“No worries.”
The next song rips through the speaker. I start dancing right there behind the counter, and Shelly watches me, nonplussed. “Come on Shelly. Shake what your mama gave ya.”
She shakes her head. It’s adamant.
My feet stop moving but the rest of my body cannot stop. “What? Don’t tell me you don’t dance?”
She shakes her head again, and I can tell that she’s blushing. Damn, that’s something I never thought I’d see.
“Well, we have to do something about that.” I smile playfully. “You know I’m gonna get you out dancing before the end of semester, don’t you?” This girl needs to do something she’s never done before, something out of character. Suddenly that becomes my new goal.
The blush is fading and she shakes her head again to add conviction to her declaration. “I do not dance, Kate.”
“And I think your inner dancing queen wants to be set free. She’s screaming Shelly. I can hear her, and she’s pissed. Next time Clayton throws a rave in his room I’m inviting you.”
“A rave?”
“Okay, well, so it’s minus the hordes of people and the drugs and the glow sticks, but it’s still fun.”
“And who’s Clayton?”
“He’s my neighbor. He lives across the hall.”
She nods as I continue to sway my hips to the beat. She’s demonstrating terrific restraint in the this-girl-is-entertaining-the-hell-out-of-me-but-I-can’t-let-on department. “So what you’re saying is it’s really just you and your friend Clayton dancing to your iPod in his dorm room.”
I correct her. “His iPod, he’s got some good shit. But, yeah, that’s pretty much how it goes down.”
She shakes her head and a small but genuine smile emerges. It’s the kind of smile that you give someone you like, someone who makes you happy. I have a feeling that Shelly doesn’t hand these out too often. I feel honored. “Kate, you’re too much.”
Smiling, I dance back over to my station and get to work, toning down the dancing to mere head-bobbing; my body cannot be still when I’m listening to good music. It’s like it runs through my veins and I physically can’t disconnect from it.
Every few songs, when she thinks I’m not watching, Shelly leans over and glances at my iPod to read the screen. I smile discreetly. I have quite a bit of European music and some of it isn’t in English. I don’t speak any of the languages: French, German, Dutch, so I have no idea what the lyrics mean. But it doesn’t matter; the music is phenomenal even if you have no idea what they’re singing about. One of those songs has just started.
She intentionally looks at the screen and then looks at me. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s French hip-hop. You like?” I know she does or she wouldn’t be interested.
“It’s all right.” She grabs a piece of paper and a pencil and writes down the artist and song. I notice that she jots down six or seven other songs from memory. “Where do you find all this?”
“My best friend and I have been collecting music for a long time. It’s kind of our hobby.” I couldn’t live without it.
When the next song begins, I ask. “So Shelly, do you have a boyfriend?”
She nods, smiling a sweet vulnerable smile. I think I just discovered the chink in her armor. She’s whipped. “Yeah.”
“Yeah? You’re gonna want to write this one down. If an album was ever made specifically to fool around to, it’s this one.” Because it is. This band has a dark ‘80s vibe and the front-woman’s voice is super sexy.
She writes it down. “The Boyfriend thanks you.”
I smile and affirm. “Yeah he does.”
As the afternoon ambles on Shelly randomly fires questions at me while we work. I guess she’s decided my taste in music doesn’t suck. This must be part two of the music challenge.
“Name your top three favorite female singers.” Her eyes are narrow and twinkling. “And so help me God, if you say one damn pop princess you’re fired.”
I laugh at the threat. I could answer this question in my sleep. “Top three? Number one: Romy Madley Croft from the xx. Number two: Alison Moyet from Yaz. And number three: Johnette Napolitanos from Concrete Blonde. Honorable mention, because I’ve been listening to them a lot this week, goes to the chick from Royal Thunder. She can wail.”
“How about best guitar player?”
“My best friend.”
She looks doubtful. “All the great guitar players out there and you’re going to say your best friend?”
I smile back. “Absolutely.”
“Okay. Best bass player?”
“Easy. Silversun Pickups’ Nikki Monninger. Her bass lines are wicked. Plus she wears pretty dresses when she performs—so she’s badass and classy at the same time. I like that.”
“Best punk band?”
“Teenage Bottlerocket. Their live shows kick ass. So much fun to watch and the mosh pit is always raging.”
“Most underrated band?”
“Hands down, Dredg.”
“Who?”
“Exactly. It’s a travesty. Dredg should be a household name.”
“If you could meet any band or musician, who would it be?”
“I think it would cool as shit to hang out with Dave Grohl. He seems so nice, humble. You know, just a normal dude. Except that he’s crazy talented.” Shelly smiles at this, and I smile back.
It’s 7:00 when she unplugs her dock and hands me my iPod. “Well Kate, I do believe I’ve found the ultimate dealer.” She’s got her list in hand. “I’ve got to pick some of this up.”
