by JC Gatlin
“Miss, Reed…” At the sound of his voice, Abbie lifted her head and listened. His left brow rose a fraction. “Did you hear what I just said? What happened to your older sister was a tragedy that—“
“I don’t like to talk about it.” Abbie pushed back in the chair and stood. She handed the framed photograph back to him. “If you’ll excuse me, I really have to get to pre-algebra.”
He took the picture, then wheeled around in the chair again and hung it back on the wall. “How is Clinton, your father?”
“He’s fine.”
“We were good friends.” His jaw clenched, his eyes slightly narrowed. After a moment, he mumbled, “But that was a long time ago.”
She took a step back. It was almost as if he was trying to tell her something. Asking her to read between the lines. Did he have a point to all this? She looked at the wall of pictures again. For a second, she thought the cartoon cel of Gareth the Ghoul actually winked her. Her legs trembled. Stuttering, she backed away from the desk. “I—I’m going to be late.”
“You’re doing a remarkable job in the class, Miss Reed, and I expect big things from you.” The professor rose from his desk, his chair scraping against the floor. He shot her a rather awkward grin, as if he wasn’t used to smiling. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to be reassuring or intimidating. “I’ll be watching you,” he said.
Abbie stared at him, biting her lower lip. Okay! Intimidating it was.
The professor picked up the rain coat from the edge of the desk and slipped an arm into the sleeve, dismissing her. More than ready to amscray, she turned on her heel and rushed out his office.
* * * *
Despite pre-algebra and creative arts, Abbie thought of nothing else all day. The conversation with the Professor bothered her enough to bring it up with her therapist late that afternoon.
“So, what’s your father’s 411 on this professor?” Dr. Wachowski sat in an upholstered lounge chair with his legs crossed. Barely thirty, he looked like he could’ve been a student himself. Or at least trying to pass off as one. Wearing a powder-blue shirt open at the collar and brown Pali Hawaiian sandals, he carried the casual theme to his face with a reddish-brown beard beneath a crop of thick, uncombed, shaggy reddish-brown hair. Abbie sat on a couch across from him.
“Oh, no. I don’t bring up the past with Clinton Reed.” She glanced back out the window and watched the rain tap against the glass. She shifted on the couch but kept her eyes focused outside. The downpour wasn’t letting up.
There was a pause, and Dr. Wachowski tilted his head. “Do you ever think about it? Think about that night?”
“What?”Abbie turned away from the window. She caught a hint of the blue tattoo revealed by his open collar.
“The night your sister died.” Wachowski’s voice lowered, as if he was trying to make his words sound as gentle as possible. “Why don’t you tell me about that night?”
Chapter 4
Abbie’s answer to her therapist was abrupt, ending any possibility to continue that line of conversation. She never thought about that night. It seemed more like a bad dream now. One she didn’t want to remember. Or talk about. Or relive in any fashion.
She realized her grip on the little unicorn pendant was so tight that the horn actually pressed into the soft fleshy skin under her thumb. She released it and looked at the red indentation in her palm.
Dr. Wachowski leaned back in his seat and put down his pen and notebook. A blue and black tattoo wrapped around his left forearm and disappeared beneath the sleeve rolled-up to his elbow.
“The struggle is real. Hashtag: Don’t Go There” He raised a hand to his bushy beard, smoothing the hair, his voice steady. “You’ve been attending BHU for what, two months now? Talk to me about your swag. Who’s your posse?”
Abbie closed her eyes and considered the question. She could lay down, but remained sitting. It seemed rather cliché to actually lie on a couch across from the therapist. True, it might help her think about the answer. The only problem was, she didn’t like the question. She wasn’t sure why she was being so combative this afternoon. Probably because Professor Cunningham got under her skin. Maybe it was Wachowski’s attempt to sound hip and connect with college students. After a second, she finally said, “I have lots of friends.”
“Who are?”
“Clem, of course. He’s my best friend.”
