“That sounds like a clever ploy to get more business.”
I mock-bow. “You’ve successfully unraveled the plan of the part-time barista. You in?”
We’ve reached the flagpole and he replies, “Anything to make me a part of your world.”
“This isn’t The Little Mermaid, Ariel.” I smirk, turn around toward the main entrance. “See you then?”
“Hopefully sooner.”
As I’m walking away from Rhett, Sky and her current boyfriend (Chad? Brad?) dash up to meet me.
“Chaz, can you go get my books for me and meet me in first period?” Chaz? Seriously? Sky gives him the flirtatious smile I’ve seen her give to many boyfriends before she drops them. It’s her MO; use the boy for whatever she needs, then drop him on his ass when he least expects is. Chaz hikes off to find her locker, leaving the two of us alone.
Without permission, Sky yanks my bag off my back and rifles through it. This is my only friend. I think that says something about me.
“What are you looking for?” I sigh, “It’s my backpack, I’ll help you find it.”
“Got it already.” Sky’s holding my wallet. She rifles through it, takes out five dollars, and returns the wallet back to its location inside my bag.
“You’re taking my money?” It’s less a question than a statement. This is a regular occurrence, considering I have a job and she has a shopping problem. “What do you need it for?”
“Drugs and condoms; what do you think?” She’s going to buy lunch with it, as usual. Though her mother has cared enough about her to pack her a lunch every single day since kindergarten, Sky still saps a few bucks from me to buy the school’s shit food. I come out on top in this arrangement because her mom’s home cooked meals go into my stomach before work.
She pulls out her brown paper bag from her designer backpack and stuffs it into my aging one. Then she grins, waggles her plucked eyebrows and says, “I see you’re still talking with Doctor Love even after the Saturday night fiasco. Must be one helluva man to make such a woman out of you, slut.”
“First: it wasn’t a fiasco,” I reply as we go through the over-crowded halls of Lightfoot High, passing my ‘peers’ who’ve primped to their Monday best – no joke, there are girls in skirts and heels this early in the morning and guys in dress shirts – for their own sessions of lobotomizing conservative schooling. “Second: if you ever call him ‘Doctor Love’ again, I might punch you.”
“Might?” She rolls her eyes, constantly unimpressed by my lack of violence. “I would’ve punched me for saying it the first time. How much time have you two lovebirds been spending together anyway?”
“We had breakfast this morning but other-”
“You woke up an extra hour earlier for this boy?” She’s agog. She’s aghast. “Is Cordelia in love at last?”
“We haven’t even gone on a date yet.”
We arrive outside my first period and she smiles with pride in her eyes as Chaz lumbers up behind her and tosses a meaty arm around her shoulder. “I strongly suspect that’s about to change, you dirty whore. I am so proud of you for putting yourself out there, kiddo. Thanks for the cash.”
And then I sit down in my front corner seat and wait for the bell to ring.
The day dredges past me until my fourth period Anthropology class, the only forty five minutes during the day worth paying attention to. Basically, it’s an elective where we go around and watch other people, then make up stories about them. Also it’s the only class that isn’t taught by a horrendous douchewad. Dr. Sullivan is the opposite, in fact. He’s young for a teacher, early thirties I’d guess, with short cropped hair and a hook nose. He constantly wears suspiciously patterned short sleeved dress shirts which should’ve been outlawed before the twenty first century and striped colorful socks you only notice if you’re looking. The man doesn’t own a cell phone but if you have one out in class he’ll ask you what the time is. Once he spilled glue on an old copy of Catcher in the Rye and made a modern art sculpture out of it, which he hung on the ceiling and it remains there to this day.
Truth be told, he’s amazing.
As a Freshman, he taught my World Literature course and scrapped the majority of the curriculum so we could argue about 1984 and The Great Gatsby. Sophomore year, I transferred into his debate class just to soak up his commentary on current events. He’s one of those teachers so smart and well-versed they have him teach the classes nobody else wants. Now, as a Senior, he’s my Anthro teacher and I’m loving every minute of it. I’ve been his favorite and probably most intelligent student for three years.
