by Dahlia Adler
I’m pretty sure I’m going to go crazy as I count down the minutes until the school day ends at 2:37. I’m meeting Dev at CCC at three o’clock, though I don’t know whether he needs to believe he’s actually on a college tour or if he’s just collecting proof for his parents.
By the time the bell rings, I’ve bitten my nails down to nothing, decided my outfit reeks of Goodwill (which makes sense, seeing as it was entirely purchased there), and reminded myself a hundred times that we’re just friends hanging out and there’s nothing to be nervous about. But I am nervous and I don’t know why and I hate myself for it.
Without Vic’s phone, I’m out of luck for music, though I jiggle the radio knobs a zillion times in vain, just because I’m so desperate for it. Finally, I exhale loudly into the car and call Vic; I need some noise to keep me company.
Her stupid phone goes straight to voice mail.
When I pull into the parking lot, I’m singing “Me and Bobby McGee” to myself, which is a terrible idea because I can’t hit any of the notes in the chorus and my throat’s a little raw from trying. Whatever. I find a spot and sit there for a minute, then rub cherry Chapstick onto my lips. Then there’s nothing left to do, but I’m frozen in the driver’s seat. What if he doesn’t show up? What if I spend an hour standing at the campus map where we agreed to meet, staring at my watch and humming Janis to myself, freezing my ass off in the November chill while he and Sara are sitting at home, laughing—
A knock at my window scares the shit out of me and I jump up so high in my seat I for sure would’ve hit the ceiling if my seat belt weren’t strapping me down, pulling me back to my seat with butt-bruising force. When I finally catch my breath, I turn and see Dev’s huge grin on the other side of the window, even more blinding white than I remember it.
I roll down the window. “You know, if you give me a heart attack, you’re gonna have to show yourself around Charytan, and good luck figuring out what’s safe on the menu at Joe’s Diner without an insider.”
He laughs. “Sorry, I saw you pull in and I couldn’t help it. Though I had no idea you scared so easily. I should probably warn you now that I’m going to use that to my advantage all weekend.”
“Duly noted. Now can you move away from my door so I don’t have to spend the day in my car?”
He sticks out his tongue and steps back, and I unbuckle my seat belt and let myself out of the car and into a warm hug that I force myself out of after a few seconds because the urge to clasp my arms around him in a permanent grip is far too strong. And creepy. “So,” he says, jamming his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his scarlet Cornhuskers sweatshirt, “what do we see first?”
“Well, we can consult the trusty map—oh, I’m sorry, is that insensitive? You know, because of your complete and totally inability to read them?” I ask sweetly.
“Phew!” Dev wipes his hand across his forehead as we head in the direction of the map. “I was afraid you might’ve gotten funnier since we last spoke, but clearly I was worried about nothing.”
“Just making sure to keep everything at a low enough level that you can understand everything I’m saying.”
“Very kind of you.”
“I’m nothing if not a sweetheart.” We reach the map, and Dev pulls out a folded-up schedule he printed at home. “So, did you pick a class?”
“Well, you did get me intrigued by your mention of ASL, and that’s at three thirty, right?”
“I mentioned the class because Vic’s mom teaches it,” I remind him. “You seriously want to sit in on a sign language class mid-semester? You won’t understand a thing.”
He shrugs. “Sure, why not? It’d be a cool thing to learn.”
“For a future doctor?”
“You never know what’ll help you communicate with patients. Do you know where it is?”
I’ve never been to Mrs. Reyes’s class, but with the help of his printout and the map, I find the room easily. We have a little time to kill, so I show him the cafeteria, with its two unimpressive fast food stands and even dinkier salad bar.
“Mmmm.” He inhales deeply and his lips curl into a smile. “God, that smells good. I love the smell of delicious fried goodness.”
“I think you might be overestimating the deliciousness of the offerings here. This place makes Joe’s look like…” I can’t even name any fancy restaurants. The nicest place I’ve ever been is the Olive Garden, with the Reyeses, for Vic’s last birthday.
“That good, huh?” He sniffs in the air again. “Well, I smell what I’m pretty sure are cheese fries, and I’m physically incapable of turning those down. You in?”
I am hungry, since I spent my lunch period doing the homework I didn’t get done during study hall, but the idea of paying for food at another place when I know I’ll get freebies at Joe’s later makes me hesitate. Before I can decline, though, Dev says, “Oh, just try one—it won’t kill you. Or if it does, at least it’ll make a good story,” before heading to the counter and buying a paper boat of them.
We sit down at a table, and he looks at me expectantly. “What?” I demand.
“You have to go first.”
“They’re your fries!”
“They’re our fries,” he corrects as he pushes them over to me, and I dig my nails into my thigh to distract myself from the annoying little ache in my chest that comes with those words. Of course, my nails are non-existent now and serve absolutely no purpose, so I just shove a fry into my mouth and chew.
“Well?”
I swallow. “I’m still alive, and I guess they don’t suck.”
He smiles triumphantly. “I knew it! Greatest food ever.” He then promptly shoves a fistful into his mouth.
