by Kai Strand
They allowed the speech students to get their lunch first, so when I see what looks like a flood of Canton High students infiltrating the lunchroom, I excuse myself. “I’ll see you guys in the auditorium.”
I’m not a close friend to any of the students I’m traveling with, so I wander off to find the girls bathroom by myself. I remember the counselor saying there are bathrooms near the auditorium, but I don’t know where. I wander up and down the main hall and when I don’t find them, I turn down another hall, which has a set of fire doors—currently propped open—and then splits into two different hallways, parallel to each other. The design is so illogical that I almost turn around and just go back to the auditorium, but I really don’t want to come find the bathroom later. At the last minute, I remember the counselor saying something about “on the left,” so I follow that hallway first and I’m rewarded by finding a door decorated with a bald headed, dress wearing, geometrically formed person.
I try not to get grossed out by the puddles of water and wadded up paper towels, but when I spot a used feminine hygiene product lying on the floor of one of the stalls, I can’t stop the shudder. I know I’m not alone in my public bathroom phobia. For some reason, a new public bathroom is ten times worse than one I visit more frequently, like, say, at my own school.
By the time I’m washing my hands girls have streamed in, and I have to wind my way through them to get to the door. Is it my imagination or are me and my figure-hugging pencil skirt getting the evil eye from more than half of the girls stuffed into the room? Maybe it’s my doe-in-the-headlights expression. I feel like I’m in some sort of awkward-girl spotlight.
“Excuse me,” I mutter several times until I finally stumble into the hall and find myself surrounded by more kids who all seem to zero in on me as soon as I’m among them. I’m still trying to convince myself it’s all my imagination until I make eye contact with several people who look less than welcoming. Guess I should have tagged along with the other girls after all.
I’m temporarily turned around and start in the wrong direction. When my panic fades a bit, I realize I’m headed away from the auditorium and spin around. I smack into a boy’s chest and stumble backward. My purse slips off my shoulder, and I only just manage to grab it before it falls to the floor, but it swings up and hits the boy on the side when I yank the strap.
The kid grabs me to stop me from falling. I clutch his arm in return.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have turned so suddenly. Are you okay?” I rub my nose, its impact with the boy’s chest still stings. When I look up I’m surprised to recognize him. I place my hand on his chest as I exclaim, “Rodney!”
He goes still, which doesn’t really make sense, because he hadn’t actually been moving before I said his name. His eyes scan me, but his expression doesn’t change, and he remains mute.
I realize I might look different being that I’m clean and dressed up, so I clarify. “Lola. We worked together on Saturday. I taught you how to caulk.”
His eyes quickly scan the passing students like maybe he’s checking to see if anyone’s listening. Or maybe watching?
“Are you okay?” I repeat, only just stopping myself from rubbing the spot on his chest where my nose made contact.
One of his hands slides down the back of my arm and cups my elbow. The touch is so light, little shivers of expectation resonate through me. He lets me go without warning and walks away.
I spin and watch his head bob down the hall, my mouth hanging open. “That was rude,” I say to no one. Finally, I turn in the direction I need to go, reposition my purse on my shoulder, and return to the auditorium.
Occupying the same seat I’d been in all day, I’m surprised to feel different sitting there in the afternoon. Like the awkward-girl spotlight followed me here. Each time one of the doors open I jump and my head snaps in that direction. Am I expecting Rodney to come in? Clearly, he isn’t at all interested in seeing me or he would have at least said hello when I bumped into him.
His expressive eyes fill my mind even when I try to silently recite my speech. The skin on my arm tingles when I remember the light brush of his fingers and the careful way he cupped my elbow, like it was fragile or precious. I’m being ridiculous. Probably over thinking the entire exchange.
“Miss Renaldi, are you out there?”
“Lola!” a girl whisper-shouts from a few seats over.
I startle and look from her panicked expression to the moderator on stage, standing with her hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the spotlights. I hop up. “I’m here.”