When he strides in with a mug of tea (three tea bags in a cup that has a compartment on the bottom to hold cookies) and sits down on his desk, I snap up from my doodling and pay attention. Before the bell rings, it’s normally the two of us, but today there’s a third party.
You guessed it.
Rhett Tressler, devilishly handsome and scribbling in his notebook, has walked in and sat down diagonal from me so it isn’t obvious he’s watching me. Somehow, the boy has ended up in my favorite class with my favorite teacher and is currently making me more nervous than ever. This class is my one escape, the place where I can feel superior to the Harvard-pledged asshats simply by being myself, and now I’m worried I’ll have to compete with Rhett. It’s irrational, I know, but I can’t help it.
Dr. Sullivan takes a big gulp of his tea, swallows, and give me a look. Then he asks, “Kane, can I see you up here before class starts?”
Rhett sends me a mocking glance and mouths Kane? before I stand up and meet Sullivan at his desk. He holds up an essay I wrote a few weeks back. It wasn’t for class; for three years we’ve been giving me assignments because he thinks I should pursue anthropology, which is, of course, horrible advice for a teacher to give because there are approximately zero jobs in anthropology.
Anyway, the paper was thirty pages single spaced on a lonely lady who spent my entire Saturday shift curled up in a chair with a cup of black coffee it took her the entire time to drink. She’s the first person who sat there for too long I haven’t asked to leave, until Rhett, I guess. She was – and is – the saddest person I’ve ever seen.
“What’s up, doc?” I ask, then cringe. Common, emerging theme of my existence, this regretting things right after I say them.
Sullivan laughs, luckily, and holds up the essay. “This was amazing, Cordelia. Honestly the best paper I’ve ever read.” The man’s been hounding me three years to get serious about writing and journalism, but I really have no idea what I want from my life yet. I’d be happy to put that off until I have to choose a major in college.
“Thanks. I worked hard on it.”
He nods seriously and tucks the paper back into his desk. “I’ll be keeping it, to show off to my teacher friends and brag. Business as usual.” Then he leans in and instructs, “I want your next project to be a collaboration, with anyone you want. And I want…shall we say stylized reality. The truth with a fictitious feeling to it. Got it?”
“Um…” I stammer, “Word count? Due date?”
“Decided upon by the two of you.” Sullivan runs a hand through his hair and smiles. “I do hope you’ll pick someone with more to offer than your usual Twin Rivers kids.” He nods his head at Rhett, who’s watching the two of us like it’s a tennis match. “Especially someone who’s nearly as good of a writer as you are. Got it?”
I nod, take my seat. Sullivan ushers the rest of the class in and I immediately get to work on a game plan. How am I going to go about asking for Rhett’s help? Then, more importantly, how I am going to sneak around enough to actually get something done? It’s a tricky balance to maintain, being this punished and this motivated at the same time. Three weeks minimum and, apparently, never allowed to see Rhett again. Fantastic. More lies. As much as I can’t stand Michael and Amanda and what my mother’s become, I don’t like lying to them constantly. A few here and there, fine. But this is going to become a full time job, one I’m not
sure I’m completely prepared to undertake. And especially not for someone I barely know.
The day passes as a Monday generally does.
Painfully slowly.
I fail a science test and ace a math test. The halls are too crowded and people make out in inappropriate places. The gym teacher tells us not to be such ninnies because come on, girls, it isn’t that cold in the pool as she zips up her sweatshirt.
The day goes on and on until I’m sitting in seventh period lunch with the usual crowd. By crowd, of course, I mean Sky’s friends who I don’t like and her rotating cast of boys who dote on her. It’s a table where between eight and eleven of the twelve chairs are invariably filled every day, the only room being the seat next to mine where I keep my backpack because, frankly, if any of Sky’s friends (male or otherwise) tries to speak to me, I feel like socking them in the jaw. Normally, I’m lucky to get a word in edgewise with my best friend.
Today, though, the pressure’s on.
Because of Rhett.
