The Girl I Was Before Page 2

  I nod, only because he’s already gone before I could answer.

  “That guy’s your boyfriend?” Houston asks, finally packing up my sandwich. Normally, I’d respond with something snarky, a confident quip would put him and that damned disapproving look in its place. I can’t seem to find that fire today.

  “I still need to place the party orders,” I say, opting to ignore his question completely.

  “Right,” he says, his lips pushed into a tight, flat line.

  I add two more trays of shrimp and up the number of platters of meat and cheese. Houston notes it all on the order sheet. I wait at the register while he walks to the office and tucks my ticket away again. When he comes back, he slides a bottle of tea toward me—the same sweet tea I drank the last time I came.

  He remembered. It makes me smile.

  Propping my purse on the counter, I pull out my wallet and unsnap the clasp so I can pay for my lunch, but Houston stops me. The warmth of his hand is surprising against mine. I don’t jerk or flinch; I only freeze. It takes me a second or two to look up at him—to register he’s stopping me from paying for my lunch. I don’t like that. I don’t like being beholden to someone. Favors—they’re like making a trade sometimes. The last favors I gave away cost me too much.

  “It’s on me,” he says, and I refuse quickly, shaking my head no. His hand squeezes mine tighter. “I won’t take your money. Not for your lunch…or his. It’s on me.”

  “I can buy my own lunch, thank you,” I say, resenting being pushed around. I shake his grip from my hand and hold out my card. He takes it and swipes it hard along the register, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.

  “Damn, you mean that asshole can tell you to do something, and you just obey, but me—an actual nice guy—I can’t buy you lunch without getting your foot up my ass?”

  “I’d like my receipt,” I say, ignoring him again. He rips it off and crumples it in his hand and throws it along with my card on the counter. “Thank you,” I say, stuffing it in my purse and clutching my sandwich bag in my other hand.

  I can feel the force of his eyes on me as I turn to leave; my heart is kicking the insides of my chest in anticipation of his voice. The closer I get to the door, the stronger the sensation. I almost make it outside when I feel his hand on my shoulder. I spin around, ready to lay into him—my fire flickering.

  “You can do better,” he says before I can open my lips to speak. His gaze is direct, and it halts me, if only for this moment. “That’s all I want to say. I just thought you should know. You. Can do. Better.”

  His face is serious. There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s flirting. But it doesn’t feel like a pick-up line. Houston—his being here today, his words—this feels more like a rescue.

  I smile, perhaps a little indignantly, and turn and step through the exit. When I round the building, I tuck my purse higher on my arm, and I clutch my sandwich and tea to my chest, running my hand along the cool spot on my skin where Houston touched me seconds ago.

  Save your heroics for someone else. I have a plan. I’m sticking to it. And I don’t need rescuing.

  No, I don’t need rescuing.

  * * *

  I used to think that I lucked out having a room of my own at the Delta House. So many of the other girls shared, but I had a room all to my self—a big corner one with two windows and a desk with a huge credenza nestled into the corner. But lately, I feel like I’m alone because nobody here really wants to room with me.

  I never thought about it before; I was distracted by this fantasy I dreamt about for so long. I’ve always been dazzled by things. This desk—it dazzled me. I’ve been staring at it, at the various pictures I have stuck to the cork board in the back, and those propped up on the shelves at the top. Most of the photos are of Chandra and me, sometimes together with our boyfriends.

  Chandra—she hypnotized me too.

  The house is empty. It’s a weekend, and everyone has something to do. Chandra is at the stadium, watching her boyfriend practice. I guess she’s watching mine practice too. We have one football game left—it’s homecoming, and we’re going to lose. I don’t really see the point in practicing, but I’m also glad that’s where Carson is.

  I feel like I’m waiting for a rocket to launch through my window, for an earthquake to happen. I really shouldn’t assume things will unravel that way. Maybe there’s a chance the photo won’t get picked up. I sent it to the student media, and to a few of the social sites that post about the campus who’s who. Maybe they aren’t interested? Of course they’re interested.

