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by Anne Leigh

  Obviously, her lessons didn’t get through my brother’s thick head because he was late to everything.

  He was supposed to pick me up at the airport, but he’d had a late night and I ended up calling an Uber and charging his forgetful butt. I could have flown directly to San Diego, but with all the canceled flights due to Mother Nature, the only last-minute flights that were available were landing at LAX.

  LAX to San Diego wasn’t cheap. He was going to be short a hundred bucks tonight, but that was the least of his worries.

  I didn’t plan on speaking to him until the next week.

  Okay, maybe tomorrow.

  Or maybe in a few hours.

  I didn’t know anyone around here except for him and Scott, so I had no choice but to start speaking in syllables to my brother.

  He’d know then how mad I was.

  I had a hard time finding my dorm today, and I couldn’t get to class with two suitcases on hand, so I dropped by my dorm first, when I found it, before hightailing it to Econ and now, Quantum Mechanics.

  Sure, it would have been easier if I had a driver to pick me up from the airport and drive me around school, but I swore that I wouldn’t speak to my mother if she had forced them on me this time around.

  This time I was making my own choices.

  Creating my own path.

  Forging ahead with my own decisions and making my own mistakes.

  Without the family name hanging over my head.

  Without the expectations burdening my shoulders.

  “Once a Chamberlane, always a Chamberlane.” Dad had molded that into my being from the time I was in the crib.

  I couldn’t change my family even though I’d prayed for a different brother many times; but so far, life had taught me that anywhere where my last name was recognized, it created a spackle of judgment, impressions, and expectations that may or may not be realistic.

  Kiki, text me.

  Kiki, call me.

  Sissy, you still mad?

  My brother had texted me ten times in the past five hours, and I had to send his messages to voicemail because I loved him, but I couldn’t deal with him right then.

  I knew he was busy, but it was not an excuse to leave me stranded at LAX.

  I thought I made it clear that I was arriving at 6:35 in the morning. I barely had any sleep because I took the red eye due to some unfinished business that I had to finish before hightailing it to the airport. Dan, our family driver, might have been caught off guard by my haphazard appearance since I never left the house looking less than my mother’s expectations, but honestly, it was the best I could do.

  Thank goodness Mom had already left for New York or I would have been stranded at home if she’d seen me in jeans and a hooded shirt. It didn’t matter if they were Chanel. To my mom, jeans were the devil. They were unfeminine and then she’d proceed to lecture me on what proper high-society Texan women wore.

  I didn’t have the time to socialize with my roommate yet plus she was nowhere to be seen, so I quickly took a shower and took out my least rumpled blouse, changed into another pair of jeans (sorry, not so sorry, momma), and called it a success.

  Going into class on the second week, even though it was technically the second day of the class, was no fun. I couldn’t start last week because again, unfinished business. I hated trying to catch up with the classes. Hanna, my best friend, said that a week wasn’t a big deal, but I knew she was also trying to calm me down.

  Professors had already given out the syllabi and set the rules. Students had been introduced to each other or maybe some – there were a lot of classes that I’d been in where I only knew three or four people because college students are usually loners in class and social butterflies outside of them.

  Anyways, all was well. Or should I say, all was going to go well.

  Econ was okay. Professor Magenta was hard, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I was lucky to be able to sit in the front of her class because otherwise I’d have been disturbed by the jocks who were busy flirting with all the girls in the back of class.

  Nothing on the jocks and the girls, but geez, wait til after class. Was an hour and ten minutes too much to ask to pay attention in class?

  I’d looked at the map of San Diego University and I thought I had it all figured out. What I didn’t count on was how far the buildings were from each other. The Science Building looked so close to the Business and Econ structure, but oh my god, two and a half miles in heels was going to cause blisters on my feet tonight.

  I thought of my brother while walking through the buildings and sports fields and as I crunched on my steps, I kept thinking why God wasn’t kind enough to exchange one for another.

  I could’ve called Scott, but I knew he had early morning practice so I didn’t want to bother.

  Sitting in the back of Quantum Mechanics wasn’t my preferred seat, but I was happy to make it a minute before class.

  The class was going smoothly and I already had communications with Professor Milliken before coming in, so I knew where they were in the syllabus. I had to e-mail all of my professors last week because syllabi sometimes lie. After getting confirmations that all of them were following the syllabi, I did some heavy studying so that I would be prepared in class.

  Heavy studying meant outside connection to the world was deterred.

  I only came out of my room to hydrate, eat, do Pilates, run, and back to studying.

  Junior year wasn’t going to be easy and the fact that I was changing schools now was going to make it difficult.

  But there was no going back. I had no choice.

  This was me, going forward.

  Professor Milliken was discussing Bohr’s theory when a guy wearing a black and red cap caught his attention.

  From my view, I gauged him to be as tall, if not taller, than my brother who was 6’4”. He had a dark green shirt on and I caught sight of his broad shoulders. Hanna loved abs. Me? I liked guys with big, broad shoulders.

  I turned away because now wasn’t the time to ogle anyone.

  Plus, I had Scott.

  What did that make me?

  Hoochie-like and eww.