He’s taken one more stab at shaking up my every day routine by plunking himself on my backpack’s seat and getting comfortable. To top it off, he’s the last one to arrive after everyone’s settles into their usual spots and Sky, center of attention she needs to be, has begun a speech on the injustices of being docked points on an essay for improper use of the word ‘literally’. (I read the essay for her; the teacher would’ve been an idiot not to take points off).
“Doctor Love,” Sky drawls out, “fabulous to make your acquaintance.” Rhett glances at me, obviously wondering who in the hell the crazy chick is, before she continues, “I’m Sky, Cordelia’s best friend extraordinaire. When you screw up, I’ll be the first person to hear about it. And I will mess you up.”
“Good to know?” He gazes over at me hesitantly because he can’t believe this pygmy pageant girl is my best friend. I laugh. “Should I, like, get your blessing?”
Sky quirks an eyebrow in my direction. “Does that mean my favorite prude has agreed to date you?”
“I’m not a prude just because I haven’t had sex with as many boys as you, Sky.” This is a constant argument between us.
She eyeballs Chaz a moment before turning back to me. “The curse of being a woman. Isn’t it grand? If you’ve done it, you’re a slut and if you haven’t, you’re a prude.”
“Way to perpetuate stereotypes with a line from The Breakfast Club,” Rhett says. “And by the way, yes, she has agreed to date me.”
“Conditionally,” I clarify as the rest of the group watches us intently.
But when lunch ends and the end-of-day bell rings, it’s clear the school has decided Rhett and I are an item. Because that’s when the looks start.
As I rush out of the cafeteria to catch my bus, leaving friends and slight acquaintances behind, Rhett touches my elbow (in a very appropriate and polite gesture, I might add) to get my attention. He starts chatting about how cool Dr. Sullivan is and his first day at the high school and such, but I’ve already been caught off guard by my peers.
At first, I chock it up to paranoia. When my eyes glaze over the prep-dressed students lining the hallways, it seems like they’re turning away the second my eyes would meet theirs. Then, when Rhett leans in closer, pressing a hand to my shoulder and asking if I’m okay because I look like I’m a little bit out of it, the phenomenon becomes more obvious. There’s hidden pointing and veiled glances from snooty girls as well as laughter muffled by palms from the princes of Southern douchebaggery, the gestures obviously saying what is she doing with him? Right now, though, I’d rather be on Rhett’s side than theirs, strangely enough.
“You need a ride to work?” Rhett’s voice pulls my attention back.
I smile at him, an honest smile for the first time in a while. “You have a car?” Even though the truck’s still in his driveway, leaving it behind will give me an excuse to return to his house two more times.
His lips curl up like he’s hiding some great secret from me.
And, of course (what the hell did I expect?), he has a motorcycle
Specifically, a ‘2010 Hyosung GV250,’ according to its owner. When we reach the end of his driveway, children already spilling out of the house to greet their older brother, Rhett whips the blue tarp off and reveals a silver and black bike. Frankly, the thing terrifies me; I’ve never even seen a motorcycle in real life. Lightfoot isn’t exactly a place for bikers. Most people here drive expensive imported vehicles and abhor those who don’t.
“What do you think?”
“It’s, um…” There are no words in my head as I stare at the bike. I’ve seen shows where people ride them, always individuals with criminal records or authority problems or both. “My brain is still trying to process the idea of actually riding on one of these, ah, beasts.”
“It’s completely safe, I promise,” he attempts to reassure me with a broad smile and a squeeze on the shoulder, which does absolutely nothing to calm my suddenly pounding head. Then he keeps talking, and the ups and downs of his voice manage to calm me. “I know it’s safe because, well, I built it. Or at least put it together. Last year was kind of rough for me-” his voice falters a moment “-and this bike became a sort of therapy for me. I don’t ride it that often anymore, but I’ll take any reason I can get.”
Before I can reply, the twins are all over Rhett. They grab an arm each and Rhett swings them up in the air as they shriek with laughter. When he puts them back down, they run around my legs and spout gibberish like wow I see why Rhetty thinks you’re so pretty, you’re so pretty are you going to get married and fall in love until Susie comes outside and hoists them into her arms.