We sit there eating cheese fries while I fill him in on all there is to do in our fair city, from scarfing burgers at Joe’s to playing drunk tetherball at the park. “When it’s hot out, you can usually find someone in my trailer park making a water slide out of a tarp and a hose, but otherwise, your best bet at recreation is shooting down beer bottles with the construction workers at twilight.”
“Have you done that?”
“With my dad, a couple of times, when I was a kid. Then he started smoking again and got afraid I’d tell my mother, so he forbade me from coming. As if he doesn’t smell like a barely disguised ashtray at all times.”
Dev stuffs another fry into his mouth and scans the room. “I could probably get used to eating this every day.”
Subtle topic shift. Though not unwelcome. “You’d be three hundred pounds in no time.”
“Hey, I’d welcome the weight gain,” he says, patting what is unquestionably a flat stomach through his sweatshirt. “I get cold in the winter.”
I roll my eyes. “You make it sound like you’re actually considering this place. Nobody actually considers this place.”
He glances around again. “I don’t know, looks to me like plenty of people have more than considered it,” he says, gesturing at the tables filling up around us. “Unless it’s just a really, really popular week to visit.”
“They’re all here for the cheese fries.”
“Cute.” He pushes the boat toward me; there’s only one left. I wave a hand at it—there’s no way I’m finishing his fries—and he shrugs and pops the last one into his mouth. “Ready for class?”
“Yes, I’m ready. Are you?” I sign in response, and he looks at me in amazement.
“You can sign?”
“Didn’t I tell you that?”
“Yeah, but you made it sound like you only know a couple of words. That looked so legit.”
I laugh. “All I said is, ‘Yes, I’m ready. Are you?’”
“Still. It looked really cool. Will you teach me how to do it?”
“Let’s see what Ana—Mrs. Reyes—can teach you first.” I gather up my stuff while Dev tosses out the fry boat. “But I’ll cover all the swear words she’ll definitely leave out.”
“That’s all I really want to learn anyway, obviously.”
>
“Perfect.” We head out of the cafeteria toward the classroom, just two college students, backpacks swinging, heading off into the future.
VICTORIA
If high school were anything like Fashion Design with Miss Lucy, I’d have a freaking 4.0. Higher, even. She gushes over my sketches, corrects my stitching in a way that actually helps me fix it for the next time, and explains dyeing techniques so they actually stick in my brain. It’s been less than two weeks since she let me start sitting in on her class and already I’ve learned about a zillion things.
I hold out the zipper I’ve just sewn for Miss Lucy’s approval, and feel myself beam as she nods that I’ve done a good job. We’re all at different levels in the class, so except for the half hour of lecture per session, we tend to do our own things. Michelle—the girl who’d been working on that gorgeous dress—is by far the most advanced, and Freckles’s friend Caylee is pretty good too. They’re beyond hemming and basic stitching and well into just making awesome garments from start to finish. While I’ve made my own stuff before, I’m definitely happy to go over the beginner stuff with an actual instructor rather than just my abuelita.
With the easier-level zipper complete, I set to work on attempting a hidden zipper, when I see a familiar tiny figure standing in the always-open door to the classroom. No, it can’t be. But it is. I have no idea what Reagan is doing at CCC, but that is definitely her white-streaked head peering at me curiously from the hallway, as if she’s trying to figure out if it’s really me.
I pick up my hand to wave, a sheepish smile on my face, when suddenly I hear a faint “What are you looking at?” from the hallway and watch another familiar figure—this one belonging to Dev Shah—come up behind her. What the…?
Now Rae’s the one who looks embarrassed, and I have no idea what’s going on.
“Miss Lucy?” I ask, raising my hand in the air. “Can I go to the bathroom?”
She waves her fingers dismissively in my direction, which is basically her response to everything. I put down my stuff and duck into the hallway.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper fiercely at Reagan, yanking her around the corner. “And what’s he doing here?”
“I’m visiting a college,” he answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world that a guy who’s goingand has all but moved into KU would check out a random community college five hours from home.
“Uh huh.” I turn to Reagan, and wince at the expression on her face. “What? What’s that look?”
“That look is about the fact that you’re taking classes here and didn’t even say anything!”
“Kind of like how you invited your boyfriend here for the weekend without saying anything to me?” I counter before I can give a second thought to how awkward that statement is.
Unsurprisingly, her face flames, and so does his. “That is so not the same, Victoria. You’re taking classes at college in secret. College in Charytan, no less. Our plan was to do this together. To get out of here together.”
My cheeks feel every bit as hot as hers look, and I hate fighting, but I am so not letting her get away with putting this all on me. “Just because I’m taking classes here now doesn’t mean this is my plan for next year.”
“But you’re not saying it isn’t,” she observes, her eyes narrowing. “Is that why you kept this a secret from me, after we were supposedly done with all those? Because you don’t really want to get out of here at all?”
“Or maybe you’ve just made it clear you think this is a place for idiots, so there was no possible way I could tell you how much I love taking a class here,” I snap back. “It’s not like I enrolled as a fulltime student, Reagan. I’m working on my portfolio so I can get into a decent design program, period. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to class.” I look back and forth between them. “And don’t do anything stupid.”
I turn on my heel, lift my head, and walk back into class.
