by Ney, Sara
“Date night?”
Dad does that thing where he narrows his eyes ever so slightly to gauge a person’s reaction—and no matter how much I school my expression, I know he sees the excitement in my eyes at the mention of a date.
“I told you, you’re not allowed to date any of these assholes.”
“Which assholes? You’ve warned me off practically everyone.”
“The wrestlers. It just doesn’t cotton.” Dad’s southern roots are showing. “I don’t need you tangled up with anyone on the team. It won’t end well.”
“Won’t end well for who?”
“Them.” He picks at a yellow sticky pad, scribbles something on it, and slaps the square of paper onto his computer monitor. “Besides, you know I’ve already told each and every damn one of them to stay away from you.”
“Some of them aren’t the best listeners,” I quip under my breath with a laugh.
My father doesn’t find it the least bit funny, unflinching in his chair. “Who?”
A tiny shake of my head. “No one.”
“Has one of them already come on to you?”
“No Dad. I was just making a joke.”
“Anabelle Juliet.”
“Oh brother, here we go with the middle name.”
“I’m not shitting around here Annie. Half them boys wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”
I smirk. “What about the other half?” Those are the ones I care about.
He levels me with an unamused stare. “Were you this much of a smartass with your mother?”
“Yes, kind of.” It’s one of the reasons Mom and I fought when I was a teenager. She couldn’t stand my mouth or my sense of humor, said I reminded her too much of my dad. Since when is that a bad thing? I’d always smart back.
“The other half don’t have time for dating, Anabelle. The other half are winning national championships and don’t need the distractions.”
Ahhh, there it is. “So you’re the one who doesn’t want the guys dating.”
He scoffs. “Anabelle, not a single coach in the history of the NCAA wants their athletes dating.”
I laugh, tipping my head back because he says it so matter-of-factly, like it should be obvious. “I get that Dad, but you can’t control everything they do.”
“No, but I can stop them from dating my daughter.”
“What if I end up liking one of them?”
“That’s not going to happen.” His tone dares me to argue with him.
So I do.
“Seriously Dad, what if I meet one and they are just so hot and funny and captivating I couldn’t possibly resist him?”
His fingers steeple again. “Lucky for me, those boys are already off the market. Is that what you kids call it? The meat market?”
“Worst metaphor, but sure.” I shrug. “We’ll go with meat market.”
“I’m not kidding about this.”
“I know that, Dad.”
“Good.” He makes a show of shuffling some papers to let me know we’re done with this conversation. “Besides, I don’t know why you’d want to date a wrestler to begin with—their ears are all funny.”
“Are you making a joke?”
“Yes. Was that not funny?”
“Not really, because I think those funny ears are kind of cute sometimes.” I’m giving him a hard time and he knows it. I rise from my seat and reach over, giving his earlobes a little wiggle. “Look at my daddy’s cute little ears.”
He swats at me, grouchy. “Stop it, people are looking.”
I give him an eye roll worthy of my teenage self. “No one is looking.”
Not if you don’t count the wrestler shuffling around the locker room. Zeke Daniels catches my eye and scowls, immediately presenting me with his broad back as he changes into a gym shirt. The entire expanse of it is covered with a black tattoo that looks like a rising phoenix. Stark against his skin, hard lines with a dark mood.
Mysterious and hard and angry, just as he appears to be.
“Is he always broody like that? Or is it just me?”
“Daniels?” My dad cranes his neck again, peering through the glass. Grunts dismissively. “He’s always like that.”
“Why?”
“Suspect it has something to do with his upbringing. He doesn’t get along with his parents.”
“Ahh.”
Neither of us speak after that, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am. That a person’s parents shape the person they become, whether they want them to or not. I mean, look at me—I have two perfectly normal parents who happen to be divorced, and in a way, it kind of did a number on me.
I moved halfway across the country to seek my dad’s approval, to atone for my mother leaving him. I’ve taken enough high school psych classes to know this behavior stems from my past and has everything to do with my family dynamic.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Dad is saying, “but he’s really come a long way. He was such a goddamn prick last year, I almost had to suspend him.”
I study Zeke through the glass, gaze roaming up and down his body, ogling. Really Anabelle, in front of your father?
Ugh.
“Suspend him? Why?”
“Piss-poor attitude—pardon my French.”
“He doesn’t look all that terrible.”
Dad hmphs. “Looks can be deceiving, and I suspect his girlfriend has a lot to do with it.”
“Have you met her?”
I watch as Zeke sits on the bench, back to us, lacing up a pair of black wrestling shoes and sliding a tank top over his head. Such a pity, covering his broad back.
“Once, at the Big Brothers fundraiser. I’m guessing by now, that blonde has him wrapped around her little finger.”
Blonde? Typical.
Guys like that always go for the blondes.
“Tiny slip of a thing, not much to her. Has a stutter.”
Say what? “A stutter?”
“You know, a speech impediment.”