I appreciate the compliment. “I’m glad you liked it.” I bow. “My job here is done.”
She rolls her eyes. “You wanna grab some pizza tonight? The Boyfriend and his roommate and I are going over to Red Lion Road later for beer and pizza. We can pick you up.” And just like that Shelly’s no longer intimidating. She doesn’t take shit from anyone, but for some reason she’s warmed up to me. And the truth is, I like her, too.
“Dude, I’m sorry but I can’t. I’ve got homework and I promised Clayton I’d eat with him tonight.”
She smirks. “A date with the raver?”
“Nope. Just an evening of platonic fine dining at the cafeteria.”
She pulls her apron over her head. “Well, you’re no fun.”
“I really am sorry, dude, thanks for asking. Another time, okay?” The truth is I don’t have any extra money. I’ve got five dollars that needs to last until Friday when I get paid. That probably wouldn’t even buy me a slice of pizza and the beer I’m not old enough to purchase. But I can’t tell her that. I won’t become the charity case. And the cafeteria is free. Besides, I can already taste the $1.57 cup of coffee from Grounds, the one I’ll grab on my way to Literature tomorrow morning. Since the dorms don’t allow coffee makers (even the Holy Grail), and the cafeteria coffee tastes like mud, I’ve got my heart set on that cup. I need those five dollars.
Tuesday, August 30
(Keller)
The bell rings and it’s instinct to look. It’s not so much a trained reaction as it is involuntary curiosity. Since Romero had an appointment early this morning, I’m working the coffee bar solo until he returns.
The first thing I notice about her is how utterly tiny she is. Then I notice her clothes, her whole look; she’s not from around here. The third is the scowl on her face, pointed at the bell hanging from the door. I get the feeling she has history with this bell. She’s the cutest thing I’ve seen in a long time. The kind of cute that makes you smile, even if you don’t want to. As she approaches the counter, the scowl vanishes, replaced by the most genuine, sincere smile. Smiles aren’t always happy, but hers is. It’s open, content, and confident. She looks friendly in the most literal sense of the word, like you’d swear you’ve known her for years and she knows all your secrets. And still likes you in spite of them.
After what I realize is an exaggerated pause on my part, I smile and offer my standard greeting, ?
??Welcome to Grounds. What can I get for ya?” I realize that I sound much more excited than usual, and I clear my throat.
Her smile deepens, like she knows this is out-of-character for me, and when it hits her eyes they smile, too. They’re the palest shade of jade and tell a story all their own. Then it hits me how beautiful this woman is. Like a freight train it hits me; from her eyes, to her smile, to her wavy sunshine-blond hair, to her petite but exceptionally well proportioned body. Everything about her is beautiful.
Her magical eyes and mouth are still smiling at me. “Good morning.”
Her voice is so sexy. I can’t explain the sound, but it lands somewhere deep inside me and takes root. It’s the kind of voice you don’t hear as much as you feel. And as soon as I feel it, I want to feel it again … and again. I find myself trying to match her smile. The right corner of my mouth pulls up. “Good morning to you.” I may be losing my mind, but I don’t want this time with her to end too fast. So I flirt. Which I haven’t done in such a long time. “Let me guess, caramel cappuccino, soy, no whip?”
Her brows crease a little and her head delicately tilts slightly to one side, but her smile doesn’t fade. “So are you pretty good at this? Guessing people’s orders I mean?”
I can’t help this feeling. I want to be closer to this woman standing four feet from me on the other side of the counter. So I lean forward, lace my fingers together, and rest my elbows on the counter. Mission accomplished: I’m another foot closer. She has a faint dusting of freckles on her nose. They’re beautiful, too. “Usually.” Which is a lie. I’ve never done this.
She scratches her head like she’s thinking over what I’ve said. When she pulls her hand away from her hair, it’s even messier than before. That’s not a bad thing. At all. She challenges me. “So I’m a caramel whatcha-ma-call-it kind of girl? Damn, I don’t know how to take that.”
I keep my elbows and hands resting on the counter. I’d worry I just offended her if her smile wasn’t back in place. But she seems feisty. “That’s my best guess.”
“Wow,” she replies. “To tell you truth, I feel a little slighted by your presumptuous assessment, but I’m gonna let it slide. I always thought I wore my passion for coffee on my sleeve, kind of like a badge of honor. Large cup of coffee, house blend … black, please.”
Black? She can’t mean it, no one ever does. They mean black until you put everything else in it. I narrow my eyes. “Flavor shot?”
Her eyebrows lift. “Nope.”
I press on. “Creamer? Milk? Soy?”
She shakes her head. “No thanks.”
“Sugar?”
“Nah, I’m sweet enough already.”