By the time class is over and I’ve sat with Miss Lucy for fifteen minutes afterward, getting her comments on my application portfolio, Reagan and Dev are nowhere to be found. Not that I’m looking all that hard; I’m not sure I want to be anywhere near that mess when it explodes. Instead, I head straight for my mom’s classroom. She just taught three in a row, and I know she’ll be happy to hand over the wheel to me so she can relax for the fifteen-minute ride home.
She smiles big when she sees me and envelops me in a hug. “How was class?” she signs.
“Good! I’m making a lot of progress, and Miss Lucy really liked my portfolio.” I pull out the sketches and show her where Miss Lucy has made notes, then tuck the folder back into my bag. “I’m definitely going to be working on them a lot this weekend. I need to get that application in next week.”
“Good for you, sweetie.” She smiles and signs “Have a good night” at a student who’s waving goodbye to her, then turns back to me. “It was fun to have Reagan in my class today! You didn’t tell me she was coming.”
“I didn’t know,” I admit. “She came to your class?”
“With a cute boy,” my mom confirms, waggling her eyebrows. “Indian, I think. Does he go to your school?”
I sigh. “Nope. That’s the guy I told you about, that she met on our first college visit.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Excellent question.” I watch as a couple more students file out and then turn back to my mother. “So they attended your class? Like students?”
“Just like students,” she signs with a smile. “Reagan’s gotten a little rusty since that week she was at our house every day, but she picked it back up quickly. Is everything okay with you two?”
I hesitate before signing, “I don’t know. We’re both just…” My hands kinda flop as I think about how to end my sentence. “Focused on the future,” I finish after a minute.
I wait for her to respond something about how our future is supposed to be together, but all she signs in response is, “It’s nice to see you working so hard. I’m very proud of you, honey.”
My mom’s not shy with praise or anything, but I have been working hard, and her recognition of it kind of embarrasses me in how happy it makes me. “Are you ready to go?” I sign, feeling the need to change the subject.
“I need to run to the administration building to drop off some reports and schedule my mid-term date. Can you sit here for a couple of minutes?”
“Sure, no problem.”
She kisses me on the forehead and leaves the room, and I pull out my cell phone to keep me entertained while I wait. Usually I’d bug Reagan to kill time, but that obviously isn’t going to happen right now. Instead, I skim through my text messages, wrinkling my nose when I see the chain of texts with Jamie from the night we hooked up. I’d almost forgotten about that argument, and everything that’d preceded it. Closing my eyes, I flash back to lying in that field, to the feeling of power as I took control. God, that’d felt good, the same kind of good I’m feeling now at actually having some sort of direction.
Suddenly, I’m feeling energized, impatient. My toes are tapping frantically on the floor, waiting for my mother’s return, and an urge to do something is making my fingers tingle. I look back down at the texts and smirk at the screen as I type out a new one to Jamie.
Just to be clear, you were a massive jerk that night. I press Send, and then I move to my texts from Freckles and use the phone number to call him.
He picks up on the third ring. “Vic?”
It’s obvious he’s at Joe’s. He pretty much always is, and the sounds of screaming kids and crashing silverware in the background are dead giveaways. “Hey. Can I come see you?”
“I’m at work. It’s actually pretty crazy here—”
“So I’ll help. Don’t worry, I won’t be too distracting, I promise. I just want to see you.”
“See me?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes; I just need to drop my mom off on the way. Can you get a bacon tuna melt going
for me?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure. You sure you wanna come hang out here?”
“Positive,” I say firmly. Because I am. About something. Finally.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call Reagan and ask her to come in?” Freckles asks for the millionth time as I snatch a ketchup from the crate behind the counter and throw it to him underhand. He throws me an empty bottle in return, and I immediately set to filling it. Mitch Macklin, a total burnout I know only because his band played junior prom last year and he made a drunken speech that resulted in his being banned from the high school for life, was supposed to do this before the shift. Unfortunately, he wasn’t banned from the gross, seedy bar that doesn’t mind hiring underage kids, and he got a last-minute spot that caused him to bail on work with approximately two minutes’ notice.
“I can handle it,” I assure him, putting down the bottle and grabbing a handful of menus as a couple of jocks from school walk in with bottle blondes on their arms. “Rae’s busy. Trust me.” I wait until the foursome sits and then bring over their menus with a smile, as if they haven’t all looked through me in the halls of CHS a zillion times.
“I don’t need this,” one of the girls says snottily, pushing her menu back at me with the tip of a bubblegum-colored fingernail. “I just want fries. I’m on a diet,” she explains to the rest of the table.
The other blonde nods sympathetically. “Me too. Just fries for me too.”
Jock #1 rolls his eyes. “Chicks. Always on diets.” The way he says it, you can tell he thinks it’s actually hot. Never mind that French fries are about as dietetic as a bucket of lard. “I’ll have a burger special.”
“What about you?” I ask Jock #2.
“I’m still thinking,” he practically growls.
“Aren’t you going to write our orders down?” Blonde #1 whines.
“Fries. Fries. Burger special. Not that hard.” God, I sound exactly like Reagan. And I’m starting to understand exactly how she got that way. This job sucks.