“I know what a stutter is, Dad.” My brows go up, curious. “That guy is dating a girl with a speech impediment?”
“He is.”
I can’t peel my eyes off him now, curiosity getting the best of me as I second-guess my initial valuation of him.
“What’s she like?”
“Who, Violet?”
“Is that her name?”
“Yes.” Dad steeples his fingers once again. “She volunteers a lot. Babysits. Small and quiet, I guess. I wouldn’t have paired the two of them together in a million years, but I guess we can’t choose who we fall in love with.”
I can’t decide if that’s a dig at Zeke or at Violet’s choice in romantic partners.
“Anyway, I have to hand it to the boy—he works his ass off for the team.”
I would say so—he’s an hour and a half early for practice, already wrapping his wrists. Tilting his head from side to side, headgear dangling from around his wrist.
“Enough about him. We need to get your living situation squared away.”
I breathe a sigh, relieved he’s ready to talk about it. “Yes. Thank you, Dad.”
“If you want to live on your own, I have nothing to say against it, but I don’t want you in a shithole.”
“They’re all shitholes,” I say, feeling the need to point out this unfortunate fact.
“True.” He stands, coming around his desk. “Find a few options and we’ll have a look. In the meantime, do your old man a favor and try to find a roommate, preferably one who studies a lot and likes to stay home, one who hates partying and boys.”
“Haha.” I rise too, wrapping my hands around his shoulders and squeezing. Give him a kiss on his weathered cheek. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Love you, Annie.” When he ruffles my hair, I let him.
I roll my eyes at the childhood nickname. “Love you too, Dad.”
I’ve found the perfect little spot on campus to study.
Climbing the
steps all the way to the top floor of the university’s library, I weave through the peaceful space, past the archaic volumes of books, newspaper archives, and outdated, old-school periodical machines—you know, the ones where you search for articles from before we had the internet.
There are several study rooms on this level, but I choose a table instead. It’s in the corner, tucked away, hidden behind a bookshelf almost five feet high.
No one would be able to see me if they came up here.
No one will bother me since I haven’t seen a single soul the four times I’ve studied up here. It’s peaceful, the perfect environment for getting homework done.
Five floors down, there are way too many young people. It’s a place for students to socialize, yet another breeding ground for procrastination and flirting.
The damn library is like a nightclub.
I crack open my laptop and log into the school’s social media site. Click through, searching the classifieds. Roommates wanted and apartments for rent.
Too expensive.
Too far from campus.
Six roommates in a four-bedroom house? No thanks.
I scroll on by, passing over anything old and outdated. The houses that look dilapidated and falling apart. The ads with no photos.
The rentals with pets? Pass—I’m allergic to cats.
Furnished would be fantastic; the last thing I want after moving out is to burden Dad and Linda with the task of scavenging for furniture with me. I can’t imagine what that would cost.
Plus, Dad’s in the middle of wrestling season; he doesn’t have time to orchestrate an entire move, so if I could find something even partially furnished, I’d be winning at life.
Frustrated, I close out the website and open the document I started earlier for my ethics class, determined to pound out the required word count, resolute to ace this assignment.
School doesn’t come easy for me; I have to work at it. Sometimes I’ll be reading and by the end of the first paragraph or page, I have to go back and read it again. Memorization is not my forte.
The sixth floor remains silent and empty, except for me, and I wonder why it’s not utilized. It’s the perfect place for studying, and…other things.
You hear stories at other universities about the top floor of the library, stories about couples having sex in the aisles of books. The long, dusty rows are dark and secluded and unsupervised by employees.
I’ve never heard any such stories about the top floor of this one.
Bummer.
I push my earbuds in deeper, sliding the button for noise cancellation to on.
Drop my head and get to work.
Elliot
The sixth floor.
Empty. Secluded. Quiet.
Just as I like it.
The lights are dull here on the top level of the library, almost as if it’s the forgotten floor. Row after row of dusty books, some of them long outdated but never replaced, keep its few study tables company.
I move toward the same table I always occupy, in the corner to the right and all the way back. There’s a window there, too, but it’s nearly dark out, so there’s not much to see outside but the glowing lights of the campus commons below and a few students hustling by hurriedly.
Rounding a corner rack of journals, I stop in my tracks when I see my table is already taken. A young woman sitting in my seat. Books set where I study. Feet propped where I prop my feet.
Shit, I hardly know what to do with myself.
No one ever sits there.
No one ever comes up here.
Pausing, I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose, eyeing her up, only getting glimpses at the crown of her bent brunette head. She’s hunched over an open book, one hand stroking a yellow highlighter along its pages, the other tapping the acrylic tabletop, nails clicking the surface.
Black long-sleeved T-shirt. Hair down over one shoulder.
She doesn’t see me.
Doesn’t look up when I grunt out my displeasure. Doesn’t look up when I shuffle along, irritated, moving to find a different table.
