by Amy Sparling
My phone goes off and it’s a text from Mom. I smile when I check her message, just in case the heart breaker on the couch is curious as to who I’m texting. For all he knows, it’s another guy. A hotter guy. A guy who doesn’t break hearts.
Mom: You awake yet?
Me: Yep. I’m alive and well.
Mom: You should get on the road before traffic hits so you’re not late.
Me: Late for what?
I can’t help myself. I look up casually from my phone and see Park, doing exactly what I hoped he would be doing. Watching me. I give him an apathetic smile and my phone beeps again, which makes me take all of my attention away from him as I check the reply.
Mom: College registration is today. Don’t tell me you forgot.
“Shit,” I say under my breath. Of course I forgot! Yesterday, I was a girl who had my life in order. It was the biggest day of my best friend’s life and I was the person in charge of making sure it went off smoothly. I had schedules and notebooks and an agenda. I was supposed to drive home after the wedding, get a good night’s sleep, and then head to LCC and get a jump start on registration. Three of my classes are basic freshmen courses but one is only offered by one teacher at one time of the day and it’s very hard to get into.
Mixed Media Art & Design, taught by Patricia St. Claire is going to make or break me. While everyone else knows exactly what they’re going to college for, I’m still kind of lost on the whole choosing a career thing. Mom had encouraged me to choose something I’m passionate about, and since there is no Bachelors of Binge-Watching Netflix, I decided to choose my inspirational quotes.
More specifically, making the quotes into an art form. Hey, it could be a career…maybe not a very lucrative one. But Patricia St. Claire is a renowned mixed media artist who has had her art pieces shown all over the world. She travels around the country now, teaching her class to various colleges. This year, she just happens to be giving one single class at LCC. I have to take it. Next year, I can fill my schedule with boring core classes but this year I must be in her class.
It is absolutely essential that I get to the college on time to register. And now, as I check the time, I realize I have to leave like, five minutes ago if I have any hope of getting my class.
“Everything okay?” It’s the first non-sarcastic thing that’s come out of Park’s mouth in the whole day. I shake my head no. “I have to go back home. College registration today…shit…shit…shit…” I mutter the last part more to myself than to him. I toss him his keys, which I had still been holding, and rush through the apartment getting all of my stuff ready. My bridesmaid dress is unzipped in the back and wrinkled from being tossed on the chair, but I don’t have time to put it back in the garment bag. Folded up and shoved under my arm, the dress gets even more squished as I run back to Bayleigh’s bedroom and start gathering my things. Luckily, it isn’t much.
Park leans against the couch when I emerge a few seconds later, eyes scanning the room for anything I might have forgotten. “Well it was…er…nice, I guess, to hang out with you,” I say with my arms full of stuff. “Now could you please open the front door for me so I can get out of here?”
“I’ll be happy to open the door for us, but first I need to turn off the television.” He leans over the coffee table, grabs the remote control and powers off the TV. “There,” he says, sliding his palms over his pockets. “I’m ready if you are.”
“Uh…you’re not going with me.” It doesn’t sound as sarcastic as I had hoped it would, and by the carefree look on Park’s face, I’d say he didn’t catch any of my sarcasm at all.
“Sure, I am,” he says, smiling at me in a way that’s somehow intimidating. “I have nothing else to do.”
“You could be living your own life which has nothing to do with me?” I suggest. He doesn’t seriously think he’s coming with me, does he?
He shakes his head. “My life is on hold until they mail me my new card. I can’t go home and my best friend is on his honeymoon. I have no life right now. So you’re stuck with me.”
“Well, I do have a life,” I say, edging toward the door. “So it looks like you’re stuck with yourself.”
I shuffle around the stuff in my hands so I can open the door myself, but Park dives in front of it, pressing his palm to the door. “Aw, come on. I want to go.”
The thought of spending the next few hours with him sends a chill down my spine and I’m not sure if it’s a good chill or a bad one. I put my hand on my hip, as best as I can with all the crap in my arms. “Why? It’s course registration at a community college. It’s boring.”
“So? I’ll be bored here.”
I try to step around him but he blocks the door. “It’s like an hour away.”
“Would you believe me if I said I’m just not ready to stop hanging out with you?”
Holy crap, I think he’s actually serious. I swallow. Shrug. Try to look cool. “Of course I’d believe you. You haven’t made yourself out to be a liar. At least not in the short while that I’ve known you.”
“Great. Now we can go.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I say, feeling like maybe honesty is the only thing that will work on someone so stubborn. “I barely know you and it sounds like it’ll be super awkward to spend so long in the car with you. And what are you going to do when I get to the college? Stand around and be bored? It could take a while, you know.”
“I’ve got three to five days, Becca. The United States Postal Service is freakishly slow, probably because Jace lives in the middle of freaking nowhere. I can’t possibly stay here all day with nothing to do.”
“You’re a big boy. You could find something to do.”
“I already found something,” he says with a tilt of his head that makes my knees week. “I’m hanging out with you.”
“No offence or anything,” I say, hating myself with every single word. “But I don’t think I want to hang out with you.”