  Sure it’s not against the law to find other guys attractive, but to actively seek out and check out someone? That’s just icky.

  So, I turned my focus on Professor Milliken who asked Guy with the Broad Shoulders a question to which he answered fabulously. Broad shoulders (ewww, stop thinking about them) and smart? Well, that’s a good catch for sure.

  For someone else.

  I thought Professor Milliken was done with the guy, but then he asked a follow-up question and really, honestly, trust me, I wasn’t going to interrupt, however, I sensed annoyance on the Professor’s part which deserved or undeserved did not need to happen on the second day of class.

  My brother often called me Mother Teresa, which would be an insult to the Blessed Mother of Calcutta. I was nowhere near her graciousness, but he often teased me because he said I liked to save strays and defend those who were vulnerable.

  Saving the belugas hardly called for canonization, but PETA gave me an award for it.

  And as much as I loved fashion, I tried my best to not wear an animal’s skin all over my body.

  For my sixteenth birthday, I didn’t ask for a super expensive car or a ridiculous party or early access to my trust fund, I asked my dad to give up hunting. My brother was furious because he loved to go on those hunts with Dad, but eventually he forgave me.

  I’m pretty sure that guy with the immaculate shoulders, short cropped hair from the back, and tanned skin… Gee, what was wrong with me? I shouldn’t be objectifying anyone because I for sure hated it when someone did the same to me. All people saw was blonde hair and long legs and boom, they had me catalogued.

  Anyways…I wasn’t going to say anything, but I saw the predatory, even if it was meek, look in Professor Milliken’s eyes, granted they were being blocked by his thick-rimmed glasses, and that he wanted to shame the
guy in front of the class.

  That raised the hackles of my inner Amazon so I blurted out, “Professor, may I?”

  I gave Professor Milliken the standard argument against Bohr’s model. I didn’t want to elaborate because it would be boring to take up the whole class time, but once I saw that the Professor was somewhat satisfied, I stopped.

  The petite lady beside me said, “Cool stuff” and I gave her a quick smile.

  I went back to minding my own business when I felt a prickling sensation that someone was watching me.

  I tried to focus on my notes, but I still felt the stare…

  And as much as I didn’t want to –

  I just had to.

  I felt compelled to.

  And in return, I saw him.

  Hard, chiseled jaw.

  Slightly broken before nose.

  And chocolate brown eyes with brows that were raised as if in a challenge.

  And a smirk, an arrogant smirk that made my insides ignite and form a mist of steam.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t form an accurate response.

  I didn’t know whether to keep looking at him or draw my eyes away.

  Bella Swan, I’m sorry I laughed and I ridiculed you.

  I now know how you felt when you saw Edward Cullen for the first time.

  Or Jacob Black.

  I’m sorry.

  I found myself lowering my eyes because right then, if Professor Milliken asked me a question, I wouldn’t know what to say.

  And that…

  That was scary.

  Bishop

  “When are you coming to visit?”

  I heard the intended plea in my mom’s voice. Grabbing my athletic duffle bag, I answered, “I’ll ask Bridge when she wants to head out and we can talk about holiday plans.”

  It had only been three weeks, and while I knew that my mother was trying to build a relationship with me, what she really wanted me to say was when I was flying back with my sister.

  Bridge started college two weeks ago and my sister had insisted that she wanted the full college experience. Translation: don’t contact Mom unless there’s an emergency.

  “She’s doing great, Mom.” I’d texted Bridge this morning and she thanked me for waking her up since she had an early class. Between the two of us, she had a higher IQ, by ten points, but for the life of her, she had a hard time getting up before 9 in the morning. “She’s enjoying college and she’s happy.”

  I heard Mom’s sigh over the phone before relenting with, “I know…I know. I still worry. She’s only nineteen and she’s on a big campus and she…”

  …had a hard time speaking to people her own age.

  I finished her sentence in my head because I knew that line from the time my sister turned four.

  Bridge was exceptionally smart. She had a photographic memory, the kind where she’d remember what page number a paragraph existed on a book after seeing it for a brief time and recalling it years later. She remembered the smallest details. If you asked her what I was watching on TV when I was six and a half years old on the Fourth of July, Bridge could close her eyes and bring you to that moment in time. While the scientists and neurologists at John Hopkins loved to study the way her brain worked, Bridge always had a hard time making friends and keeping them. The hazards of having excellent memory was that you also remembered who stole your favorite teddy bear and who put gum in your chair in kindergarten.

  She’d kept to herself and was always the quietest kid in class which made it almost impossible for her to make friends. Hence she had a hard time looking people in the eye and conversing with them in a normal manner. Normal in a way wherein society wouldn’t think that she was being rude or dismissive.

  “We have to give her a chance,” I said, flexing my neck to the side as I jogged towards the field. “She says she’s doing okay…you have to believe that.”

  Mom’s voice was soft and it was almost hard to hear her since I was closing in on where my teammates where sitting, “I just worry. I know that I’ve messed up a lot of things with her, but I’m trying, son. Dr. Fortez said that she needs to be out on her own and this is the best thing for her. Sometimes…the best thing is the hardest thing to do.”

