by Brit Benson
“All sorts.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Ivy.”
“Kelley.”
“Name one.”
If I thought I’d stump her, I was very, very wrong. Ivy Rivenbark doesn’t go into any decision without having thought it out and done research. Preparation is key.
Ticking off on her fingers, she started listing.
“Well, there could be a natural disaster limiting the variety of available safety vehicles. I could get stranded in the middle of a road trip and the only rental is a stick. I could need to drive someone to the hospital and their car is a stick. Or the apocalypse, Kelley. Zombie apocalypse, alien invasion, volcanic eruption, fascist governmental coup. The possibilities are endless.”
She leveled me with a stare, daring me to contradict her.
“Zombie apocalypse? Alien invasion? Do you believe those would happen?”
“No, of course not, but I needed to list as many things as possible,” she said matter-of-factly, waving her hand in the air as if this conversation was completely normal.
“Plus, driving a stick would make you feel like a badass, empowered woman who ‘don’t need no man and anything he can do, you could do better’?”
She grinned widely.
“Most definitely. I want to learn to drive stick, and you’re going to teach me.”
And that was that.
Which is why, instead of working on my reading for my history class, I am about to spend my Sunday evening sitting in a truck I borrowed from a guy I play soccer with, in a vacant parking lot, teaching my best friend how to drive stick shift.
The last time we were in a vehicle in this capacity, we were in high school and I was helping her practice for her driver’s test. Ivy doesn’t handle being told what to do very well, and at sixteen, I didn’t really know how to give instruction without sounding like a condescending asshole. We ended up not speaking for three days, and that was fucking torture. We may have grown up a bit since then, but I’m still nervous as fuck.
Please let our friendship survive this.
“Okay, Kelley. Ask me to recite the steps of driving a manual transmission vehicle.”
“Ivy Rivenbark, please recite the steps of driving a manual transmission vehicle.”
“First, I put the gear in neutral, then I press the clutch all the way to the floor with my left foot.”
“Correct.”
“Then, I turn the ignition key.”
“Yep. Continue.”
“Then, I make sure the parking brake is off, and press the brake with my right foot.”
I nod and gesture for her to keep going.
“I put the car into first gear, take my right foot off the brake and move it to the gas pedal.”
“Yep. Now comes the hard part,” I tease, and she flicks her eyes in my direction and scrunches up her nose.
“I slowly begin to take my foot off the clutch with my left foot and gently transfer that pressure onto the gas pedal with my right foot until I am only pressing the gas.”
“Congratulations! You’re hypothetically driving in first gear. Now let’s put it into practice.”
“Don’t you want to know how I switch gears?”
“Let’s just master first gear right now, Ives. We can learn shifting next time.”
“Fine. Okay. Yes,” she says while nodding her head, and then mumbles to herself, “You can do this. You’re a powerful, fierce mountain lion of greatness.” I bark out a laugh.
“Hush,” she scolds me. “Geoff came up with it, and I like it so I’m keeping it.”
I put my palms up. “Okay, Ivy Mountain Lion, let’s see what you’ve got.”
She takes another deep breath, grips the steering wheel, presses hard on the gas, and then promptly kills the truck, jerking us both violently in our seats.
“Whoa, buddy, what was that? That didn’t happen in any of the YouTube tutorials.”
“That was you effectively stalling the engine.”
She looks at me with wide eyes. “Is it okay?”
“Yeah, Ives.” I laugh. “It’s fine. Now chop-chop, try again.”
She blows out a breath, fixes her face into a determined glare, and tries once more.
After four more attempts, and four more violent stalls, Ivy succeeds, and we crawl around the parking lot in first gear.
“Woohoo! Look at me! Danica Patrick, I’m coming for you!”
“You’re fucking ridiculous.”
“Whatever, you love me, so you’ll deal with it.”
I laugh and nod. She’s got me there. “Only for you, Ives. Only ever for you.”
“Can we try to shift now?” She dances excitedly in her seat.
