by Kayt Miller
Speaking of warm, it’s not nearly as cold as Peach suggested. I’m currently wrapped up like a mummy in winter gear. I’ve got on a hat, a scarf, gloves, and my warmest winter parka. I may have overdone it. When I feel warm air on my only exposed skin, my face, I look up. A heater. I’m sitting directly below a heat vent. “Sweet,” I say softly.
As I start to unwrap myself from my cocoon, scarf first, I catch a glimpse of a man in red speeding to my end of the rink. He’s so fast I think he’s going to run right into the wall that separates us from them. When he stops, he almost skids to a halt, ice chunks fly everywhere. I look up just as Baker Stark points his finger directly at my face and shouts, “No! No way! I don't want you here. Get the fuck out!”
I’m completely shocked and speechless. I didn’t think he was angry with me. The last time I spoke to him was in a text earlier this week. Well, okay, he was pretty upset with me when he found out I’d walked home from his place but I brushed it off. Could that be it? What’s the big deal? I walk everywhere. I don’t think it warrants this reaction.
I blink furiously at him. I subtly look to my left then to my right and see people turning their heads to look at me. Looking back at him, he continues his rant, “You heard me! Get out!”
I feel my chin quiver. Jeez, I’ve been emotional lately. When my eyes start to burn, I know what’s coming. But, screw him. I’m not going to sit here and let him talk to me like that. I stand up abruptly put my hands on my hips and yell back, “Screw you, Baker Stark. It’s a free country. I can watch a hockey match if I feel like it. And I don’t feel like it anymore!”
I quickly run down the bleacher steps until I’m only a foot from the jackass. Without saying another word, I lift my head high and march past everyone straight to the exit.
Chapter 31
Baker
“No! Now way! I don't want you here. Get the fuck out!” I shout at my mom. She’s sitting near the top of the bleachers probably in an attempt to watch the game without me noticing. Ha! Like’s that possible. I spotted her as soon as I skated onto the ice. She’s hard to miss in her bright red outfit that shows way too much skin. Her lips are bright red, and her hair is big and poofy and extra, extra blonde now too. She’s not dressed for a fucking sporting event. Her hair is so perfectly styled; it’s like she’s going on the hunt for another rich asshole that will put up with her bullshit for a few months.
Well, she won’t find that here. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I know why she’s here. My birthday is tomorrow. She’s here for money. For a split second, I see the shock on her face. She didn’t expect me to confront her in front of an audience. She regains her composure quickly and smiles. Fuck, I can’t stand her, “You heard me! Get out!”
Glaring at her, I’m ready to spew a few more profanities, but I’m distracted when a woman sitting behind mom stands up and slams her fists on her hips angrily. I’m even more shocked when I hear the woman yell, “Screw you, Baker Stark….” I don’t hear the rest of it because when I look at her pretty face, I see my girl. I see Virginia. Virginia? She’s here? At my game? She came to watch me play? Fuck.
I blink in confusion as she marches down the bleacher steps and stops, momentarily. Glaring at me with those pretty eyes, she turns and walks quickly down the length of the ice. I can’t help myself; I watch her go. I’m speechless. Fuckety, fuck, fuck. I’ll fix that later. I need to deal with the unwelcome visitor.
I turn to face the bleachers again and see my mom is standing in front of me, smirking. “Oh, Cupcake…” She calls me ‘Cupcake'. She thinks it’s hilarious since my name is Baker. Funny. Not funny.
“Don’t get yourself all worked up. It’s your birthday, of course, I came to see you.”
Gritting my teeth, I repeat myself, “I don’t want you here.”
Sighing dramatically she says, “Fine. I’ll go.” As she turns to leave she looks back, “I’ll see you at home.”
At home? Fuck! “It’s not your home!” I shout as she walks away. Lifting her hand with her long, red fingernails, she flutters her fingers at me. I guess that means I’ll fucking have to deal with her later. “Fuck!”