“Your cat?” Dr. Wachowski shook his head. She could hear the disapproval in his voice. She didn’t realize he knew about Clem. Regardless, she wasn’t lying. Clem was her best friend in the whole word. Had been for the better part of five years. Obviously, that wasn’t the answer he wanted. Probing further, he asked, “Let’s get legit wichit. Gimme someone who can carry on a two-way conversation.”
Abbie shrugged, opening her eyes. “Clinton Reed. We talk every day. And my grandparents, of course.”
“I’m not talk’n about the fam.” He crossed his legs, resting his left foot on top his right kneecap. No socks. Just sandals that exposed a big toe with the same reddish-brown hair as his beard. It also revealed another tattoo spiraling up from his left ankle into his jeans. “Talk to me about your roomie?”
“Susan?” She looked away from him, returning her gaze to the gray, rainy world outside.
“She’s got swag, right?” He paused, as if waiting for Abbie to elaborate. When she didn’t, he added, “You two are tight.”
“We’re friendly, I guess. As long as I pay my rent on time.” Abbie chuckled at her little joke. Dr. Wachowski didn’t.
“Do you hangout, watch TV, cook a lil’ somethin’-somethin’ or talk-up the jam?”
“No, never.” Something flickered far back in her eyes. Susan had a life that moved at light speed, with bartending in the evenings and various boys in the mornings and her own friends in between. Susan was a couple of years older, but Abbie wasn’t really sure of her exact age. She often said, In the twenty-three years I’ve been on this earth, I’ve learned it’s okay to lie about your age. Susan was surely older than twenty-three. Still, she seemed to have quite a few friends at the University. Abbie would see them on campus from time to time, and sometimes in the apartment. Abbie rarely spoke to them. It didn’t necessarily bother her. It was just a fact. “Susan has her own friends. Her own life,” she said, shifting her leg on the couch.
“And you’re not included?”
“I don’t think Susan considers me someone to hang-out with or watch TV with.” She wanted to tell him that Susan deemed her a little weird. She wasn’t even sure that Susan liked her. “Susan thinks of me as someone to split the electric bill with.”
“Okay. What do you do when you come home?”
“I go to my room.” It’s what she did every day. Immediately. As soon as she walked through the front door. And she would shut the bedroom door and spend time with Clem, and watch old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on her laptop or study or both. Sometimes, she’d just sit on her bed and read. She liked real, physical books with pages as opposed to reading on her tablet. Most of the books she had to read for class were available only through her tablet, but not the books she read for pleasure. Those proudly crowded the bookcase in her room to the point she was running out of shelf space. And there were four shelves in that case. She’d bought every single one since moving to Tampa.
She had to leave her real collection back home. Her bedroom in Pembroke Pines was filled with hundreds of books. Books that she’d collected over her lifetime–from Green Eggs and Ham to Encyclopedia Brown to Little Women to every romantic suspense novel ever written by Sydney Sheldon. She wanted to take them, at least some of them, with her. Clinton Reed wouldn’t let her. She took a bus on the eight hour drive to Tampa, and only had room for Clem, two duffel bags of clothes, some jewelry and her seven season DVD box set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Now those same clothes were in the small closet, but her bedroom runneth over with new books. Lots of them. Soon she’d have to add another bookcase, then maybe another.
“And where do you chill and Netflix?” Wachowski’s question interrupted her introspection, and she answered him quickly.
“You mean, where do I spend my time?”
He nodded. “Where do you eat? Watch the tube?”
“In my room.”
“Doesn’t that seem…” He paused, caressing his bearded chin. “Dope?”
“No. I think it’s actually polite.” Abbie turned away from the window and looked at him. He’d picked up his notebook and jotted something down. She waited for him to finish. “She always has her friends over. I’d just be in the way.”
He scribbled another note. “Do you know that for a fact?”
“Well, I don’t see my companionship being a need she’s actively pursuing.” Abbie smiled, knowing that was a smart aleck comment. She couldn’t help herself.