I gaze at my options critically, not wanting to sit in a repressive study room for the next few hours while I kill time before my soccer game in the park.
Also not wanting a table out in the open in case someone else comes up and decides to get chatty, which has been known to happen occasionally.
Near the east-facing window, I settle on a desk with two chairs. Its location is a little too bright for my liking, but beggars can’t be choosers, and until that girl packs up her shit and leaves, this desk will have to do.
Sullen, I get settled, using the second chair to rest my legs on. It’s way too fucking small for my frame, and I gripe to myself as I set down my bag, laying out all my crap. Laptop. Water bottle.
None of it fits on the desk the way it fits on my normal table, and it’s throwing off my groove. How am I supposed to study this way if I can’t spread out?
I power up all my electronics and click open the paper I started writing yesterday. It’s required to be a minimum of twenty-five ungodly pages long.
It’s due in two days.
Neuroplasticity. Neural connections.
Fuck.
I’m never going to learn this shit in the course of one semester.
Cursing myself for declaring kinesiology as a major as the workload continues to pile on, I open the search engine on my computer. Find a diagram of nerve cells in the human body.
In the brain.
Begin jotting notes and set an alarm so I don’t lose track of time and miss running with a soccer teammate. The minutes tick by and I stare at my laptop, overwhelmed by the assignment. I do everything but write my paper: message a few friends who have already graduated. Scroll through Instagram. Chug some water.
I take a quick break to piss, making my way back from the bathroom located in the far left corner, catching a side view of the girl—the squatter—glowing streetlamps outside hitting her in a way that has a halo circling the top of her head, long hair shining.
She’s pretty.
She stole my table.
Anabelle
There are no available seats in the middle of the lecture hall, so I take two steps at a time, making my way up the center aisle, eyes scanning the back row for a chair. It takes a few moments, but I manage to locate one in the very last row, against the wall—the very last place I’d purposely choose.
I’m more of a front-row-center kind of girl, and the last row is usually reserved for those who want to rest their head against the wall and sleep during class.
Not me.
I’ve always found it difficult to budget my time between studying the occasional part-time job, and extracurricular activities. I wouldn’t call myself unorganized, but…
I’m unorganized. That said, I try to do my best as much as I can.
I trudge up the stairs, my bag slung over my shoulder, heading straight for the seat sandwiched between a girl with green braids and a guy who clearly just rolled out of bed—mussed brown hair, unkempt, disheveled, as if he went to bed too late and woke a little too early, throwing on whatever he could find before blindly stumbling out the door.
He’s wearing khakis, but they’re as wrinkled as his gray, untucked polo shirt. With a little effort—and a shower—I bet he’d really be kind of adorable.
I give him a friendly smile when I park my rear beside him, setting my aqua backpack near my feet.
Instead of typing my notes on the computer, I get out a notebook and pen, intending to write them longhand. Later I’ll go back and transcribe them into a document, hopeful the repetition will help me with memorizing all the terminology our professor is about to throw at us.
Pen poised above my blue spiral notebook, I give the guy beside me a sidelong glance. He seems okay. Friendly.
“Hi.” He smiles, a charming grin with one slightly crooked bottom tooth, delivering a cheesy pick-up line. “Come here often?”
I give a tortu
red groan. “Actually, yeah. This is my second time taking a contract law class,” I confess. “I should be teaching this course by now.”
I don’t know why I’m telling him this.
He scoffs. “Don’t sweat it. If you need a study group, they have a sign-up sheet by the door. I’ve been to a few of them already.”
“You think it’s helping?”
He laughs, sliding down in his chair, feet spreading sluggishly. “Let me put it to you this way: my grade can’t get any worse.”
“Same, but I have high hopes this semester.” I set down my pen and introduce myself. “I’m Anabelle.”
“Gunderson. Rex.”
“Gunderson Rex? That’s kind of a fun name.”
He laughs, knobby Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “First name is Rex, last name Gunderson.”
“It’s still fun, however you say it.”
“You think?”
I nod. “Sure! Is Rex short for something?”
“Yes, but I’m not telling you.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s what you’ll start calling me—everyone always does.”
I laugh. “No, I won’t. I’m not a complete asshole, promise.”
Rex rolls his brown eyes. “That’s what everyone says.”
I nudge him, already taken with his casual demeanor and playful attitude. He’s fun, non-threatening, and not at all aggressive—unlike a few other guys I’ve met on campus.
“Come on, just tell me.”
“Fine.” He lets out a groan. “It’s short for Reginald.”
“Reginald?” I don’t think I’ve ever met a person under the age of eighty named Reginald.
“It’s terrible, I know.”
“Nah, it’s kind of cute.”
“Cute?” Rex rolls his eyes. “You’re a shitty liar, but I do appreciate the effort.”
“Thanks. I really had my game face on.”
We pause when a student tries to slide by us, making their way to the end of the row, to the only other open chair in our section.
“So what’s your story, Anabelle?”