I’m about to skate back to the guys when an angry blonde stomps to stand in front of me. “You asshole!”
“Peach, I…”
“Virginia left crying. You made her cry… again! You’re a fucking dick!”
Again? “I thought…”
“No, you didn’t. You never think. Oh, wait, yes you do. You think of yourself. God. I’m so pissed at you.”
“Peach, I…”
I don’t get anything else out because she’s turned around and walked to the other end of the rink. “Great. Just fucking great. This night sucks already.”
And the sucking continues. My head was not in the game. Surprisingly, my mind wasn’t on my mom. It was worrying about Virginia. ‘You made her cry…again!’ kept rolling around in my brain. That’s all that was rolling around in there. It certainly wasn’t the puck as it flew past me six times in the first two periods.
I wasn't shocked when coach pulled me and put a freshman goalie in my place muttering, “Jesus, Stark. Where’s your fucking head? This loss is on you, asshole.”
It is on me, and the rest of the guys know it. A few of them are glaring at me, one guy I hate smirks, but the others give me an expression that says, ‘It’s okay, Baker. You’ll do better next time.’ It’s a look of pity. I hate it, but I’m going to accept it. I will do better next time. We’ve got another game next Friday so I’ll need to get rid of my mom and fix this shit with Virginia before then. The question is, how?
* * *
By the time I get back to my house, my mood is worse. All I see in my head is Virginia’s pretty face, her little chin quivering as she walked past me. She was trying to be strong when she yelled back at me, but I know my words cut her deep. “How am I ever going to make it up to her?” I say as I enter my house through the garage entrance.
“You can make it up to me by giving me a big ole hug, Cupcake.”
“How the hell did you get in here?” I growl.
“I let her in,” says Granna.
I look up and see my favorite person sitting at the long table in the dining room to my right, “Granna?”
She stands up and walks toward me as I cut around mom to get to her. Wrapping her up in my arms I squeeze her, “I’ve missed you,” I whisper in her ear.
“I’ve missed you more, baby boy,” she whispers right back.
Our reunion is interrupted when my mom clears her throat. “Well, isn’t that precious.”
Granna and I step back and stare at Dawn. From time to time, I call her by her first name rather than give her the courtesy of the moniker ‘mother’. I speak first, “What are you doing here mom? I haven’t seen you for almost two years.”
“I know. I’ve neglected you so much, Cupcake.” God, I hate that nickname.
“It’s okay.” No, really it is. She’s so dramatic and needy when she’s around; it’s exhausting.
“No, it isn’t sweetums, I should have moved closer to you when you started school here. I know you’ve only got a year left, but I thought I could move in and…”
“No!” says my Granna angrily. “This is my home. You will not live here.”
“Well, after he inherits tomorrow…”
“No! That money is his, not yours.”
“But, I’m his mother. Now that he’s going to be set for life, I’m sure he’d want to help his mom out. Right Cupcake?”
I stare at her then turn to look at Granna. I want to ask her what to do, but I remain silent. The truth is, at midnight tonight I will be set for life––sort of. My grandfather took the money intended for my father and put it into a trust for me. I’ll get the first portion my twenty-second birthday. That milestone happens at twelve-oh-one tonight. It’s why she’s here. She wants part of it––or hell, she probably wants all of it.
“You’ll not take one cent of that money, Dawn.”
“It’ll be his money, Katherine,” Mom says pointing at me. “He can give it to whomever he wants. He’s a good boy. He wouldn’t want his mother homeless and destitute.” I watch her lips turn down into a fake pout. I’m not falling for it.
“Mom. There are stipulations to the trust.”
“What kind of stipulations?”
Granna takes over, “He can only use this initial disbursement of his trust for specific things. Handing it out to family isn’t one of them.”
“How would they know?” she squeaks.
“I’m not going to lie about how I use the money. The attorney’s will…”
“It’s your money,” mom shouts, “It should have been mine, but they kept it from me. It should have been mine!”