  The longer I toss around in my brain what I’ve done, the more I start to regret sending the photo in the first place. Then, I feel guilty for regretting it. This cycle—it’s stupid.

  I grab my backpack, stuffing it with every single book I own. I’m a design major, and my finals aren’t really something I need to worry about. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around this empty house waiting for the sun to fall. Hell, I might just study right on through Saturday night. I’m sure the party will be at our house again, and drinking seems to turn my subconscious into a superhero—out to save the world and correct all the bad shit Paige Owens does when she’s sober. It’s pretty sad when the good version of yourself is the drunk one.

  “Ugh, finals,” I huff, rolling my eyes as I pass two of the upper-class Deltas sitting in the common area downstairs. They nod and smile, but don’t say anything while I open and close the door behind me. Why didn’t they say anything? Do they already know? Have they seen the picture? Are they talking about what to do with me—the traitor? They’ve never really talked to me before, so why would they now?

  I need to get to the library before I die from paranoia.

  Houston

  Six shifts wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough. Chuck was good to me when he could be; I knew it—I hated to be that guy who begged. I hate begging. It feels like I do it a lot, though.

  I keep checking my watch while I pace outside his office in the front of the grocery store. The glass is reflective; it’s security glass and Chuck’s seeing me pace.

  I’m about to sit down on the small wooden bench by the ice and chopped wood bundles when Chuck steps out of his office. He pulls his ill-fitting jeans up over his round belly and tucks the pencil behind his ear with his other hand. The small tuft of hair he has left on his head almost makes it look like a quill.

  “Best I can do is add on some produce and cart time. That should bump you up ten more hours though. That do?” It will help, and I don’t want to make him feel bad; I nod and smile, shaking his hand and folding my apron up to tuck under my arm.

  “Thanks, Chuck. I’ll be here bright and early to open.” I pull my keys from my pocket. An old, bent stick of gum falls to the ground, so I pick it up and toss it in the trash.

  “Houston, here—” Sheila calls after me, pivoting around the butcher counter. It’s a family-run grocery store, and she and Chuck have kept me employed for three years, through every up and down. “You have enough time to stop by the house?”

  “I do,” I smile, taking the large bundle of steak she’s wrapped for me. “Thanks, Sheila.”

  I don’t really have time, but I learned you don’t turn down Sheila’s kindness—especially when it comes in the form of ten-ounce porterhouses. Thankfully, Mom’s home when I pull into the driveway. I don’t even bother turning the car off. She must have just sent the neighbor home from watching Leah.

  “Mmmmm, smells good. Whatcha cooking?” I ask, kissing Leah on the head while she slurps alphabet noodles from her bowl. My mom is standing over a large pot my nose recognizes to be her chili. Leaning over, I kiss my mom on the cheek and flash the handful of steak in front of her.

  “That from Sheila?”

  “Who else?” I say, tossing it into the freezer and grabbing a spoon from the drawer next to my mom. I dip into her pot, and she smacks my hand playfully. When she rolls her eyes, I go in farther, pulling ou
t a spoonful of steaming, red awesomeness. “Oh man. I love it when you make this.”

  “Well good, because I’m making enough to freeze for the week,” she says, going back to stirring and adding dashes of whatever bottles she has before her on the counter. My mom cooks everything by instinct; it’s what makes her food so damned good.

  “Well, I’m gonna need a lot of frozen meals this week. I’ve got thirty hours at the store, and finals,” I say. I can feel her lecture boiling under the surface as she sets the spoon down on the counter, rolling her hands into the dishtowel and leaning on her hip, turning to look at me. “I know. I know. But this semester’s almost done. I promise; no more than two classes at a time from now on.”

  “You do too much,” she says, her lips pursed and her eyes worried. Funny, I feel like I don’t do enough.

