “And your shirt is fabulous, too,” he adds. I’m wearing a tank top that reads, “Tijuana is muy bueno.” The text was taken from three different donor shirts, with straps made of thick black ribbon.
“Aw, thanks Clay.” He seems genuine. “And it’s just Kate. Katherine is something not even my mother would’ve named me.”
“You’re welcome, Katherine.” He smiles coyly. “And it’s just Clayton. Clay is something not even my mother would have named me.”
I laugh. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?” I like this guy. He’s witty. And he’s not backing down, even though he looks scared shitless to be here.
Just then some campus officials file through the door and begin their hour-long spiel about the Grant College Experience. A small chuckle escapes me when the dean actually says the words Grant College Experience as he welcomes us. Clayton stifles a laugh too and motions for me to be quiet with his pointer finger to his lips. I stop when I realize we’re the only ones in the room laughing. The dean isn’t being funny or ironic, he actually means it. And everyone else is eating it up. The Experience. It takes about twenty seconds for me to realize that not only does the guy mean it, he’s really pumped to tell us all about it. He lives The Experience. Now that I know this day has a name, I can’t help but feel like I’ve just walked into some sort of a traveling tent church revival or a motivational seminar. The fucking enthusiasm that is pouring out of this guy is unbelievable. So I give in and surrender to it for the sheer entertainment factor, and even though I’m not necessarily buying what he’s selling the way everyone else in the room seems to be, it’s still entertaining as hell to watch. Some of the lines he’s throwing at us, even though he’s serious as a heart attack when he says them, they’re some of the funniest things I’ve heard in a while. Except for the stifled laugh during the introduction and the occasional glance in my direction when the dean’s said something particularly hilarious, at least to the two of us, Clayton is laser focused as if he’s being instructed on brain surgery and will be expected to perform an operation later today. His notes are so extensive that I start to feel like a slacker as I realize I haven’t put pen to paper. In retrospect, there were a few classic lines that I wish I would’ve written down because Gus would’ve laughed his ass off. All that sticks in my head now are the overused clichés. The dean is a big fan of clichés.
After we’re bid farewell with a collective, “Live the Grant College Experience!” from the faculty, I offer up an unbridled, “Yee-haw!” It blends in nicely with all the clapping and hoopla from the other freshman. Clayton rolls his eyes at me like my enthusiasm has just embarrassed him. “What dude?” I retort. “I’m just so excited. That was some inspirational shit.” I point at him and impersonate the dean’s voice with a straight face. “’Your destiny is in your hands.’ ‘The future is bright.’ ‘We’re all one big happy family here at Grant.’ ‘You’re life starts now.’”
He shakes his head solemnly but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t do stern very well. “Katherine, that was an hour of my life I’ll never be able to get back,” he says dryly.
I laugh. “Aw Clayton, I wouldn’t take back that hour for all the coffee in Columbia.”
“I think the phrase is ‘for all the tea in China.’”
I shake my head. “I hate tea.”
He shakes his head like he’s not sure what to do with me.
I suppress a giggle and continue. “My eyes have been opened like a newborn babe to the Grant College Experience. It’s going to be fucking magnificent.”
He cracks a smile and throws his pencil at me. “Katherine, hush!”
I point to his notebook still on the table in front of him. “You get any of the dean’s little nuggets of wisdom? Jesus, were you taking dictation, Clayton? Those are some extensive notes.”
He blushes. “I’m thorough.”
And now I feel bad for making him blush. I pat his shoulder as I stand. “Ah, I’m just kidding, Clayton. I’m a slacker. You’re an overachiever. We’ll get it sorted out. Let’s go find our dorm rooms.”
I’m a little surprised that after he stands and slings his leather messenger bag over his shoulder, he loops his arm through mine. I’m all for touchy-feely, but he’s not leading, he wants to be led. I’m beginning to wonder if I emit the scent of sour milk like a nursing mother, because certain people g
ravitate to me for one reason, and one reason only—they need to be taken care of. I have a new mission: to shelter Clayton from the storm, or at least to gently introduce him to it. I get the feeling life hasn’t always been a picnic for Clayton. He’s chosen the right friend. I make a fantastic buffer, believe me.
I cover his hand looped through my arm with my own. “Let’s get this goddamn Grant College Experience started.”
Our dorm rooms turn out to be right across the hall from each other. Goddamn destiny. Our names along with our roommates’ are posted on each door. Clayton’s is Peter Samuel Longstreet III. I say a silent prayer, Please God, please don’t let Pete be a homophobic bastard. Because although I’ve only known Clayton for an hour, I’m 99.9% sure that sweet, lovely Clayton likes boys as much as I do.
My roommate seems to have been saddled from birth with the name—I’m not kidding you—Sugar Starr LaRue. Did her parents even think that one through? I’m trying so damn hard not to let my imagination run away with me, but the first thought that pops into my head is … stripper. I know, I know. She could be a lovely, chaste, prudish young maiden, but with a name like Sugar Starr LaRue you almost have to live up to the stage name, don’t you think? And once the stripper profile implants itself in my head I find myself thinking I’ll be disappointed if this girl turns out to be normal.
I help Clayton carry his belongings from his car to his room, and then he helps me. Peter Samuel Longstreet III shows up somewhere in the middle, so we help him carry his stuff, too. He’s tall and a little heavy around the middle. He’s got light brown hair that’s cut in a military-style crew cut, a mild case of acne, and he’s wearing pleated khaki pants and a forest green polo shirt with slip-on brown loafers. The dude looks like a middle aged insurance agent trapped in an eighteen-year-old’s body. He’s really just your average looking guy I guess, except that he looks insanely innocent. I mean, like, insanely innocent. After spending five minutes around him I learn I’m not far off. He’s really shy and really, really tense. I take a minute to give God a silent shout out, Thank you, God. Pete seems way uptight, but he doesn’t seem like a hateful ass clown. Many thanks. Over and out.