“Abbie, I want you to do something for me.” He put down his pen. The notepad rested in his lap. “I want you to get all up in Susan’s bidness. Go out with her and her friends. Break out of your shell. Hashtag: Celebrate Yo-Self!”
“Oh, I don’t think she would—”
“I disagree.” He didn’t let Abbie indulge her insecurities. “Susan and her friends are yo party posse potential.”
“But Susan really isn’t the type of friend I’m looking for.”
He nodded. A knowing grin tipped the corners of his mouth. “So you are looking for friends?”
“I guess. Maybe.” Abbie knew he’d caught her and, honestly, he was probably right. She did long for friendship, but not friends like Susan. There wasn’t anyone at the University who she considered posse potential either. She wanted real, tried-and-tested friends-like-family cohorts. She wanted a Scoobie Gang, like the group of friends on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Buffy Summers, the fearless, pretty leader who shucks the shallow popular crowd to befriend the geeky, goofy Xander Harris and the shy brainiac Willow Rosenberg. Those were true friends. They had Buffy’s back. They had each other’s backs. Susan was a… Abbie thought about it a moment. Susan was really no more than an acquaintance. She hadn’t known Susan for more than a couple of months. And Susan would never be a Willow. Or a Xander. Or even a Rupert Giles.
She looked up. Dr. Wachowski was watching her, probably evaluating something she said. After a pause that stretched for several seconds, he asked, “So, what kinda Styles and Maliks make-up your One Direction?”
Abbie inhaled, deeply. One Direction? Really? Maybe he was older than thirty. There was no way she was going to tell him anything about the Scoobie Gang. He clearly wouldn’t get it. Buffy wasn’t dope. Buffy didn’t have swag. Abbie didn’t need him jotting that down too. Acquiescing to his request, she said, “Okay. Okay. I’ll ask Susan and her friends if they would like to do something... Sometime… Someday.”
He didn’t let her off that easy. “Something like what?”
“I don’t know.” She gave him an impatient shrug. “Watch TV?”
“How about something that gets you out of the apartment? Something that gets you out of your room.”
Abbie hopped off the couch and picked up her purse and jacket. “You know,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I think our hour is almost up.”
Dr. Wachowski leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands, looking for all the world as if he were about to lead her in prayer. He stared at her a moment, then said, “You only live once. So at least one time in your life, scream ‘YOLO’ in your bedroom, your office, your school, maybe your funeral. And laugh. Celebrate Yo-Self!”
A few minutes later, Abbie stepped out of Dr. Wachowski’s office and shut the door behind her. She turned to the waiting room, filled with dusty plants and five empty chairs. In the sixth, a young man with thick rimmed glasses sat reading a copy of Time magazine. His white, heavily starched, button-down shirt and red tie seemed at odds with his sun-tanned skin.
He glanced up, and Abbie saw the fluorescent lighting reflect in his smeared lenses. He removed his glasses and wiped them clean using the bottom flap of his shirt. He had dark wavy hair atop a long, oval head and a thin, lanky frame. Sitting down, he looked to be easily over six foot. She watched him a moment as he put his glasses back on. They exchanged a quick glance.
The door behind her opened, almost hitting Abbie square in the back. She moved as Dr. Wachowski poked his head out his office and motioned to the young man. The boy got up from the chair and brushed past Abbie. She looked away. He slipped into the office as Dr. Wachowski patted him on the shoulder. “You’re look’n legit. Those new threads?”
He shut the door behind them.
Abbie stared at the empty waiting room for a minute, considering the young man and wondering what kind of problems someone like him could possibly have. For a second, she wondered if he was socially awkward too. It was a silly idea, though. She’d only noticed the boy because Dr. Wachowski had filled her head with pointless ideas about needing friends and hanging out with Susan.
Still, she could imagine him being her Xander Harris.
Dismissing the notion, Abbie rushed out of the waiting room into the building hallway. Clutching her purse close to her side, she made her way down from the third floor to the double glass entrance doors, zipping her light jacket to protect her from the rain. Outside, she stood on the top step of the front stairs for a moment, listening to doors shut behind her.
