Fireworks: A Holiday Bad Boy Romance

by Claire Adams

  My ears take in every sound of her voice and my eyes go back and forth between her dark purple lipstick and those almost unnaturally pale blue eyes of hers. It’s in my brain that the information gets routed the wrong way and I end up savoring the sight and sound of her speaking without actually giving it the consideration I probably should be.

  “You know,” she says, but she doesn’t finish the thought. She just goes silent and starts breathing loudly through her nose.

  “I really get under your skin, don’t I?” I ask.

  “It would be nice if it felt like you cared even a little bit about this project,” she says.

  “I do care,” I tell her. Sure, I’m not even certain I’m not lying, but she doesn’t have to literally bite her tongue. “I don’t think that we’re going to get the best results by having people fill out a piece of paper, though. We’re really going to get what we’re looking for by interviewing people, talking to them, giving them a chance to vent whatever hateful nonsense they have in them and giving them the chance to justify it with whatever hateful nonsense they justify it with.”

  She blinks a few times and tilts her head to the side. “Do you think we’d have time to do something like that?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I’ve got the competition coming up and everything, but if you wouldn’t mind doing a little bit more down the road, I can step it up now and I think it’ll all even out in—”

  “You’re joking, right?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?” I return.

  “You think I’m just going to pick up everything for you while you’re off skating in some competition?” she asks.

  “I told you, I’d step it up before then so we’d end up doing the same amount of work,” I defend.

  “I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not going to take the bullet to better facilitate your hopes and dreams. This is a project for a class, and I’m not going to let you make me do all the dirty work,” she says.

  It’s probably a mistake—screw that, I know for a fact that it’s a mistake, but I go ahead and say it anyway, “You know,” I start, “I have great hands.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asks, her head flinching back a little.

  “I also have massage oil,” I tell her. “Why don’t we head back to my house, we can get you nice and relaxed and maybe we see where it goes from there?”

  “You know what?” she says, “I’m done. Pitch in, don’t pitch in, I don’t really care. You make your decision whether you want to be a part of this—a real part of this—and you give me a call. Until then,” she says, getting up from the table, pulling her wallet from her back pocket, “why don’t we assume that I’m just going to do everything and your name isn’t going to end up anywhere on it. That work for you?”

  I go to answer, but she’s already walking away and I’m trying to figure out how she didn’t know I’d genuinely enjoy giving her a massage. Maybe it was the “calm down” implied in the offer.

  Who knows?

  Either way, she’s out the door and we’re still no closer to being prepared for the final project.

  I’m not sure quite what I think of her, apart from the knowledge that she’s too uptight for me. I guess that’s all I really need to know.

  I just wish the pretty ones could be a little bit more chill in their daily lives. It really shouldn’t be that much to ask.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on her. People are going to judge my intelligence by my appearance just as long as I’ve got these sleeves coming out of my sleeves and the beanie permanently affixed to my head.

  I find myself expecting more from her, though I have no real insight into her on a personal level. Maybe what I’m starting to realize is that the whole abrasive “hate you” vibe may very well be just another part of her personality.

  Whatever the case may be, I just earned myself a night off of doing what I love in order to write the paper we were supposed to outline when she walked out the door.

  We’re really not that far apart in what we think would be the best direction, but with her perpetual state of uncalm and my propensity for screwing with people when they’re teetering on the brink of blowing a fuse, I’m kind of surprised it took her so long to walk out.

  We’re oil and water. Naturally, my dick is telling me to shake things up and see what happens, but even I don’t understand the metaphor, so for now, I just need to focus on getting this paper done and then I can get my mind back where it should be.

  * * *

  I think this is the first time I’ve walked into the classroom before the top of the hour, and I’m quick to make my way to my seat. Due to the long night I spent picking a firm position and expounding on it, I missed out on my daily routine.

  Today’s going to be a long day.

  Mia comes in a few minutes after I do, and she hesitates when she turns down the aisle and sees me already seated.

  “We’re going to have to figure this out,” she says, coming down the aisle toward me, toward her seat. “I can’t keep picking up everything you don’t want to work on.”

  “I think you’ve got me all wrong,” I tell her, but I’m nowhere near interested enough to explicate.

  “Whatever,” she says and sits down, setting her denim bag with all those weird stick figure patches sewn to it. “Let’s get together right after class,” she says. “We can go over what I prepared for today and—”

  “All right, why don’t we get started?” the prof asks, interrupting Mia. “Go ahead and pass your proposals forward, if you would. Today, we’re going to be talking about the sex drive from adolescence through the different stages of adulthood.”

  The girl behind me passes me a paper and I pass it up to Mia. I wait until Mia’s passed both hers and the one from the girl behind me up before I tap Mia on the shoulder with mine.

