by Faye, Amy
Chapter Three
Emma swallowed hard. It was easy to be full of fire and judgment when it was Craig. Downright damn easy. Nobody in the world would blame her for thinking that it was his fault.
I mean, frankly… she cut the thought off before she let herself think the words 'who could resist.'
Anyone could resist, but they needed to want to, and Craig was a great guy at making them not want to no more. But when it came to thinking about poor Jane… she was probably sitting there feeling bad.
What right, Emma thought, did she have to go barging in there? She closed her eyes a minute and said a short, silent prayer. Just a moment, for guidance, and then she had her mind straight. There was nothing more for it. Sometimes in order to heal a wound, you have to tear it back open anew.
Her hand came up and knocked at the door.
Jane's voice on the other side didn't sound as if she'd been sobbing her eyes out, which Emma was thankful for all by itself. "Just a minute."
Emma leaned against the door-jamb and waited. She didn't have to wait very long before Jane opened the door. Her eyes looked a little red, but her face wasn't blotchy. If she'd been crying, Emma thought, it wasn't hard and it wasn't just a moment ago.
"Oh, hey," she said. The look on her face said that she wasn't sure what Emma was here for.
"I finished those notes and made photocopies for you." Emma reached into her bag and pulled out a manila folder, then handed it over.
It wasn't any different than normal, for her. Which meant that, having seen Jane's notes before this, it was phenomenal by Jane's standards.
"Oh, thanks." Jane's smile seemed genuine, but the look in her eyes made it look like it didn't fit on her face. She flipped the envelope open and had a look, flipped through a couple of pages. "You know, Emma, I am always amazed at how much effort you put into this stuff. Honestly. Amazed. You could sell these notes, you know, and people would buy them."
"Don't be silly," Emma said, her face flushing at the complement. "There's nothing special about them."
"No, I mean it. I mean my grades went up like. From a B- to a solid B+. Might be able to get an A by the end of the semester."
"Well, if you need any help, don't hesitate to ask me for it, alright?"
"Oh, I couldn't." Emma stayed in the doorway as Jane went over and laid the envelope on the bed. "You're so busy."
"It wouldn't be any trouble at all, Janey."
"No, I really couldn't."
"Jane, can I ask you a question?"
"Well, I mean. Sure, I guess."
"I mean, a personal question."
"Yeah, sure, I guess," Jane repeated. Her face screwed up a little in confusion.
"Okay, but you have to promise not to get upset with me."
"Emma, Jeepers, you don't have to always worry like that, you know."
"Okay, well… why'd you let Craig, you know…"
"Oh." Jane's face turned down.
Emma watched her with sadness in her eyes. Jane was a pretty girl. A very pretty girl. But it wasn't hard to get the impression that she had a pretty bad view of herself. It wasn't hard to figure that Craig was probably a way to try to feel better about it.
The only problem being, of course, that it wasn't going to work, because Craig Weston only belonged to one person, and that person was Craig Weston. Well, himself and Coach Donahue.
It took a minute before Jane responded. Emma let her take her time. This wasn't about punishing her, or hurting her, or even letting her get hurt. It was about trying to make sure she was going to be okay after she had moved on.
"Well, I mean… I don't know…"
"I understand the temptation."
Jane looked up at me with a look of such amused disbelief that if Emma hadn't heard herself speak, she might think that she'd made a joke by accident.
"You, Emma? Really?"
"Well, sure. I'm not a nun, Jane. Just a normal woman, like anyone else."
"Really. When was the last time you had a guy by?"
Emma's response was automatic. "That isn't the same thing, and you know it."
"Do you understand it, then, really?"
"I choose not to pursue anything with men right now. I'm not interested in, you know, that sort of stuff, until…"
"Not until marriage, right?"
"I mean, maybe not… marriage, per se, but like…"
"No, I get it. I really do. I'm not trying to make fun of you, babe."
"But I understand. I don't think there's any woman who could look at that boy and think that he's not worth… you know."
"Fucking?"
Emma winced. "Yeah. But I worry that you're getting hurt."
"Emma, I'm fine, babe. Trust me—it did about anything but hurt."
"You're sure," Emma confirmed. She didn't sound sure, and she didn't look sure, but there was no pushing the issue if there was nothing to be pushed, whether Emma liked it or whether she didn't.
"Yes, babe. You don't need to worry about me. I'm tougher than I look."
"Alright. If you're absolutely sure, then."
"I am. Go on, now. I have to get dressed for class."
The old pajamas weren't going to cut it for class, Emma agreed. "Alright. Well, if you need to talk about anything, whether it be help with studying, or about guys, or about… anything at all, I'll be here."
"You sure you're not a nun, Emma?"
Emma rolled her eyes. "Compared to you girls? Sure, I'm a nun."
"Oh, wait, one more thing."
"Yeah?"
"Tomorrow evening. We need a designated driver."
"No problem. Just give me a few minutes notice, and I'll be right there with you."