“It never belonged to you, Dawn.” Granna sounds almost bored. “It was never Keith’s.”
“You are a fucking bitch,” mom says as she lunges for Granna.
I step in front of her to block her from Granna just in time. Her red-tipped claws lash out catching on my forearms. Long red streaks start to appear on my arms as blood rises to the surface. “Jesus, mom. Get a grip.”
“A grip? You want me to get a grip? If it wasn’t for you,” she points at my face; her nails an inch from my eye, “I’d have been someone!”
“It’s not my fault. I didn’t get you pregnant. You did that.”
Screaming at the top of her lungs, she lunges for me again. Before I can grab her wrist, her nails drag down my cheek starting at my eye. “Fuck!” I shout. “Mother fucker,” I shout again. It hurts.
Pushing her back with one arm she stumbles and falls on her ass. I grab my cheek with the other hand. Blood is dripping onto my hand and down to my wrist. It’s coming out fast enough that drips are now appearing on the floor. The sight of blood isn’t my favorite thing. I, uh, um…
Chapter 32
Baker
I wake up to some dude leaning over me, and he’s way too fucking close. “What the fuck?”
“Shh, I’m taking your vitals.”
“My vitals? What for?”
“You passed out. You hit your head on the floor.”
“Huh? I did?”
“Yes. What’s your name?”
“Um,” I have to think for a minute. “Baker.”
“Good. What’s the date today?”
Oh, shit. I have no idea. Doing my best to remember I say, “November?”
“Right. Do you know the date?”
Sighing with irritation, “Mid-November?”
The paramedic looks up, “I think he’s got a concussion. Plus I think these scratches need to be assessed. He may need stitches for one of those on his face. It’s deep. I’d like to transport him.”
Scratches? I raise my hand to my face, but the dude stops me. “Please don’t touch your face.”
“Yes, that’s good. Please. Let’s get him to the hospital.”
I look over and see Granna standing next to a guy in a dark uniform. A cop? “Hey, Gran.”
Turning to me she smiles, “Hey there, baby boy. You’re going to be all right. I’ll be with you.”
“Virginia?”
“Virginia? Who’s Virginia?”
Who’s Virginia? “Um, I’m not sure.”
At the hospital, I’m sent directly to the emergency ward. There, I’m poked and prodded and stitched up like Frankenstein. They said they could suture two of the cuts on my face but one, the deepest one, would require plastic surgery or I’ll end up looking like Scarface’. Their words.
I stayed the night at Mary Greeley Medical Center. Granna stayed with me on the pull out sofa in my room. I told her to go home and get a good night’s sleep, but she wouldn’t hear any of it. She asked me several times who Virginia was, and by the time I remembered, I just told her, “Nobody.” I know she didn’t believe me, but there is no Virginia. Not anymore.
In the morning, a doctor in a pair of khakis and a polo shirt stops in to check on my face. “Baker Stark?”
I nod.
“I’m Dr. Morris, a plastic surgeon here at M.G.” He’s an older man, probably in his sixties, I’d guess.
“Okay.”
“What do you think doctor? Does he need plastic surgery?” asks Granna with concern written all over her face.
“If he were my son, I’d recommend it. It’s jagged and deep. It won’t heal the way we’d like if we don't do something now. He’s too handsome to let this heal wrong,” he winks. He seems to be relaxed but confident at the same time, which is helping me worry less. Standing up he looks at Granna. “I’d like to do it this week. Tomorrow, preferably. It’ll be a relatively simple outpatient procedure. We’ll even use local anesthetic if that’s all right with you, mom.”
Mom? I smirk and ouch! It hurts. The fact is Granna isn’t that old. She’s in her sixties, but she looks younger. Her hair is always styled sort of simply. There’s still a lot blonde mixed in with the silver. She dresses in nice clothes that she calls ‘classic’ styles plus she’s really pretty. The fact that she’s always got a smile on her face just makes her more so. She chuckles, “I’m Baker’s grandmother.”