“Aw, come on. The maid of honor and the best man have to be friends. It’s bad luck for the bride and groom if they’re not.”
I shuffle the dress under my arm so my hand is free to reach for the door. “That is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He beats me to it and pulls open the door, brandishing his hand to let me go outside first. “It might be stupid, but it worked. I’ll drive.”
Park doesn’t back down when we get out to the parking lot and I argue that he has no credit card and therefore shouldn’t be wasting gas in his truck when my car will work just fine. He just pulls out his wallet, flashing a stack of cash and says he’s got it covered. I don’t mind letting him drive and I wouldn’t care at all if this were a different situation. But my house is an hour away and if he drives me to the college then he’ll have to drive me back here to get my car and at any moment my mom could call and wonder why it’s taking me so long to get home. But like any girl under the influence of a massive crush, I just throw all my stuff in the back of Park’s truck and go along for the ride, consequences be damned.
Chapter 8
It’s oddly refreshing when Park doesn’t act like a flirtatious d-bag on the drive to the college. In fact, he’s acting like a genuinely cool guy. We instantly agree on which radio station to listen to, which is already an improvement on when I would hang out with Braedon last year. He was obsessed with heavy metal and I, well, wasn’t. Park doesn’t seem to be obsessed with anything, at least not that I can see.
He’s pretty laid back just like I would expect a guy from California to be. Jace is from California after all, and he’s the most laid back person on earth. When he had told me he was going to propose to Bayleigh, he hadn’t even seemed nervous at all. Park has a lot of these same qualities.
“So tell me about your classes,” Park asks after patiently waiting for the newest Taylor Swift song to end. I’d been singing along to it since I couldn’t think of anything to say. Now that it’s over and a commercial break has taken its place, small t
alk has to resume.
“I’m really excited about one class. It’s an art class that’s hard to get into. The rest of them are just boring first year classes.” I’m proud of the way I keep it a low key reply. After all that talk of him calling me the sweet, good girl, I definitely don’t need him seeing the side of me that gets all girly and spastic when I talk about Patricia St. Claire’s class.
“All of college is boring,” he says. “I never finished it and I never will.”
“How long did you go?” I ask.
“Two and a half years full time and then another semester half time. I just couldn’t take it anymore. It’s all dumbass essays and reading the world’s most boring books.”
“Yeah that’s probably true, but how are you going to get a career and all that stuff if you don’t graduate college?”
He gives me a sideways glance like I’ve just asked why the world isn’t flat. “Really? Do you know who I am?”
“Of course I do. You’re the best man and I’m the maid of honor.”
His quizzical expression melts into a contemplative smile. His eyes go back to the road and he’s silent for a while but I can tell he wants to say something. I keep quiet because for some reason the air has changed in this truck and it feels like I’ve said something I probably shouldn’t have.
It’s probably only a few moments but it feels like much longer before he finally talks again. “I don’t need a college education to get a career because I already have a career. I’m a professional motocross racer.”
“Isn’t that something you can only do when you’re young? What are your plans for after that?”
“Jeremy McGrath raced into his thirties,” he says it as if I have any idea who Jeremy McGrath is. “I have a ton of sponsorships and I don’t see myself quitting anytime soon. It’d take some kind of epic injury to keep me off a bike. And if that happened, I’ve got insurance out the ass.”
I can’t help myself—I have to ask. “Do you make a lot of money with racing? Enough to last you until you’re old?”
He laughs so hard it makes me jump. “Oh, Becca. You’re definitely one of the good girls.”
“Yeah, I’m just going to ignore that comment.” He laughs again but it’s to himself, some private joke that he just can’t get enough of. I lean forward and change the radio station just to have something to do. “So you’re just going to ride dirt bikes for a living and never get a real job, huh? Must be nice. I’ll be stuck in a cubicle or something until I’m old enough to retire and then sit at my house until I die.”
“Wow, Maid of Honor. Way to harness the power of positive thinking.”
I shrug. “If this art thing doesn’t work out then I have no idea what I’ll do as a career, but it’ll probably be stupid and boring. Unfortunately, I wasn’t born with any dirt bike skills. I guess I could work at C&C forever and brush up on my ability to dive into a foam pit…”
He turns down the radio. “Art thing?”
“It’s nothing. I can’t make a career out of art.”
He looks like he wants to say more but I turn my attention to the window next to me and the trees and beyond the highway.
“I’m sure you’re good at something,” he says. “You’re young. You’ll figure it out. Or you can work on your art and marry a rich motocross guy.”
Butterflies burst to life in my stomach. I can practically feel my palms turn to sweat. I look over at him with a coy smile. “I could, huh?”
“Absolutely. He’d be damn lucky to have you.”
I look out of the window so he won’t see my goofy smile. And, just in case he did see it, I decide to give him something to think about. “He’d never get that lucky.”
Chapter 9
Lawson Community College is a far cry from the universities shown in movies. It’s certainly nothing like the Yale campus on the show Gilmore Girls. When I was younger I used to watch my mom’s DVDs of Gilmore Girls and imagine myself in Rory’s position when I was finally eighteen. I’d be super smart and attend an Ivy League college like Yale and I’d drink from the coffee carts and live in beautiful dorm rooms.