Between the wind and the downpour, she knew it would take an hour to walk home. She had a solid ten blocks ahead. Abbie shivered against the rain. An angry gust rattled the snap-hooks on the flag pole in front of the Cypress Center Building. They clinked like some kind of Morse code message. Another gush of wind lifted her purse, as if to snatch it away. She held it tighter. Dr. Wachowski’s voice ran through her head again, saying, I want you to get involved with something Susan is doing. Abbie wondered if Susan would be willing to pick her up at the corporate park, in the rain. For the briefest moment, she actually considered dialing Susan’s number.
But why go to the trouble? She’d probably be bartending by now anyway.
Abbie slipped her purse under her jacket, then raised the back shoulders of the fabric over her head to protect her hair. She looked like the Hunchback from Notre Dame, darting across the corporate park to the sidewalk that ran along Fletcher Street.
* * * *
Coming out the double doors of the Cypress Center Building, he stood on the top step. The wind whipped the flaps of his tan trench coat tight to his legs. It almost blew the brown hat from his head. He squashed the brim down tighter, hiding his face. Looking down the steps toward the sidewalk below, he watched Abbie Reed make her way across the parking lot toward Fletcher Street. He wondered if she’d called the tall roommate to pick her up, then decided she hadn’t if she was braving the wind and downpour. It would take her an hour to walk home from here.
He took a notepad from underneath his trench coat. He clicked a pen and jotted down, “5:15 PM – Leaving therapist’s office. Headed west on Fletcher.” He slipped the notepad back under the trench coat.
Walking down the steps, he kept a hand on top his hat, holding it down. The snap-hooks on the flag pole in front of the building clanked together. They rattled in the wind. He ignored them, solely focused on Abbie Reed’s blurry image ahead.
Chapter 5
Passing cars splashed funnels of water as Abbie made her way along Fletcher Street to a shopping center anchored by a Publix supermarket. A nail salon, a Super Cuts, and a Little Caesar’s Pizza lined-up on its right. A small liquor store bucked the corner on the left. Abbie headed toward the liquor store, and into the alley that ran along the back.
The buildings blocked the wind, but barely hedged the rain. It fell in sheets like a solid wall of water over the backs of the buildings. Abbie remained in the center of the alleyway, sloshing forward. Puddles turned into running rivers that washed over her already waterlogged tennis shoes. Squinting, she looked over her shoulder.
Behind her, a man rounded the corner of t
he liquor store. He was bundled up in a tan trench coat. A brown hat was pulled so low it covered his face. He looked saturated and cold. Clearly he was fighting the wind and rain, just like she was.
Abbie looked ahead again. The back alley emptied to a parking lot. From there, she could either follow the sidewalk along busy Fletcher Street, tolerating car after car splashing her along the curb. Or, she could cut through the back alley of another chain of shopping centers. Walking behind the stores would take her into Magnolia Park that ran on either side of the Hillsborough River. She could cross the river at the pedestrian bridge and find cover in the Athletic Center on the University campus. It took her out of her way, but the University was closer. There she could find some dry clothes to change into and wait out the storm.
Abbie headed for the campus.
At first the wind was at her back and it seemed like the rain was finally letting up. Dripping wet, Abbie turned into the alley behind another block of stores. She walked briskly behind a Sports Authority, where the delivery bay doors were rolled up and three men were standing at the opening, smoking and laughing. A wall of water rushed over the eaves, as if a waterfall separated the men from the alley. They ignored her and she ignored them. She rushed through the rain. The downpour intensified again, and water streamed into a retention pond on her left. She splashed through the puddles and passed the backside of a Tijuana Flats Mexican Restaurant. Its muffled Mariachi music competed with the thumping rain, and that somehow made her feel lonelier. She was outside, in the weather, and none of the patrons even knew it. They were inside, dining and drinking and visiting. They had no idea she had passed them. Only she knew, she thought as she headed toward the last block of stores.
The alley brought her out to Cass Street. It was deserted. Quiet. And, she walked down the street alone.