"You're a darling, nun."
Emma rolled her eyes and pulled the door shut for Jane, who was already stripping the pajama top off by the time the door closed around her.
There was a lot that was going to need to get done, that was for sure. Emma wasn't going to just let herself ride by on the work she'd already done. Once the studying was finished, then she could get started on her supper.
It was looking like it would be late again. Oh, well. Forgetting to eat until late in the day wreaked havoc on Emma's mood, but it had helped shed the last remnants of the girl she used to be back in middle school that had lingered around her midline.
Still, she was going to have to work out a meal plan some time soon, or she was going to start wasting away and lose what little chest she had, and lose the last hopes that she'd ever be able to compete with girls like Jane for any guy period.
It was all well and good to say she was waiting for marriage, and she was, but just like she'd told Jane, it wasn't as if she didn't think about it. It wasn't as if she wasn't wondering if guys thought about her that way.
Not that she would ever wonder how Craig Weston, scourge of every female dormitory on the campus and of Beta Kappa Delta in particular, thought of her. because whatever that snake thought, it sure as hell didn't matter one bit to her.
He could think whatever the hell he wanted, as far as Emma was concerned. As long as he stayed the heck away from her, she would stay the heck away from him, and he could go on being as skeezy as he wanted.
Just as long as he left her… and her friends, she added, out of it.
Chapter Four
Everything around Craig is still too-sharp. Noises are too loud. Lights are too bright. It's been three hours since he woke up, and he's been working his ass off on the field for two of them.
By any normal standard, he should be wide awake and alert, and he is. But it's like someone took the intensity of everything and turned it up to eleven.
He should've slept more last night. But the paper took longer than he'd thought it would, and then there was some reading to do.
A little voice in the back of his mind had spent the hour of reading telling him that it didn't matter. He was a student athlete, and the professors gave it to them all easy. Nobody expected him to fit in with the standards for
the other students. Just do his best.
Sleep was important, after all. He needed as much of it as he could get, to help his body recover from the exertion of the day before. So just put the book down, and go to sleep. Classwork will be there in the morning, and if not, he's a smart kid. He can bullshit his way through. Test isn't for a week or two at least.
It took a real force of effort to stifle those voices inside himself, to keep reading. To keep writing that stupid God damn paper that wasn't even due for another two God damned days.
But he'd finished it. Because there was no way that he was going to let his 'student athlete' label come back and bite him in the ass.
It didn't define him as a student. If he wanted it to, he could have been sitting there taking remedial classes and basic history classes and art class and all that shit. Graduate with a Gen-Ed degree and a promising career in the NFL.
But that wasn't who he was. There was going to be a fall-back plan. Sure, he wasn't smart enough to get a really great fall-back plan. He wasn't going to be "Craig Weston, Esq., Football-star-slash-lawyer" or "Craig Weston, M.D., Quarterback on the field, surgeon off the field."
But that didn't mean it wasn't useful to have the qualifications for something, and in his case, that meant sitting through a hell of a lot of classes on tax law.
Because he wasn't going to be a big old lawyer, but he could be an accountant. He had a good head for numbers, after all. Accountants were always in order, and at the very least, it would give him a good handle on how to deal with his own money in the future.
Until that future came to pass, he had to think of himself as an accounting major first, as a football player second.
Or, more accurately, as two separate people, one of whom only cared about football, and the other who only cared about accounting, and somehow fit their schedules in with one another.
The damn gen-ed classes, though… well, he could have picked an easier one than American History. It wasn't as if he needed to be in the most difficult damn classes.
If the requirement said "Two semesters of history classes," he could take a couple overview classes. Stuff that would never even touch on the War of Eighteen-Something-or-Other.
Instead, no. He'd been too high on his own pride to give it up, and now he was paying for it, because between training and eating and sleeping—and, he had to admit, fucking—there wasn't near enough time to study for that stupid class, and the tests every Friday didn't exactly put him in a good mood.
Still, it was only Tuesday. Maybe, after he'd sat through a week of hearing the material covered, and read the book, answered the questions, and read the book again, he might be able to get through it. Somehow.
He heaves the helmet off his head and pulls the mask off sucks in a full breath of air for the first time in two hours. There's nobody here for morning practice. There never is, though. It's the afternoon practices that people want to come to.
Girls don't want to get up at 5 in the morning. Not even girlfriends, closed practice or not. So it's a brief moment of respite from the constant attention. Attention that Craig hates to admit that he'd like to get away from.
He takes a deep breath. No reason to sit there bitching about it now. Not when he brought it all on himself. He could have left it all well enough alone. He could have refused them. The options were all right there in front of him.
But instead… aw, hell.
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a big Ziploc bag of trail mix and reaches in, takes out another handful and funnels it into his mouth. He drops it back in and hefts the bag over his shoulder, chewing while he walks back to the locker room.
It's going to be a long day ahead of him, but then again he'll at least have some peace tonight. Afternoon practice is canceled. Practice game.
