A Thousand Reasons

by Mariah Dietz

  Jasmine: Hahahahahahaha! You really did drink too much.

  Me: WAY too much.

  Jasmine: How are you feeling about him now? Have you guys talked?

  Me: Well, after he watched me puke and helped me get to his friend’s house AND bought me dinner, he made me breakfast, and then drove me home because my Jeep was towed. THEN, I tried to tell him there was no way we could date because I’m busy and we come from such different worlds (he really is rich). And because he’s apparently applying for sainthood, he then got his friends to go with him to get my Jeep out of impound and delivered it to my house.

  Me: Him-a zillion Me-negative a zillion.

  Jasmine: Where did you find him and can we clone him?

  Me: Did you miss the parts about me barfing in front of him?

  Jasmine: Oh no. I took a screen shot of that so neither of us will ever forget it.

  Me: Way to be a friend.

  Jasmine: You can thank me by cloning him. Are you learning about that at med school?

  Me: He was nice. Not like fake nice, but nice, nice. Like genuinely kind.

  Jasmine: Don’t be so surprised. Not every guy is going to be like Derrick.

  Me: Troy and Clay prove you wrong.

  Jasmine: Ha! You’re still looking at a very small pool of people. This guy seems to be one of the good guys. The money he has is his parents. Remember that. We’re now adults, and you guys are BOTH going to med school. And even if you weren’t, him having money doesn’t make him any better.

  Me: Can I clone you, and then miniaturize you? I need to carry you around on my shoulder and remind me of these things.

  Jasmine: You’re Leela freaking Walsh. You don’t need reminders.

  Me: I have to go. I have a tutoring session in 5. Are you working tonight? I should be home around 9.

  Jasmine: I am ☹ but I’ll see you soon. I miss your face.

  Me: Miss your face.

  When I walk to the table where I ask each tutoring student to meet me, I’m surprised to find my customer already there. Generally, they’re always late.

  “Tiffany?” I ask.

  She sits up, smiling. “You must be Leela.”

  Our hour starts off smoothly, but quickly deteriorates as Tiffany makes frequent trips to the restroom and a second run to the coffee cart set up outside.

  Maybe I’m boring her. Maybe she was expecting a tutor who looks like Max Miller. Who knows? But I hate that I’m wasting my time, even if she’s already paid. It’s giving me too much time to think about Wes and what will happen tomorrow when I see him in class.

  “Where were we?” I ask as Tiffany sets her fresh coffee down.

  “Do you like coffee?” she asks.

  She’s been trying to fill the hour with chit-chat that I have neither interest nor time for if she wants to learn anything about physics.

  I take a deep breath and look from the textbook we’ve made little progress in to her. She has bright blue eyes, and her hair is dyed several shades of purple and lavender, her eyebrows a strange shade of gray. She has piercings in her eyebrow, nose, and above her top lip which is a bright red. I’ve been wondering if it’s infected for the better part of our time together. “I do.”

  She chuckles once and then smiles at me as she leans forward. “A lot of coffee comes from Mexico, right?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  She giggles, and I frown. “I have no interest in being here,” she admits.

  “I’ve noticed.”

  She looks around the mostly empty space. “I mean it’s Sunday, the day of rest. Do you go to church on Sundays? You’re a redhead, you must be Catholic, right?”

  “Maybe I’m Jewish?”

  “You don’t make very much by tutoring. Do you get credits?”

  I sit up straighter, ready to pack up my things and leave. “That’s personal.”

  She laughs. “How’d you get so smart? My counselor recommended you, personally. Said you have a bright future and are one of the best tutors he’s seen.”

  “Look.” I say. “This isn’t an hour to ask me questions, especially not when they’re semi-offensive. This is your opportunity to learn about physics. Let’s focus on the task at hand.”

  “I want to be a psychiatrist,” she says. “Get into the minds of people and figure out what makes them tick.” Her blue eyes are eerily bright with excitement. “My questions weren’t meant to be offensive. Not in the least. It’s just habit for me to try and learn more about people.” She leans closer. “Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about money?” Her gaze passes me. “Is it because you come from money or because you don’t?”

  “What did you not understand about this being a tutoring session and not an opportunity to treat me like some human guinea pig?”

  She looks around the room, then to me. “I don’t give a shit about physics.” Her voice is a whisper for the first time.

  “Well, your GPA might.”

  “See that guy at the coffee cart?” she asks.

  I’m twisting around in my seat before I can tell myself to stop because I’m simply playing into her hand by looking.

  “He’s been watching you since we got here.”

  “You’re crazy,” I tell her, closing the textbook.

  “No! I’m serious.” She looks over my shoulder again at the guy. He’s too far away for me to see clearly aside from his height and light brown hair. “See! He’s looking!”

  “Because we’re staring at him!” I whisper-yell the words.

  “No, because he likes you. I asked him about it.”

  “My God! You have no boundaries!”

  She shrugs.