I reach down to get my notebook, but then remember I can’t take anything on stage with me. I feel jittery and out of sorts when I start toward the stage. At the bottom of the stairs I pause and take the time to breathe deep and calm my racing heart. I focus inward, picturing myself standing alone on the stage and delivering the most persuasive speech the judges have ever heard.
All thoughts of Rodney are temporarily banished and replaced with the benefits of volunteering, I step confidently up the stairs to the stage and shake the moderator’s hand knowing she has already read my biography and introduced me, even though I didn’t hear her do it. I adjust the microphone to the right level, thank the judges and sponsors, and then deliver the best speech of the day.
Chapter 4
Saturday, Hank assigns me to the Martinez home and I reward him with a hug. We’re running the water lines for the in-floor heat system, one of my favorite things to do. There’s something about having the framework of the floor at waist level and snaking the tubing back and forth, clipping it in place without piercing the plastic. It really pleases my order and puzzle-loving mind.
In-floor heat systems are laid out in zones. In a small home like this the largest zone incorporates the kitchen, living room, and utility room. I situate myself about halfway along the outside wall, between the kitchen and living room, right where the dining room will be. Other volunteers are spread in a straight line throughout the under floor beginning at the source of water in the kitchen and ending at the front wall of the living room. We pass the tubing along the row of volunteers and then hold it in position as each of us take our turn stapling it in place. Then we shift the line of volunteers one floor joist over, so we can curl the tube around and run it back the way it came.
Hank delays calling a lunch break until we finish. I enter what we call the food tent, though it’s more like a break room. The only food you usually find inside is an occasional box of donuts or the lunches brought by the volunteers. But there are tables and chairs and shade, and by lunchtime I’m always very thankful for all of that. I grab my lunch from the corner and I’m about to flop into the nearest chair when I see Rodney sitting alone on the far side of the tent. He’s got a sandwich sitting on a plastic bag in front of him and a refillable water bottle tipped to his mouth. He drinks greedily, and my throat catches in envy. I’m parched.
“Can I sit with you?” I ask, though I’ve already put my insulated lunchbox down and I’m digging inside for a juice.
Rodney eyes me warily as he puts his bottle down, shrugs, and picks up half his sandwich. Though I wonder what I did to deserve his hesitancy, I’m too happy to have found a juice to ask him outright.
As I suck my juice box dry, I study him openly. His attention is intently fixed on the middle of the table, so I doubt he notices me looking. His hair is extra floppy today, could it have grown that much in a week that it’s in his eyes? I frown, not wanting anything to cover those beautiful eyes of his. His t-shirt has a tiny tear along the seam of the collar and in the shoulder seam as well. It’s faded black and fits him—oh, I feel my cheeks flame—very well.
“So, you go to Canton High, huh?” I ask to get my mind off his pectorals, and then regret having spoken because his eyes dart in my red-cheeked direction. There is no hiding a blush when you have a complexion as fair as mine, and his double take tells me this wasn’t my first success of it.
On the second take, hi
s eyes remain on me and rove a little, which makes me grow warmer. He nods and it’s the first time I’ve seen anything other than anger or indifference in his expression. I study my sandwich wishing my embarrassment wasn’t the cause of his amusement.
“Senior?” I ask to divert his attention.
His mouth is full, but he manages to keep it closed while he simultaneously smiles and chews. He nods again.
We sit in silence and eat, staring at the table, the other volunteers, but never looking at each other. When I see that he’s crumbling his trash I say, “You should help us on the Martinez home.”
He pauses, the plastic bag he was about to shove into the brown paper bag clutched in his hand. He looks at me questioningly.
“We’re doing the Pex tubing for the under floor. Have you ever run tubing before?”
An ironic look crosses his face, but he shakes his head.
“Hank,” I call. “Can Rodney help with under floor?”
Hank shrugs a shoulder and nods. “Sure. He’s probably all caulked out anyway.”