“Yeah, Ivy,” I say with a chuckle. “Shift away.”
I’ve got reading to finish and lesson plans to review, but right now, there’s no place I’d rather be.
6
“You’re back early!” Bailey chirps from our kitchen table as I walk into our apartment on Tuesday evening.
“I didn’t feel like starting another practice test,” I say as I kick off my shoes and head toward my bedroom. “Plus, I knew you were off tonight, and I haven’t seen you in almost a week.”
“You just saw me this morning before you left for class.” Bailey laughs.
I walk into my bedroom, drop my bag next to my desk, and promptly change into some yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt. Heading back into the kitchen, I fill a small mason jar with white wine from the box in the fridge and grab some cookies from the dish on the counter.
“Seeing you in passing doesn’t count,” I say through a mouthful of chocolate chips and caramel. “We need some girl time.”
“I am always down for girl time. Are you ready for the Indy 500?”
“Not yet. Kelley wouldn’t let me leave the parking lot, but I can shift all the gears without stalling.” I hold my glass of wine up in the air and mime shifting gears with my other hand, doing a little shimmy and just narrowly avoiding a spill.
“Nice. Zombie Apocalypse, do your worst.” She laughs with me, and then gestures toward the plate full of cookies. “What do you think?”
“They’re good,” I say enthusiastically.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod and stuff more cookie into my mouth. “Like, Praise the Sugar Goddess good. I think these are my favorite so far.”
“Really? That’s great. This is a new recipe. I took the chocolate chip cookies I made last weekend but kind of combined it with those caramel cheesecake bars that the guys liked.”
I widen my eyes, thoroughly impressed, and take another bite. “They’re really good, Bailey. I think Kelley would love these, too. You think this is the winner?”
“I don’t know yet.” Bailey shrugs. “I’ve got a few more recipes I want to try.”
“Well, as always, I volunteer as tribute to taste test any and all of your concoctions,” I say with a smile, and she grins back at me. “I also brought you a new legal pad for your recipes. I noticed your old one was almost out.”
“Oooh, thanks.” Bailey bats her eyelashes at me. “You’re too good to me.”
I met Bailey Barnes sophomore year. We both transferred to Butler University, and she was my random roommate placement in the dorms. I’ve heard horror stories about nightmare roommates, but Bailey and I hit it off right away. We got along so well that we decided to room together again junior year, and then this year, we got this apartment.
Appearance-wise, we’re opposites. Where I’m a plain light blonde, Bailey’s hair is a dark brown, probably only a shade away from full-fledged black, and she currently has the ends dyed a bright turquoise. Bailey’s skin is permanently sun-kissed, and I’m pale and freckled. My eyes are a common shade of blue, and Bailey’s are golden amber framed by the longest, thickest, blackest eyelashes. I love her eyes. They honestly sparkle.
Kelley likes to joke that Bailey and I are like symbolic images of good and evil in
human form. Last year for Halloween, she and I dressed up as the angel and devil on Jesse’s shoulders. I have a picture framed on my dresser.
“How’s work been?” I ask as I fill her a glass of wine and top mine off. The one I fill for her is a pint glass from Keggers. Pretty sure she stole it.
“Good. Since Jada promoted me to a lead bartender, I’ve been getting more hours, but I’ve had to get creative with balancing homework and baking.” Bailey and I take our wine into the living room and sit on the couch.
“I’m not complaining about waking up to find you’ve baked three dozen cookies miraculously overnight, but don’t overwork yourself. And let me know if there’s anything I can help with.”
Bailey has been working as a bartender at Bar 31, one of the popular campus bars, since last year. At the beginning of this semester, one of the bakeries in the city announced a cookie baking contest open to all the students on campus. The winner gets a $2,000 prize and their cookie will be included on the shop’s menu for a month. I’ve never seen Bailey so excited. Since then, she’s been trying new recipes whenever possible.
“When are the submissions due?” I ask, even though I already know because the date is circled in purple highlighter on the calendar hanging on our fridge.