  She turns and grabs it.

  “Whose is this?” she asks.

  “I wrote it up last night after you decided to be unreasonable,” I tell her. “I hope you don’t mind, I took our initial idea and I gave it a bit more clear a focus.”

  “I just handed ours in,” she says. “Save this for when you retake this class next semester.”

  I clear my throat, catching the attention of a few people in the general vicinity, specifically the slovenly guy sitting in front of Mia. I hold up the paper and pass it up to him, past Mia.

  He takes it and passes it the rest of the way up.

  “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish,” she says, “but we’re going with my paper. It’s what we talked about, and—”

  “It’s what you talked about,” I interrupt. “I think we’re going to find out which is the better proposal.”

  The professor starts talking again and I drift off into a daydream where the physically gifted poser chick is a little less up her own ass. It’s a pleasant diversion.

  We talk about penises and vaginas for a while, but mostly, today’s class is a long discussion about what sort of things constitute sexual abnormality and whether the term sexual abnormality is considered the proper terminology.

  What can I say? Human sexuality is one of my keener interests. I keep the conversation going.

  The further off track I manage to maneuver the conversation, though, the more frustrated I become that I’m so far from the watering hole.

  You know, it might be stuff like referring to sex as proximity to a watering hole that’s kept Ian Junior out of the swimming pool for so long. You know, the term swimming pool really isn’t any better.

  In my head, I’m somewhere around helping Mia find her bra when a few of the professor’s words get through the din: “Mia and Ian, if the two of you wouldn’t mind staying after for a couple of minutes. We’re done for the day, everyone. Have a good weekend.”

  I actually thought it was going to be a couple of classes before the professor noticed we’d both turned in proposals for the same project. Apparently, Professor Enterlastnamehere (it’s Germ
an, I think,) is a little more on top of her game than I’ve been giving her credit for.

  Once the rest of the students have left the classroom, the professor starts.

  “I don’t know if there was some confusion, but I just wanted to make sure I was receiving the right proposal here,” she says. “I only need one per group, and it’ll be the one with the outline that the two of you have agreed upon.”

  “We’re going to use mine,” Mia says.

  “Hold on a minute,” I object. “Mine is better written and offers a more meaningful approach to the study.”

  “In your dreams,” Mia scoffs, and I’m just surprised people are still saying that.

  “You two really can’t agree?” the professor asks.

  “I think we might be able to agree on something if he paid any attention when we’re supposed to be working,” she says and I roll my eyes.

  “Please,” I scoff. “You’re the one that’s always crusading to make sure that your voice is the one that makes everyone go deaf.”

  “See, I don’t even know what that means,” Mia says. “I think you like to play smart every once in a while just to freak people out, but the problem is, you don’t have the goods to back it up.”

  “Will the two of you be quiet for just a minute?” the professor asks. “Jeez,” she exhales and sits on her desk. “If I’d known you were having so much trouble working together, I could have reassigned you, but we’re already a couple of weeks in, and it’s not fair to have people split off from each other. Is there any way I give these papers back to the two of you and you come back next class with a mutual decision?” she asks.

  Mia and I look at each other, then turn to the professor and answer almost simultaneously, “Nope.”

  The professor frowns and drops her head a little, looking down at the papers in her hands.

  “Give me a couple of minutes,” she says. “I’m going to read both of these and I’ll choose the one I think is going to give you the best shot at an A presentation, but I need total silence. The first one of you who speaks gets their paper thrown in the trash.”

  Mia and I each pick a seat on the front row, though Mia makes a point of making sure there’s an empty desk between us, and wait for the professor to read our work.

  The way Mia wants to do this whole thing is totally wrong. She wants to give a bunch of people pieces of paper and she expects them to come up with some sort of profound insight based off of generic questions that are, by their very nature, incapable of probing into a person’s psyche in any meaningful way.

  If we’re going to get any kind of decent data, we’re going to have to do interviews, and we’re going to have to throw in a couple of unexpected turns if we’re going to trick people into giving us something resembling a useful set of responses.

  The most important part of the project, according to the professor, is how we extrapolate our information from whatever data we collect. Basically, we’re supposed to take a big picture and pick out the psychological motivations for everyone it captures.

  That and I think her whole focus was too general. I know what she’s doing, too, she’s trying to leave things open for now so that she can narrow down the road when she has a clearer idea which way’s going to be the most expedient. Well, that’s not how I like to do things.

  All right, that’s exactly how I like to do things, but princess needs to get knocked down a few pegs or there’s going to be no working with her.

  The professor sets the papers onto the desk in front of her and gives one last glance at the top to make sure she knows whose is whose.