Tuesday's a weird afternoon for it, but some small school managed to find the time on a Tuesday, and the squad needs every chance to grease the grooves they can get. And since it's a Division II school, there's no chance that this ends up being a chance for them to scout out our squad when we play later.
Craig is already stripping as the door shuts behind him. The rest of the squad is already inside. A few of the quicker ones have already got the showers running, while some of the slower ones are sitting there with their pants still on, flipping through messages on their phone.
Weston sits down and starts stripping off his pants. It's mechanical. The lights in here are too bright, just like the lights outside. The noises are too loud, just like the noises outside.
There's nothing he, or anyone else, can do about any of that. So instead he's just going to have to deal with it. A cup of coffee might do wonders, thought. Or it might just make it worse.
He's willing to take the risk in either case. Because there's a light at the end of the tunnel in the evening, sure. No afternoon practice means no afternoon walk home, which means no afternoon girls, which means not having to try to force himself to ignore the girls.
Which in turn means that he doesn't fail to ignore them. That he probably doesn't go home with one, and he probably gets an hour or so of his time back to sleep or study or eat.
It's rare that the routine loosens up. It usually only tightens as more things get jammed in at the last minute.
But tonight is going to be just such a rare day. A chance to finally be free of the routine for a night. He smiles in spite of himself as he hangs up the practice uniform.
It's going to be a hell of a long day getting there, though. Just like it is every day. Just with a light at the end of this tunnel, this one time.
He gets under the shower. The water's too hot. Just like everything else that's happening today, it's going to bother him. But this once, he's not going to complain once about it.
After all, it could be a hell of a lot worse. The water scalding his skin wakes him up even more. The fog, after hours of not being able to shake it, finally starts to lift.
Finally, after hours of suffering through the unpleasantly exhausted morning, he's starting to feel human again, and it's only seven in the morning. Maybe today won't be as bad as he thought, or maybe it'll be worse.
Chapter Five
The day isn't ever as bad as you worry it might be. That's what Emma keeps reminding herself. She always wants to worry, and today was no exception.
But everything was just about fine. She's prepared for everything. No pop quizzes. No surprise assignments due. No surprises at all. The total lack of surprises is almost a surprise in itself.
Having nothing to worry about is the absolute worst, because it means not having to do anything. So when the teacher goes over the same things that are already in her final-copy of the notes, Emma sits quietly and patiently.
She doesn't think a whole lot about Craig Weston. When her thoughts do turn to him, it's only to be disgusted.
She doesn't think about his abs, the way that he was moving across the lawn yesterday like an animal. She doesn't think about how every muscle in his body moves in perfect unison, or about how perfect his face is.
She doesn't think about what it must be like to… you know. With him. She's not that kind of girl, and she doesn't have those kinds of thoughts, and if she did have them, then she sure wouldn't admit to it afterward.
So when she found herself feeling a little distracted by thoughts that she certainly wasn't having, she just kept her head down, kept going through the notes, half-way listening to make sure that there weren't any mistakes.
There never were. She triple checks every draft, and this is the third one. By now she's checked nine times to make sure that there aren't any surprises. After all, how could she hand Jane a packet of papers with a mistake? How could she afford that?
The second problem, the other one that she's not ready to admit, is the email she got this morning. Bank funds overdrawn.
Now, of course, that's perfectly strange, because last time she looked, she had nearly a thousand dollars in that account. And then again, she barely spent money. She mig
ht have spent, in grand total, two hundred dollars since the semester began. Outside of books and tuition, but between the loans and the grants, all that is covered.
No, something had to have happened to that money. Surely there was some kind of mistake. She'd be able to run by the bank… perhaps this afternoon. They'd rectify their mistake.
But until then, how exactly she was planning to buy food next week… that was becoming a real question.
Would someone really buy her notes? Why? Were they that good?
And if they were that good, could she even guarantee anything? It wasn't good enough to say, 'oh, you can have my notes, it'll be twenty dollars.'
She'd have to say that it was going to have some advantages over sitting down in class and just reading the material at home, making your own study materials.
Some people wouldn't want to do that, so she might get a few people. But that's not the sort of person that she's aiming at. It's fine if some slacker decides that he'd like some pre-made notes, but he could get them from anyone.
No, if she's going to do this, she's going to do it right, and that means she'll have to target the people who need the right notes, and need to be sure that they've got the right stuff.
Stuff that would compete with Barron's or Cliffs Notes. Because otherwise, who the hell would buy her stuff at any price?
Emma takes a deep breath. With a little bit of help from the sisters at the sorority, it could happen. Her notes have always been freely available to them. That wouldn't have to change.
Freely available to sisters, and they help her with a little word of mouth. That way, she can sell off copies and make a little money on the side. Just enough to get by, for the next few weeks.
Once the bank pulls its head out of its ass, she'll be completely fine. This is just going to be a stop-gap measure. It's not a business. She's not looking to turn a profit.