“You two going out on a date, then?”
“Actually, it’s much more romantic than that, mother dearest.” Rhett smirks and kisses his mother on the cheek, so ridiculously full of life. “I’m taking her to work.”
Susie laughs as the two boys twine their fingers through her curly hair, “You two are something else.”
She brings the twins back inside and Rhett gives me some instructions. “When you’re on the back of the bike, don’t be a wuss about grabbing onto me. I don’t want you flying off into the road because you were scared of touching my rock hard abs.”
“I have no qualms about touching your abs,” I reply even though my heart is leaping into my throat and grating against it with each beat at the thought of not only straddling the bike but Rhett as well.
“Ready, then?”
Unable to muster another word from the pit of my stomach, I nod. No helmets. No safety. Rhett mounts the beast, shaking out his dark hair, and motions for me to do the same. With my throat closing and knees knocking, I stiffly toss one leg over the leather seat and sit.
“Hold on tight.” He reaches behind himself and takes me hands, his touch breaking through my nervousness in a strange way I’ve never quite felt before. When he guides my fingers to rest on his stomach, the anxiety racking my chest is muffled by the sudden flipping of my stomach at the movement of his chest as he laughs.
I suck in a breath, which he must assume is from nerves and not from the pressure of closeness.
“Don’t worry; I’ve done this before.”
“What – having girls on the back of your bike?” I joke nervously, “This is seeming more and more like a scheme to have girls marvel at your abs than a simple favor.”
“I can honestly tell you that you are the very first girl on the back of this bike I’ve had any amount of romantic attraction to,” he tells me, then guns the engine before I can respond.
Wind smashes into my cheeks as we shoot out the driveway and onto Eleora. It chills me to the core like the unforeseen winter we never get here. A series of loud expletives rip from me without my consent as houses smudge past, causing Rhett’s laughter to deepen.
Already I can feel myself being pulled in whatever direction we turn, so I clench my body tighter against Rhett’s back, no longer caring about any previous inhibitions as the bike rockets thro
ugh down. I press my forehead against the nape of his neck
When we finally reach Ebony’s a few minutes later, my hands shake from how tight I was holding on to Rhett. Something about the pull of those turns put the fear of God back in me. I catch my reflection in the half-silvered window and frown. My purplish blue hair is a mess of frizz from the wind and my face is blotchy red as a result of the stinging air.
Nonetheless, I push the door open (Rhett follows dutifully behind), put my hair back, and grab my apron from the rack. This Monday afternoon, the place is typically slow and practically deserted; only a few bemoaned-novelist types lounge as they sip coffee and type frantically. This is good, though. Dealing with a hoard of irritating customers isn’t high up on my to-do list.
Behind the counter, my manager, Tracy, lurks. Oh lord. Her black hair is straightened in the typical this-means-business fashion and her thin lips are pursed down in disapproval. I’ve seen this look given out to some of our less inclined employees, but until now I have never been on the receiving end and I must say it isn’t fun.
“Del, can I talk to you before you start your shift?”
“Ah…sure, I guess.” My voice is nearly a squeak I’m so nervous. If she fires me, I will be forced to rely solely on my mother and Michael for money and those conversations never go well or as planned. Even though I really didn’t care about it, I still lost my job at the Country Club and need this one.
Rhett shoots a quick glance my way, worried, before sitting down
“Listen,” Tracy begins, her voice dropped low as she eyeballs the customers, “Kevin told me you gave gang-bang over there a free drink a few nights back-” she nods at Rhett “-and he also told me you did it to get a date.”
That bastard! Kevin’s got the shift before mine on the weekends. It’s not like we’re BFFs or anything, but I wouldn’t expect him to rat my out like that. My fists ball up at my sides as I say through clenched teeth, “Did he also tell you that right after he was done working he was attached by the lips to some girl and wouldn’t leave for another two hours?”
Love in the Time of Cynicism Page 7