“Great,” I say to Hank. Then to Rodney I say, “Give me a second. I want to finish this juice. I’ve got another. You want one?”
Rodney shakes his head and gets up to throw his bag away. He refills his bottle from the water cooler and then stands next to the table while I clean up after myself. I make him wait a bit longer while I refill my own water bottle and then beckon him to follow me.
We work on the bedrooms after lunch. Because the rooms are significantly smaller, we need fewer volunteers for the task and the others who helped in the morning are dispersed to work on the two other houses under construction. Rodney and I work side by side. I have him shadow me as we pull the tubing, staple it up, and then roll ourselves over the floor joists to run the tube in the next section. When his shoulders relax, and two adorable crinkles appear on either side of his mouth, I know he’s enjoying himself. We finish the third and final bedroom just as Hank calls for everyone to clean up the site and pack up for the day. Rodney squints and looks around at everybody. I can tell he isn’t sure what to do, so I give him directions, which he readily follows.
“Dave’s here. He’s your ride, right?” I ask when I see Stretch Armstrong shake Hank’s hand.
Rodney scowls in Dave’s direction, but nods.
“See ya!” I say.
The dip of his head that accompanies his wave has a touch of shyness and I grin like a complete moron as I watch him approach the men. When Dave’s eyes turn in my direction, my smile disappears, and I bend to pick up some tools that need to be stored in the shed. I’m not sure why I don’t want him to know I like Rodney—or that I’d like to know Rodney better. Something tells me he would only use that against the kid.
I pause and watch Dave and Rodney leave. Rodney slouches as he walks a step behind the big man. I may not know Rodney well, but I know him enough to recognize that slouching is out of character for him.
I sigh and carry my tool burden toward the shed.
Chapter 5
I choose to wear a sunny yellow shirt, denim capris, and Keds to Eddie’s party. I leave my freshly washed hair loose, so it falls in light red waves to my elbows. Wearing my hair down and the yellow of my shirt combine to accentuate my freckles, which isn’t something I like to do, but I want to feel like it’s still summer time—without actually freezing my butt off—and this outfit does that for me.
Cyn’s sigh when she walks into my room and scans my clothing makes it seem like I’m a petulant toddler who unloaded the contents of the kitchen cupboards into the middle of the floor. She waves a hand to encompass all of me. “And this is why the speech outfit surprised me so much.”
I know if she had her way, I’d have blown my hair out to add volume and drama. I would always wear navy blue or black, unless it was a satin, strapless, turquoise ball gown. And my outfit would end no further down than mid-thigh, not the matronly mid-calf I currently wear. Regardless, I’m still crushed by her disdain. I hoped she’d understand the nod to summer I was going for.
“Lola, don’t you at least want to try to get Rome Bennett’s attention?”
I scrunch my brow wondering why she’s so convinced I don’t stand a chance dressed as I am. “I guess not.”
With another dramatic sigh, she turns her attention to the contents of her purse. “Do you have gum or mints or something? I couldn’t find any.”
I dig through my jewelry box and pull out a pack of gum and drop it into her purse.
My mom knocks on my door as she swings it open. She’s dressed as elegantly as ever in a cream color pantsuit with gold embroidered cuffs on the sleeves and legs. I don’t even think she and Dad are going out tonight, but she’s always ready to be seen in public. Always.
“Lola don’t forget we have the planning meeting tomorrow. 10:00 am.”
I nod, though I want to groan. I’ve been helping Mom with the Viva La Designs Fashion Show Fundraiser since I was twelve. When I was twelve, the fashion show seemed glamorous. By the time I turned fifteen I realized it’s just a bunch of middle-aged woman trying to feel young and pretty for a day while raising money for underprivileged students to attend fashion school. Yep, fashion school. So the students can become designers making overpriced clothes for over privileged people. Ugh. I fully support scholarships and higher education. I just wish it were for something I considered to be a more worthy cause than clothing a bunch of rich ladies.
“I’ll be out of here by then, Mrs. R.” Cyn adds.