Then I actually turned eighteen and realized my life would be anything but Gilmore Girl-esque. My grades weren’t bad but they weren’t especially good. I was a solid B student with a small aptitude for art class. If Ivy League universities accepted people based on their ability to daydream until lunch time and then resume classes and daydream until the final bell rang, then yeah, I’d have been offered a full scholarship. As it is, I knew there was no point in even applying.
It’s okay though. I don’t want a stressful high-profile life. College, to me, is just a necessary evil that’s required to obtain some kind of semi-decent job that will get me through the chores of life: renting an apartment, buying a new car, paying the bills and taking a once a year vacation that I can’t really afford.
Yep, my standards aren’t set very high. I’d like to just get by in life. I don’t need to make a splash. I don’t need to be some famous celebrity or the world’s smartest scientist.
“This is it?” Park says as he pulls into the parking lot named Parking Lot A. An old and fading sign near the entrance tells us that the admissions office is to the right. Park turns off the engine and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Where’s the rest of the college?”
“This is it,” I say. “Look, there’s like five buildings.”
“I thought everything was bigger in Texas. This is smaller than the dorms at UCLA.”
“This isn’t a prestigious college, Park. This is basic community college. The easiest, quickest way I’ll make it through some kind of higher education.”
“Why are you trying to get through it so quickly? You don’t want that college experience?”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask. When we get out of the truck and start making our way toward the admissions building, I feel a wave of nervous energy pulse through my veins. I’m already admitted into the college. My paperwork and verification is all good. I even have a small scholarship from writing an essay that should pay for my first semester. All I have to do is sign up for my classes. This shouldn’t be a nerve-wracking event.
Park shoves his hands in his pockets. “You know. Parties, boozing, hooking up with a ton of guys. Starbucks coffee and Ugg boots. The typical college experience.”
“Wow, is that what you think of women?”
“Not women. College girls. I’ve never met a single one that didn’t just want to get drunk and hook up with me.”
“And did you oblige them?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Someone’s a slut,” I say in this fake jokey kind of way as I elbow him in the ribs. I want him to think I’m cool and laid back and that I’m not completely intimidated and kind of horrified at his omission. I’ve had sex exactly zero times and have been drunk even fewer times than that.
“Hardly,” is his reply.
“Sure sounds like slut behavior to me. I bet you can’t even count how many women you’ve slept with.” It’s a complete bait move and we both know it. I’m dying to know his answer to this question even though it’s absolutely none of my business. But you see, I have this problem. This huge, astronomical problem and I am fairly certain that if I let the problem get any bigger, my brain will burst. The problem is this: I am not sure if I want to have a crush on Nolan Park. Sure he’s gorgeous and he claims to be rich and before Bayleigh had met Jace she would have told me that gorgeous and rich was the world’s most amazing combination and that I should date this guy as soon as possible. But now I’m not so sure those two superficial aspects should determine if I like someone or not.
Anyone can be good looking. It’s a natural born trait. It’s not like he had to work for his jaw line or his blue eyes or that cocky smile. It’s not like he wakes up every morning and spends an hour shampooing, drying and flat ironing his hair like I do. He’s just hot and that’s not even something he can control.
I try tel
ling myself to let go of the superficial reasons for liking someone. That swooning over Dean and Sam on Supernatural is fine because it’s just a TV show, but in real life, you can’t pick a partner based on those characteristics alone. You need sustenance. You need romance. Love. Friendship. Little things that a guy does only for you that lets you know you’re the special one in his life.
Anyone can be a drunken college girl getting laid. That is not something I aspire to be. So maybe I shouldn’t allow myself to have this stupid crush on him. We approach the building with the large metal letters that say ADMISSIONS on the front and I have to swallow a few times to get my heart to go back to where it belongs. Park picks up his pace and beats me to the door. In one swift motion, he pulls it open and waits for me to go through. It’s such a natural movement for him that I almost don’t realize what’s happening.
He’s holding the door open for me. He’s smiling. He’s being a gentleman. That has to count for something, right?
Registration goes smoothly, which is a relief because I’m not sure I could have handled the embarrassment of having something go wrong with my payment or paperwork. And if I hadn’t been able to get into Patricia St. Claire’s class, I would have probably broken down and cried right there in the middle of the college library.
Luckily, I did get into her class. I was the fourth person who signed up. I know it’s kind of stupid to think things like this, but I was a little shocked that only three people had signed up already. She’s a famous artist! Students should be lining up, excitedly waiting to sign up for her class. But I guess her artistic genius is a little too profound for the lame minds of Lawson, Texas.
Park notices a Starbucks kiosk in the cafeteria and mentions that he could totally use some caffeine right now. “Go get some,” I tell him, reaching into my purse. “I’m going to step over here and call my mom to let her know I’m registered.”
As much as I’d like to wait in line with him for some coffee, there’s finally a convenient opportunity to get away from him so I can call her. I’ve been too scared to call her while he’s around—he can’t be trusted. He would say something that would either embarrass me or make Mom ask way too many questions. As far as she knows, I drove myself to the college and registered all by myself.