  “I need to pay my way,” I say, tearing off a corner of the bread and dipping it in the pot for one last bite.

  “I’ve got money, Houston. I pay the bills. And I can pay your tuition, too—” I interrupt her before I have a chance to agree with her.

  “Yeah, but I’d feel a lot better if you didn’t have to,” I say, distracted by the bubbles Leah is blowing in her milk. She looks up at me with a giggle and wipes away the white mustache above her lip. The smoke alarm starts blaring. Before I can get to the garage door to pull out the ladder, my mom is standing on top of the kitchen chair, poking at the screaming siren with the end of a spatula, while waving the dishtowel in her other hand to clear the smoke from the bit of sauce that spilled on one of the stove burners.

  I should stay and help.

  “Don’t do that. I see that look on your face. I’m fine, Houston. Now get to class; you’re paying for it,” she says, her mouth in that sideways smile that matches mine.

  “Okay, I’ll be quiet when I get home,” I say, propping the garage door open to air out the kitchen while I leave. I rush to my idling car with a can of soda and a few crackers—it will have to tide me over until I get home tonight.

  Thank god my mom lives only a mile away from campus. That’s half the reason I stay there. Everything in my life is orchestrated down to the second, because, well…yeah, I do too much. But not doing this much would just feel lazy. Thankfully, the single stoplight between home and campus cooperates today. I pull into the library parking lot and guzzle the rest of my soda, tossing the can in the trash by the door.

  The email said the group would be studying by the reference desk, but no one is there yet. I suck at Spanish. I tried to petition the school to let me count HTML as my language credit, but that petition got about as far as the shredder. I only need a year of a language for my computer science degree. Two semesters. But I was about to fail the first one. Not a good start.

  My backpack falls on the table, and I sink into one of the well-worn chairs, my body descending deep into the cushions. I run my hands along the wooden arms and the pencil-grooved marks—attempts to carve initials. I wonder how many people have touched this chair and tried to own it with their initials? What a stupid thing to claim as your kingdom.

  There’s no way I’m early. I was running late when I dipped the spoon in my mom’s chili, so unless time stopped—and rewound—this tutoring session wasn’t gonna happen. I need this tutoring session to happen.

  Leaning forward, I pull my Spanish book from my bag and prop it on my lap, the pencil still wedged in the middle, where I got lost while studying last night. My brain isn’t made for conjugating verbs, or knowing when to use feminine and masculine articles.

  “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” I breathe, pulling the pencil out and tossing it on top of my bag on the ground.

  I spend about ten minutes reading through the various words, saying them in my head. Then I close my eyes and try to quiz myself. I even fail this way—when all I have to do is crack an eyelid to cheat.

  I’m tempted to quit, but I’ve blocked out two hours for studying. I need to study before I meet up with Casey. I’m pretty sure his hard drive is fried, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him over the phone. Either way, I have a feeling I’ll be at his house for the rest of the night trying to save a semester’s worth of my best friend’s economics assignments.

  Shutting my eyes, I go in for one more try at the self-quiz, when I hear the sound of metal crashing onto tile.

  “Mother-fucking-piece-of-shit…” She thinks she’s talking quietly, gritting the swear words through her teeth. She kicks at the giant trash can snared in her purse strap, dragging it around her in a circle near the library entrance. I should probably get up and help, but I’m so caught up in the scene she’s making—by trying not to make a scene—I somehow forget to stand. When her gaze lands right on mine, I feel like a dick. But then she sneers at me and kicks the can one more time, tearing it from her purse and dropping her backpack and other things in a pile on the floor. It makes me chuckle.

  I toss my book to the side, because I’m not learning anything from it anyhow, and jog over to her at the entrance.

  “Good thing it’s a Saturday and the library’s empty,” I say, reaching to help her set the can back in its place. She swats at me at first.

  “Stop it! Just go back…over there. You know, to watch me for a while and do nothing.” There’s a well-deserved bite to her tone. Yeah, I feel like a dick.