  “I think it would be best if you found another tutor.” I begin shoving things back into my bag.

  She stands, her eyes widened and mouth hanging open in an “o.” “Because I offended you?”

  “Because you’re not taking this seriously and I have better things to do.” I sling my bag over one shoulder and head for the door. Tiffany’s in front of me after three steps.

  “Wait!” she cries. “What if I pay you double?”

  “Why would you pay me double?”

  “I saw your Jeep when you pulled up.”

  “My Jeep works fine, thanks.” I move around her.

  She tugs on my arm, stopping me. “I won’t try and psychoanalyze you anymore.”

  I pull free from her. “You’re lying.” Both my hands sit on my hips, daring her to object.

  “You’re right,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But not on purpose, I swear! Look, if you can help me to pass Physics, I’ll pay you a bonus.”

  “My sanity is worth more than that.”

  “A thousand bucks,” she says, moving to stand in front of me before I can walk past her.

  “Why would you be willing to pay me a thousand dollars when there are dozens of other tutors?”

  “Your Jeep,” she says again.

  “What about my Jeep?” Annoyance stresses each of my words as we circle back to the same question.

  “I saw the black T on your bumper. That’s the sign, right? The code for the good stuff.” She smiles brightly.

  “The good stuff?” I practically spit the words. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My practiced lie comes out easily because it’s been so overused over the past decade.

  “We could open our own business. I would split profits with you sixty-forty.” She places a hand on her chest. “And I’ll double what I pay you for our tutoring sessions. Think of all the students on campus who are looking for something to help them stay up and study. We could do study drugs, opioids, anti-depressants for…”

  “Are you out of your mind? I don’t know what you think you saw on my Jeep, but I don’t deal drugs!” My voice is too loud for the library setting, but thankfully there are few people in here this early.

  A coy smile turns her lips into a smile that makes my stomach drop. “I’ll up your percentage. I’m willing to negotiate.” She sounds des
perate.

  “You need to be investing your time into physics and wake up. Dealing drugs would not be means to an end.”

  She lifts a shoulder, her lips dipping with a gentle frown of indifference. “You can trust me. I won’t tell anyone.”

  My back goes straight. “You’re crazy.”

  Her strangely colored brows rise. “I’ve been called worse.”

  “I don’t do drugs. I don’t sell drugs. I don’t hang out with people who deal or use drugs.” Waving my hands across my torso, I shake my head. “Drug-free zone.”

  “Fine. I’ll just talk to one of your competitors.”

  The urge to argue and tell her not to waste her life—to not belong to someone like my brother—enters my mind, but her hand extends, shoving me aside so she can leave. It’s then that I see the track marks up and down her arms. She already owes someone. Likely is so deeply stuck in their pocket she can’t afford new drugs.

  Shame follows me like a dark cloud, tainting everything as I cross the parking lot to my Jeep in order to make the shift I picked up at the local date farm by my house. It’s a job I both love and hate, offering me time outside and little to no supervision. But it’s also hot and sticky, and the worst of it is I’m one of the only women who works there. It centers around manual labor, and having the men who work alongside me stare at my body and murmur inappropriate things leaves me feeling homicidal some days.

  I pause at the back of my Jeep, inspecting every inch of the surface. My gaze stops on the small ‘T’ which has been painted in the bottom left corner, right above the bumper. The paint splinters in multiple areas from where the sun has blistered the surface, allowing me an easy excuse to use my keys to scrape the letter off. The scratched paint is more apparent than the ‘T’ had been, but having it gone is worth the additional damage.

  The front seat of my Jeep is hot, uncomfortable even through my jeans. I roll down the windows and start the engine, allowing it to warm up while I pull out the folder I had hastily shoved in my bag. I ensure all my notes and time log from my three tutoring sessions this morning are sorted so I can turn them in tomorrow.

  My phone vibrates as I zip my backpack, and I drop it, scrambling to grab my phone from my pocket. I’d sent Wes a message this morning, thanking him again for everything. My heart sinks when I see my sister’s name instead.

  Luna: I need you to drive me to the mall.

  Irritation floods me.

  Me: I have to go to work.

  Luna: You have time. You don’t have to be at the farm for another hour. Unless … you’re with … him…

  Me: I’m leaving now, and have to be there by 1, so I don’t have time. Maybe you should take the bus, or walk, or here’s an idea … get a job.

  Luna: If you don’t take me, I’ll tell Troy about your boyfriend.

  Texting her would be better, but I need to scream at her, so I call her.

  “What?” she answers.

  “What is wrong with you? I’m by myself. I’ve been tutoring all morning, and now I’m going to work at the date farm until five and then I have two days of homework that I’ll need to cram into seven hours. Do you really think I have time to do anything right now, let alone drive you to the mall to spend money you don’t have?”

  “Why can’t you just take your break before your shift starts? They never care. You’ve said so yourself.”

  “Because it’s my break, Luna. Fifteen minutes for me to get water and pee before I go back to working out in the hot sun.”