  “I think they’re both well written,” the professor says, “but I think Ian’s approach is more fleshed out. As surprising an admission as that is, I think he’s got the more compelling focus and the better procedure for obtaining results. That’s your project. Thanks for turning it in; now start getting along or you’re going to drive each other into blowing this whole thing, all right?”

  We both mutter something, but neither one of us is about to be the first to speak.

  I just humiliated her. She can try to hide it, but as her posture collapses and she tries to hide the redness in her face, I know how delicate this moment is.

  If I say anything right now, it’s going to come across as condescending because the professor just shot down her paper in favor of mine. I can’t make it apparent that I’m trying to avoid saying something for that reason, though, otherwise, it’ll just come off as even more condescending and I don’t know if we’d even be able to remain in the same room after something like that.

  Not that it’s particularly easy now.

  Mia finally gets up from her chair, and I wait a few seconds before I get out of mine, trying to walk the tightrope just right so I can get the hell out of here without having the whole situation explode in my face.

  Nietzsche said something about how it’s unwise to toy with someone whose pride has just been injured. I don’t remember the exact quote, but whatever it is, I get the point.

  At the first cross hall, I wait to see which direction Mia’s going to go and I go the opposite way.

  Now I can start to smile.

  As soon as I come to an exterior door, my board’s on the ground and I’m riding the pavement. It’s only been a little over an hour since my feet have been on the grip, but yesterday’s schedule change still has me feeling a little unsure of myself.

  The skate park’s no busier than usual, but as I start to skate up, suddenly I’m not so desperate to start running drills.

  Maybe if Rob wasn’t standing there, nudging people and pointing at me from the moment he spotted me coming up to the park, I might feel a little better about things, but I’m a bit too self-conscious right now to consider trying to drop in.

  I know the way my brain works with this sort of thing and if I go up there right now and I don’t come out of it flawlessly, I’m going to put up a huge mental barrier that’s going to make it that much more difficult to look like I know what the hell I’m doing when it’s time to do it for real.

  Rob’s still hoping for the best, though, and he makes his way over to the vert wall, motioning for me to follow him up there. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s laughing while he’s doing all of this, I might think it was a thoughtful gesture.

  I’m here, and I’m not just going to turn back because Rob’s being himself, so I take my eyes and eventually my mind off of Rob and just focus on possible runs for the street portion of the competition.

  At first, people are only nudging more people, telling all of their friends that the word on the street is that guy darksliding that rail falls on his face every time he tries to drop in. I can’t see their mouths move with enough clarity to read any lips, and I can’t hear any of the words that are being spoken, but I know that’s what’s going on.

  It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m feeling particularly conspicuous right now and therefore everyone seems hostile.

  I’ve really got to learn how to drop in; otherwise, this could become a thing.

  Chapter Five

  The Garden

  Mia

  “So you really think we should waste our time doing another study to show a connection between racist, sexist, and classist views and a lack of decent education?” I ask Ian as he sits across the table from me.

  It’s only been a day since he ambushed me with his paper and talked Professor McAdams, though I’m not quite sure how yet, into going with his instead of mine, but the fact remains that we’ve got a lot of work to do and we’re still not working toward the same thing.

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” he responds. “I’m saying that it’s specifically a lack of critical thinking skills that causes people to fall prey to the kind of hate-filled rhetoric that ends up defining such a large portion of their world view.”

  Sure, it sounds better when he says it.

  “And if, in the process, we do end up calling bigoted people idiots, I
think I’m okay with that, too,” he says. “We’re going to have to get going on this, though. I was hoping to have a lot more of the groundwork done on this by now, and the Midwest Championships are only getting closer, and—”

  “What made you pick up skating?” I interrupt.

  His lips part a little and his fingers touch both sides of the gap. “What?” he asks.

  “The way you skate,” I say. “I don’t know what there is, but there’s something about the way you skate that just seems different. How long have you been doing it?”

  “About five years,” he says. “Before that, it was BMX. You couldn’t get me off a bike and on a skateboard.”

  “What changed?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Things change. We should probably get back to the—”

  “You take a more relaxed stance, that’s got to be it, right?” I ask.

  “I don’t get you,” he says. “You blew me off at the competition and you’ve been trying to blow me off ever since. Why are you so interested when you so clearly dislike the sight of me?”

  It’s a reasonable question.

  “You know what I love about skating—or watching people skate?” I ask.

  “What’s that?” he returns.

  “It’s like you can see how a person’s mind works, how their emotions work,” I tell him. “Every inch traveled requires an adjustment and even if it’s a minor one, that’s still a lot of opportunity to see how someone processes information, you know?” I ask.

  “So it’s a window to the soul better than the eyes?” he asks.