“October third,” she says excitedly. “The submission and judging are both on October third. It’s going to be broadcast live on The Morning Show on Channel 5 News, too.” She looks at me, nervous excitement all over her face. “You’re still coming, right? I know the LSAT is the next weekend, but you’re not going to be too busy cramming last minute practice tests to come watch me, right?”
“Bailey, I wouldn’t miss this contest for anything. Besides,” I add, “if I don’t know what I need to know for the LSAT by then, there’s no hope for me.”
Bailey looks at me earnestly and smiles. “You’re gonna crush the LSAT, V.”
“Thank you, B.” I smile back. “And you’re gonna crush this cookie contest.” I mean it, too. Bailey is freaking talented. The recipes she comes up with are always creative and delicious.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say with a grin, “are you going to tell me where you were the other night? You weren’t here when I got home...or when I left for class...”
She pops a brow and smiles coyly. “I checked in and shared my location with you.”
“Ha, yeah, and you were off campus in a townhouse! I Google Earthed it.”
She rolls her eyes at me with a smile. She knows I’m over-protective and a worrier. I’m not ashamed of it. Hence why we always share our locations and send check-in texts.
“Well,” she takes a slow sip of her wine, “I might have met someone…”
I widen my eyes excitedly and can’t help my suggestive smile. “Why didn’t you tell me the second it happened? Name? Credentials?”
“It’s not a big deal.” She takes another sip from her glass and shrugs it off in a very Bailey way. “I met him in the baking aisle at the grocery store, and we had a good time.”
“You gonna see him again?” I ask. Bailey dates, but she doesn’t get invested. Guys are a fun pastime, a stress reliever, and that’s it.
“Dunno yet.” She crinkles her nose, and I watch her eyes flick to where her phone sits on the coffee table. Interesting.
“Oh, I wanted to ask,” she blurts suddenly, “what happened Friday? You were already home when I got home from work, but it didn’t sound like anyone was with you...” Bailey trails off and raises her eyebrows, effectively turning the tables on me.
“Ugh. I came home early. The guy I went home with was terrible.”
Bailey laughs. “Oh no! What do you mean terrible? Like he had a small peen?” She wiggles her pinky finger, causing me to lose it in a fit of giggles.
“No! Gosh, no. He was, um, definitely fine in that department.” I widen my eyes for emphasis. “But he ended up being a bigger jerk than I wanted to deal with.”
“Oh, ew. That’s worse than...” and she wiggles her pinky finger again.
“True. I’ll take an average-sized, uh, tool over a tool bag any day. Big doesn’t always equate to good.”
“Truth. Sometimes big is just some meathead throwing it around in all the wrong ways thinking he’s a baller.” She flails her arm around in front of her in demonstration and I laugh when she splashes wine on her shirt.
“Shit!” She giggles and swipes at the spill with her other hand. “See? No finesse.”
“Right? Like, you can take your extra inches and trade them in for some skill and basic knowledge of the female anatomy. Ya Neanderthal.”
“So anyway,” Bailey says after our giggles have faded. “What did the big dick dumbass do?”
“Well, first, he wouldn’t go down on me, which okay whatever, that’s not all that unusual,” I say with a sigh. “But he tried to act like he didn’t have a condom!”
“What! Like, he lied?”
“Yep. He lied and then fed me the ‘I can’t feel you good with a condom’ line.” I try to say it in my best pea-brain caveman voice, which is now how Brock sounds in my memories.
“Gross. What did you do?”
“I told him no way in heck was I having sex without a condom.”
“Good. We don’t want no STDs or baby dumbasses!”
“That’s not even the end of it. When I told him I was leaving, he called me fat.”
“What the fuck?”
“I know! Well, actually, he said I had a fat ass,” I whisper the cuss word and raise my eyebrows for emphasis.
Bailey snorts. “You do got a fat ass, though.”
I giggle and take a sip. “This is true.”