  “I’m sorry. You sort of stunned me—what with all the kicking and clanging and sailor-mouthing,” I say through a soft laugh. She’s different right now. It’s still the same girl who orders sandwiches and party trays from me at the deli, but there’s also something different. “I’m Houston, by the way,” I say, brushing my hand off along my pants and reaching it forward to her. She looks at it for a few seconds, like she’s making sure it isn’t dirty. I’m almost offended, but I’ve sort of learned that Paige is just offensive. It’s her thing. She finally shakes my hand, but doesn’t hide the fact that she wipes her palm along her jeans afterward, which makes me chuckle.

  “I know your name,” she says. Bothered. Indignant. “You wear it on your shirt.”

  I look down and realize she’s right; I do still have my nametag on.

  “Oh, shit!” I say, pulling the pin off and stuffing it in my front pocket.

  “Who’s the sailor now?” she asks, her lip twisting up, her eyes almost giving me a wink. She tugs her bag back over her shoulder and picks her keys up from the floor before waving goodbye with her fingers. I watch her for a few seconds, noting the way her ass sways in the opposite direction of her hair. She’s like this perfect blonde bombshell, but damn can she be mean.

  I was going to apologize for what I said earlier—not the words so much as the way I said it. I could tell it offended her, and I could tell she was embarrassed that her boyfriend is such a prick. But I wasn’t judging her. She can do better; I meant it. I spoke up because I can’t stand watching assholes bully women. My grandpa used to bully my grandmother, always putting her down and making her feel stupid and small in front of people. He never hit her, and I guess that’s why he thought it was okay.

  She never looks back over her shoulder as she walks to the study lounge on the other side of the room. I give up and turn to get back to the miserable reason I came here in the first place.

  For the next thirty minutes, I write down every word I need to know, with my own version of how I think it’s supposed to be pronounced. The help desk is closed—I mean who studies on a Saturday night? After a good five minutes of peering over the desk for scissors, I eventually give up and tear my small quarter-pieces of paper into flashcards.

  Only three or four of the tears come out straight, the rest veering offline, leaving me with shreds of notebook-paper triangles with my scribble on both sides. I can’t even get this part of studying right. I’m pushing my sad little study cards together into a pile when I sense her legs step closer to my table.

  “Have you ever been in a library before?” The way she asks the question, it sounds so sincere, almost…sweet. She must be looking for something,
like the vending machines or computers.

  “I’m here a lot. Whatcha need?” I ask, pressing my stack of words together between my thumb and forefinger, already overwhelmed by the thickness of the stack I have to memorize.

  “I don’t need anything. I just figured you must not ever have been in a library before. I mean, why else would you come in here and think you could throw a noisy craft party that’s so loud I can hear it through the glass walls of the study lab?” Her hip juts out to the side as she points at me with her pen, clicking it open and closed while she waits for my response.

  She’s pissed about earlier.

  “Do you know Spanish?” I ask, figuring really…what do I have to lose?

  “Fuck off,” she spits back, kind of quickly, and I wonder if she actually heard me because her reaction seems like it was prepared for something else. She’s walking away when I keep talking.

  “Because that’s why I made these flashcards. I’m studying for my Spanish final. And I suck at this language, and the study group never showed,” I mumble, spreading the word papers out in front of me like a dealer in Vegas. I pull one out, and read the back, holding it up for her to see. “Caw-meeee-day.”

  I’m not even close; I know that much. I’m exaggerating my poor pronunciation, though not by much. Her shoulders hunch up when I speak, and she flips around, taking quick steps back to me, and ripping the small paper from my fingers.

  I watch her lips as she reads my writing, pronouncing the Spanish word for food, and I’m pretty sure she’s getting the full picture of how pathetic I am.

  “Let me see these,” she says, not really waiting for me, grabbing them all in her hands and flipping through a few, letting others fall loosely to the ground. I reach to pick them up, but give up quickly. Who am I kidding?