  “So, you’re really not going to come pick me up?”

  “No!” I shout the word as I put my Jeep into reverse. “I’m going to work! Why don’t you do the same.” I hang up as a car honks at me because I’ve pulled out too far. My distraction and frustration with my sister blinded me from noticing others. I offer a courtesy wave in the way of an apology and then put my car into gear and go to the exit to turn in the direction of the highway that will take me back toward home.

  Another bonus of working out on the date farm is that I can keep my phone on and check it and no one will care. Because I can’t afford to have but minimal data, I can’t play streaming music, but I have a few songs downloaded that I have on repeat while I climb the tall ladders that take me up to the trees that are filled with yards of muslin fabric that’s been tied around the ripening fruit to keep the birds and bugs away. Many of the men are able to scale up and down the tress without a ladder, but it’s not something I’m comfortable with which sometimes has left me to be the one who ties the branches holding the fruit to a truck that hangs them upside down to later be sorted.

  However, today there aren’t enough people. We’re nearing the end of harvesting the dates, and new jobs have begun popping up with the expansion of a local hotel and seasonal positions, leaving the fields sparse and me to climb to the top of the tall palms to cut down the branches.

  “That’s not music!” a guy who’s hanging branches yells as one of my favorite songs loops again. He glares at me—in case I missed the displeasure in his tone.

  I pretend I don’t hear him, handing another branch down.

  He mumbles something about lacking respect, and for a second, I consider telling him my name. I can guarantee he’d know it and would shut up. But being associated with Troy and my ex, Derrick, is not something I choose to bring up and wouldn’t unless it was a final resort. Luna thinks she knows everything that was involved with my breakup with Derrick, but she knows nothing. Sure, his drug affiliations were my greatest concern, but while I was with him I was blinded by that. Ignorant to the fact that if I stayed with him, I too would be associated with the drugs. No, what broke my heart, and us apart was not the dangers he would have introduced me to, but his inability to say no when other girls started fawning over him when he began gaining popularity and respect. It was ridiculous and gross how every guy wanted to be his friend and every girl wanted to invite him into their beds, but that’s what happened.

  After gaining my footing by the next fruit, I wait for the guy who took the last bundle down to secure it to the truck, and check my phone again to see if I have any missed texts from Wes. I’ve never been in this situation before where I’ve had to debate how many texts I can send before looking desperate or being considered a stalker, but I fear I’m edging close to that number. Still, I send another one.

  Me: I hope your weekend is going well!

  My phone vibrates nearly as soon as I hit send, and my heart flutters with anticipation that falls flat as I see it’s from Derrick, as though me having thought about him in some way jinxed me.

  Derrick: Stop ignoring me, dammit!

  Me: I’m not. There’s nothing to say.

  Derrick: You’ve embarrassed me. Brought shame to my name.

  I roll my eyes so hard it’s amazing I don’t get dizzy and fall from the tree. He’s left me a dozen messages asking to meet him, all of which I’ve deleted without a response. It’s only my frustration with him that has me replying now.

  Me: We’re not together. We haven’t been for four years. What I do has no reflection on you.

  Derrick: Who was that guy in the truck? Why do you always have to cross the line?

  “What line?” I cry, knowing better than to send the question to him because it will only spark more of a conversation.

  Me: You painting a T on my Jeep crosses the line!

  Derrick: It’s for your safety.

  A sharp breath blows between my teeth, a combination of a laugh and disbelief.

  Me: I’m a person, not property. Don’t touch my Jeep again.

  I want to add a threat. Tell him that I’ll call the police or get him in trouble but that would be a lie we would both recognize, and that would only give him more power.

  Someone barks at me, breaking my attention from my phone, and I pocket it again, returning to the heavy branch which I begin to saw down.

  17

  Wes

  I turn off the TV and start to stand up. As I’d assumed, my a
nkle is sorer today than it was yesterday, the bruise such a deep shade of purple it’s nearing black in spots. Once I’m upright, the throbbing becomes more intense, causing a flash of nausea to hit me.

  My phone rings from the other side of my bed, and I sigh, contemplating the best way of retrieving it. With each ring, my anxiety rises. It’s such a simple task to cross the short space, and yet it seems impossible.

  I hobble to the other side of my bed, but by the time I reach my phone it’s stopped ringing. I look at the missed call log and find Max’s name.

  I call him back, leaning heavily on my good foot. The throbbing seems to be intensifying, traveling farther up my leg.

  “What’s up, gimp? How’s your foot feeling? Do you want a ride to class?” Max answers.

  “Nah, I got this.”

  “If it’s bothering you, you could camp out here. We can all help get you places. It wouldn’t be an issue.”

  Their couch likely has permanent indents from me sleeping on it for much of last year. But, at that time I was there for Max, not reliant on him and others to help me get around. “It’s going to be fine,” I insist.

  “Your decision. I’ll see you at class then?”