“Cheers to fat asses!” Bailey exclaims and holds her glass up to clink with mine.
“Why do guys do that, though? Resort to insulting a woman’s body if they don’t get what they want?” I muse with a huff. “And why does everyone act like fat is a dirty word? It shouldn’t be.”
“No, it shouldn’t be. And the guys who do that do it ‘cause they think that a woman’s appearance is the only thing valuable about them and they want to feel superior by doing the most damage in the shortest amount of time.” She flashes me a smirk. “Joke’s on them, though, because we’re wising up and realizing that we’re worth so much more than how men see us. And fat ass bitches like you and me? We’re gonna dismantle the patriarchy, one big dick dumbass at a time.”
“But, B, you don’t have a fat butt.”
She barks out a laugh.
“Revision! Fat ass bitches and skinny ass bitches are gonna dismantle the patriarchy!” She lifts her glass again. “Cheers to the rise of all ass-having women. Fuck the patriarchy.”
“To women!” We both take a giant gulp, and then Bailey’s face contorts with disgust.
“What a douche.” She shakes her head and I sigh.
“Yeppers.”
“So, you just took an Uber home?”
“I tried, but the wait time was crazy, so I called Kelley for a ride.”
Bailey gets quiet, and when I look over at her, she’s looking at me skeptically.
“What?”
“You called Kelley to come pick you up from a failed hookup,” she states for clarification.
“Yeah. I texted first. He was still awake. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Seriously, why is she looking at me like that?
Bailey sets her wine glass on the coffee table, and then meets my eyes. “Ivy Jean Rivenbark, that man is in love with you. And normally I’d say that’s his problem and not your responsibility, because it is his problem and not your responsibility, but you act like you don’t know.”
“You’ve been reading too many of your romance novels,” I say with a forced chuckle, trying to laugh it off. For being so cynical about her own relationships, Bailey certainly loves a good fictional love story. Now she’s trying to create her own with me and Kelley as the main characters.
“Maybe you need to start reading them,” she says point
edly, and I roll my eyes. “Ivy, you can’t tell me you don’t know that he’s in love with you.”
“He’s not in love with me, Bailey. We’re just friends.” I pick up my glass and take a drink, tracing my fingers over the etching on the side. “We’ve been friends forever.”
“V. He’s in love with you, and I’m pretty sure you’re in—”
“No.” I put my palm up and cut her off. “We aren’t having this conversation, B. I love you but listen, Kelley and I are friends. We’ve been friends since we were fourteen. The only time we weren’t friends was when we let hormones get in the way, and that cannot happen again. And I do not have the time, energy, or emotional stability to commit to a romantic relationship anyway. I have no desire to try, okay? We don’t see each other like that. We can’t. So please drop it. Okay?”
I hold my gaze firmly on her. I don’t blink. I don’t back down. This is a line for me; I will not cross it.
Finally, she nods and lets out a long sigh.
“Wanna watch a serial killer documentary?” she asks, and I silently send up a thank you that she took mercy on me and changed the subject.
“Yes, please. Serial killer documentaries, cookies, and wine; these are a few of my favorite things.”
Bailey laughs, picks up the remote and flips on the television, and the tension that was once suffocating dissipates. I send up another thank you to the powers that be that I have someone like Bailey in my life and settle in for a girls’ night with my other bestie.
* * *
“Hey, Mom,” I say into the phone as I walk to the library after classes on Thursday. I’ve talked to Jacob a few times this week, but this is the first time Mom’s been around when I called. “How’s work?”
“The usual, sweetie. Beth Anne quit finally so I got some of the girls training someone new. And Frank—you know Frank? The older gentleman who works in the kitchen—well, his daughter had her baby, so he took off the weekend to go see ‘em and I had to move Nicky from fry to line and move Josiah from bussing to fry. You know. It’s always somethin’.”
“Jeez, Mom. When was your last day off before today?” I ask, and when she starts to answer, I add, “I mean a real day off; not a day when you only work a single instead of a double.”