“You’re always welcome to sleep in and leave at your leisure, Cynthia. You’re like family here.” Mom scans Cyn’s outfit and her expression is a mixture of maternal pride and adoration. Then she looks at mine. “I’ll let you change. Wouldn’t want to make you late for your party.”
As Mom swings the door shut Cyn raises an eyebrow at me. I hold up a hand and shake my head. “Don’t even start.”
She grins. “Our mothers are wearing matching buns tonight. When do you suppose we’ll start doing that?”
“Not before we’re fifty. Skin care will be even better by then and fifty will be the new forty. We’ll have a good ten years longer before we have to start the facelift hairdo.”
With a snort, Cyn snuggles up next to me, phone in hand, and leans her dark head next to mine. We smile as she snaps a selfie. Within seconds my phone is buzzing like a beehive as her worshippers click the like button under the picture she clearly tagged me in. A tone sounds, meaning someone commented, so I swipe the screen to see who said what. For some reason I’m disappointed by the shallow response of, “Beautiful as always.” But studying the picture, I have to agree. Cyn’s forest green eyes and so brown it’s almost black hair is a stunning combination. Sharp facial features; cheekbones, nose, chin, make her model quality. Her look is reminiscent of the girl from Pulp Fiction.
I can even appreciate myself in the photo. People always use fruits to describe me. Peaches and cream complexion, strawberry-blond hair, eyes like green grapes. Studying the picture, I think I’m only pretty when I’m in contrast to Cyn. Alone, I sort of wash out. Stifling a sigh, I shove my phone in my pocket and realize I’m also only popular because of Cyn. What would my world be like if I didn’t have my “old soul” of a friend? Even though she’s wilder than me and does some stupid teenage stuff, such as drinks—too much if you ask me—she has always had a certain maturity about her. I still remember five-year-old Cyn looking at me with that all-seeing expression, as if she could look all the way inside me to see why my very soul chose to jump off the swings and sprain my ankle. Though she might just seem old because of her life experiences. The kind that make you grow up before your time. I give a mental shake. It isn’t likely I’ll find out what life without Cyn is like anytime soon. The girl is everything to me.
“Are you sure you don’t mind driving?” She asks, swiping a coat of barely-there bronze across her lips.
I smile at her reflection as I step up behind her. We share a knowing look that says I al
ways drive because I don’t drink. Verbally, I confirm, “Never.”
We arrive at the party fashionably late. I feel the thump of music as we approach the house and my adrenaline kicks in. I love social scenes. Well, at parties like this, I prefer the early part of the night before the guys begin the disgusting slurred compliments and sexual innuendo, before kids start vomiting in bushes. Until boys really lose their filters of propriety it’s fun to navigate the thrill of innocent flirting and the awkwardness of genuine attraction.
I love to exchange witty jibes with girls about the attention guys are giving us. Though I’m used to my comments being ignored. Maybe they’re over the heads of their target. Too clever or just obscure. Yeah, probably that. My mom likes to say my social awkwardness is because I’m an only child who has spent most of her time surrounded by adults. She thinks I’ll be just fine when I’m living in my adult world, so in just six months—according to her—I’ll no longer be socially inept because I’ll suddenly be able to relate to all my now adult friends. Sure, Mom.
Cyn barges through the crowded living room, and I follow in her wake. We’re eagerly greeted by a majority of the people we pass. Though I’ve known most of these kids my whole life, I’m fonder of some more than others. I stop quickly to throw my arms around my friend, Elaine, and promise to find her later. I wave enthusiastically across the room to Janel who sticks her tongue out at me for no apparent reason. The tangy smell of beer assaults my senses when we stop in the doorway of the kitchen. I scan the faces of the kids gathered and know we will continue on. Cyn always finds the party host first. Just as I realize this is one party host I’m not eager to see, and consider hanging back, we run into him.
“Eddie.” Cyn hugs him and pecks his cheek.