  I slowed my jog and breathed in, “Bridge is strong, Mom. She’s the bravest girl I know and I’m only a hundred fifty miles away from her. Plus, when I saw her, I could tell she was happy… She’s living a very different life here from the one she had in New York.”

  Was that sniffling in the background?

  The years may have passed, but I still didn’t know how to describe my relationship with my mother.

  It still flabbergasted me that she’d carried me and my sister in her stomach and given birth to us.

  It certainly didn’t seem like it years ago…

  But that was a conversation for another time.

  Aging must have a drastic effect on her because now she tended to become extremely emotional about everything.

  “Mom, I gotta go.” I eyed Ian and Dante warming up, Jose and Jimmy were already on the field. “Bridge is doing great.”

  That seemed to pacify her because her voice was steady, “Okay son. Tell your Aunt Nina hi for me, okay?”

  I agreed and hung up.

  She talked to Aunt Nina everyday so there was no need for me to extend the greeting; I think she just said it just to say it and diffuse her thoughts on patching things up with my sister.

  “Slow poke! You coming or are you just gonna stand there and watch?” It was Ian, challenging me to run the field with him.

  I pushed the soles of my feet into my cleats, feeling them get loose. New cleats always needed time to feel more comfortable. I had to practice on these for a bit before I could use them in a game. Never a good idea to wear new cleats for the first time to a game. Even my backup pairs had miles on them.

  Stretching my legs, I let go of everything that didn’t belong on the field.

  I felt the grip of my cleats on the grass and rocked my heels side to side then back and forth, molding the studs and blades to the center of my gravity, feeling the pressure bounce from the sole of my feet to my ankles and back, lessening the stress on my legs.

  As a fly half, a position that I’d dominated for the past three years, I often decided which direction the game would go. Whether we go left or right and how close or wide we were going to be for the next play. I carried the weight of my team on my shoulders and powered through the scrums with my head and my legs. I had the power to run the ball or make a break and the cost of the decision was on me. Always on me.

  “Come on, Princess!” Jose called out. For a full-back, his voice held that high-pitched quality, as if he’d never outgrown his thirteen-year-old self. “Are you going to do yoga all day or are you here to practice?”

  Dropping my phone in the bag that I’d thrown to the side, along with my teammates sports’ bags, I checked my watch, I had five minutes to spare.

  Slinging him a wave and a fuck you, I closed my eyes, lowered my body to a squat, ran my hands over the grass and closed my eyes, envisioning myself in the middle of the field, recalling the wise words of Confucius and quietly I whispered to myself.

  “A lion chased me up a tree, and I greatly enjoyed the view from the top.”

  I breathed, in and out.

  One, two, three…five seconds.

  I opened my eyes and checked the positions of my teammates on the field.

  Coach Masterson was on the sideline chatting with Assistant Coach Derrick Larsen.

  It was time.

  Time for me to fly.

  A towel was thrown up in the air and Ian tried to avoid it, but it got caught in his long hair.

  “What the fuck, Cons?” He threw an annoyed look at Constantine, our hooker who had the habit of showering and wiping his ass in front of everyone and throwing the towel across the room. I’d been successful at avoiding it because I was fast and because I didn’t want any part of his ass or armpit or whatever
shit part of his body touching me.

  Constantine bellowed, “Be happy it didn’t hit your face or you’d be sniffing how Katya’s pussy smelled on my dick last night.”

  Yep, he went there.

  “You’re messed up,” Ian responded with an eye roll and aimed a tennis ball on Constantine’s head. Tennis balls were abundant in our locker room because they helped with sore muscles. Our team physio helped us out a lot, but when he wasn’t there, two tennis balls taped together were the very best tools to increase thoracic range of motion thereby loosening up tight areas.

  A loud pop and a bunch of French words spoken in eloquent French mixed in with a different accent came out of Constantine’s mouth to which the rest of the team laughed at.

  I grabbed a blue shirt from my bag and remembered that I had to bring a change of clothes for my locker. The start of the season meant my locker was empty so I made a mental check to grab the essentials – deodorant, extra kicking tee, and an extra scrum cap. I could do away with the last one and I wasn’t fond of using it because as a fly half it made it harder for me to hear and communicate but after a few knocks to my head that lead to a generous number of staples, I still wore them time and time again.

  “You going with us to Rock N Brew?” Ian asked. My teammates liked to hang out after practice and as much as I’d love to, I had somewhere else to be.

  “Can’t,” I said as I closed my locker and stretched my neck towards the ceiling.

  “Dude, it’s only the second week. Don’t tell me you’re stressing about papers and shit already,” Ian rebuffed. He liked to tease me about my grades.

  Jose, who was tapping away on his phone like a madman, added, “I don’t know why you can’t be normal like us, amigo. Anything above a C is miraculous.”

  “Speak for yourself, taquito.” Constantine who was now standing guard by the door, to the confusion and head shakes of our teammates who were leaving the locker room, panned out. “I have straight B’s and sometimes I have A’s depending on how the professor is.”

  Jose rolled his dark eyes and loudly muttered, “You’re majoring in Humanities with Emphasis on the Lebanese Culture. Even my mamita would get an A in your class.”