“No way,” says Dr. Morris.
Giggling like a schoolgirl, I watch Granna’s cheeks turn bright pink. “It’s true.”
“Well, you don’t look a day over thirty.”
I smile at the two of them. Is he flirting with Granna? Is she flirting back? Watching them is like watching a tennis match, and I can’t look away. Back and forth they banter.
Granna giggles again. “I’m sixty-two.”
Looking sincerely shocked, Dr. Morris blushes a little himself. “I’m sixty-three.”
“You look good too,” Granna says softly.
“Not as good as you.”
Finally, I interrupt. “Hey, you two should go down and have a cup of coffee. I know Granna could use a cup, but she doesn’t know where the cafeteria is located.”
“Well, I could show her,” he says to me. Turning to Granna, he asks, “May I escort you to the M.G. cafeteria? It’s known for its stale coffee and even staler donuts.”
Giggling, Granna walks toward him. Lifting her hand to him, she says, “Katherine Stark, but please call me Kate. And I’d love an escort.”
“Thomas Morris, but call me Tommy, please.”
“Tommy. It suits you.”
“Kate suits you too. Perfectly.” The doctor turns back to me, “We’ll be back soon.”
“Take your time. I’m going to get some sleep.” I’m exhausted from my night here. Someone woke me up every twenty minutes last night thanks to my concussion. I need sleep.
Chapter 33
Virginia
The week after hockey-gate drags on and on. It doesn’t help that I’ve got two papers to write, a major test in Chemistry, and a scheduled meeting with my major professor to discuss my ‘research’. Ha! That’s a joke! What research? The problem is, I have no idea what to write about. Both my research and survey are a bust. I ruined it myself when I decided to date my participants. In good conscience, I can’t write out my findings with the knowledge that everything is slanted and tainted by my stupid, stupid actions. God, I’m stupid.
With my papers turned in and my Chem test completed, I make my way to East Hall to the Sociology department for my meeting with Dr. Kellogg. I’ve decided to be completely honest with him. I’ll tell him about my initial reasons behind the survey and see what happens. Maybe he’ll just go ahead and flunk me. I deserve it. It means I’d have to go to summer school or maybe even the fall semester next year. I’ll do what I need to do.
Knocking on his door, I wait for him to respond. When he does, I turn the knob and step in. “Hey, Dr. Kellogg.”
“Ms. Murray, how are you today?”
“Good. Fine.”
“Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I sit, twiddling and twining my fingers nervously. In my mind, I’m chanting: It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. I hope I’m right.
Setting aside a large stack of papers, Dr. Kellogg leans forward, “Alright, Virginia, let’s get started.”
Instead of letting this drag on, I just start spewing truths right at him. “Dr. K, I screwed up everything. I thought I could kill two birds with one stone and still have a thoughtful and academic study but I was wrong. I behaved inappropriately with several of my participants, which I think, makes their feedback null and void. Besides, none of them represented themselves truthfully. They were nothing like they described on their surveys.”
Taking a deep breath I prepare to continue but Dr. Kellogg raises his hand in the air, “Please slow down, Virginia. Can you start again? At the beginning?”
I groan to myself because I really just wanted to say it all once. But, he’s right. I need to start over. So, here goes, “I’m a virgin.” I blush like crazy. So much so it feels like my face is on fire. “It’s so embarrassing to admit that.”
Dr. K arches an eyebrow then nods.
“This whole idea for a research study on sex germinated from that and because I didn’t want to graduate college in that, uh, state.”
“As a virgin?”
“Uh, huh.”
“Continue,” he says leaning back in his chair.
“So, my roommate and I talked about a way to combine my senior thesis project with my desire to change my status from, um, a virgin to not a virgin.”
Dr. Kellogg stays quiet. It’s my cue to continue.
“My plan was to do the survey then have one-on-one interviews. From those, I’d pick three candidates.”
“Candidates?”
“Yes. Candidates to help me with my, um, problem.”