Out of anyone else’s mouth that would’ve sounded cheesy and over-the-top flirtatious, but she says it so matter-of-factly I don’t think she’s even trying to be suggestive. Damn, she’s got me falling all over myself here. I laugh and shake my head. “I bet you are.” I pour the coffee, then offer her the warm cup. I almost jump out of my skin when she takes it and her finger slides over mine. It was clearly unintentional on her part, but I have to suppress a vocal reaction. I clear my throat again and attempt to sound normal. “Guess I had you pegged wrong. Welcome to the club.”
As she hands me two dollar bills, she winks. “I get that a lot.”
She winked at me. I’m grateful at this moment that I’m standing concealed from the waist down behind this counter, because I’m way too close to embarrassing myself on such a middle school level. I drop the change in her tiny open palm, because I can’t risk physical contact again.
She immediately drops it in the tip jar and hoists her coffee in the air. “Thanks. Have a stupendous Tuesday.”
Who says stupendous? She does. It may be my new favorite word. “Stupendous,” I repeat. I can’t stop smiling at her. It’s like she’s turned on this switch inside me. “You do the same.” I offer a lazy salute. It’s a habit I’ve picked up from working with Romero so long.
I glance at the clock. It’s only 6:55am, and this has already been a stupendous day.
What in the hell just happened? I feel like I’ve been asleep for years and I’ve only just woken up.
Wednesday, August 31
(Kate)
I’ve been in Clayton and Pete’s room for the past two hours. We all talked the first hour and then Clayton suggested, “Let’s play Fatally harm, Screw, Civil Union.”
I look at Pete to see if he has any clue what Clayton’s talking about but he looks as confused as I am and then it hits me. “Dude, I am not playing Kill, Fuck, Marry.”
Clayton looks astonished I’d deny him. “It sounds so obnoxious when you say it like that. Why not?”
I roll my eyes. “I haven’t played that since I was like fifteen.”
Pete’s still confused. “What’s Kill, Fu—” He can’t even say the word. He’s definitely never played this game.
Now I’m smiling because Pete’s innocence is too damn adorable. “Clayton,” I shift my gaze to meet his eager eyes, “John our dorm RA, Hector the dude who works in the cafeteria, and Sugar my roommate.”
His smile fades. “For God’s sake, Katherine, those options are horrific.”
I smile and taunt, “You’re the one who wanted to play. And Hector’s not horrific. He’s super nice.”
“How do you even know he’s nice?”
“I talk to him every night when I drop my dirty dishes off in the cafeteria washroom.”
“What you two do isn’t talking. It’s a sad combination of Spanglish and charades.”
“He’s teaching me Spanish. I’m teaching him English,” I defend.
He smirks. “What has he taught you?”
I laugh because I know I’m caught. Hector’s English is extremely limited and what we do is closer to charades than a verbal conversation, but we give it our best effort. I puff up my chest. “I know ‘Mi nombre es Kate’ and ‘Como estas’ and ‘gato.’ And ‘Ami no me gustan las zanahorias,’ which means carrots taste like shit.”
Pete looks skeptical. “He taught you how to say, ‘Carrots taste like … crap’?’”
I wave my hand dismissively. “It probably means ‘I don’t like carrots,’ but I prefer ‘Carrots taste like shit.’ Because they do.” I eyeball Clayton, who’s now squirming. “Back to the game Clay: John, mi amigo Hector, and Sugar. Break it down.”
Pete still hasn’t caught on.
Clayton sighs. “Fatally harm has to be Sugar because I can’t work with her any other way.” He pauses. “The other two are making me nauseous.”
“Play your cards, dude.”
He covers his eyes and I glance and see the recognition registering in Pete’s eyes. His cheeks are the distinct shade of utterly embarrassed. Clayton sputters, “Screw John because he’s just too mean to spend the rest of my life with and Civil Union Hector, even though I don’t speak a word of Spanish and his hair net, baggy acid-wash jeans, and white, clunky, old-man sneakers are atrocious.” He can’t get the words out quickly enough and crosses his arms over his chest in a pouty gesture. “I’m done playing.”
I clap and laugh at the disgusted look on his face. “That was classic, Clayton.” Pete looks uncomfortable as hell like he’s afraid he’s up next so I switch gears. “Okay, new game.”
I proceeded to make up a new game where one person comes up with a question and then we all have to go around the circle and answer it. I learned that Pete was born in Texas, but grew up in Omaha, Nebraska. His favorite food is rare steak with sautéed garlic and mushrooms, his favorite childhood toy was a microscope (is that a toy?), and he’d rather have his little toe cut off with hedge clippers than walk across campus naked. And Clayton’s favorite book is Lord of the Rings, and he despises dogs—especially small ones. He competed in figure skating as a kid (I would have paid money to have seen that), and he would have no problem walking naked across campus as opposed to losing a toe, as long as he could wear thigh-high red socks and his black patent knee-high combat boots (I have
to admit that’s a statement I’d like to see).
After Pete went to sleep an hour ago, Clayton and I worked on homework. But now my eyes don’t want to stay open anymore.
I close my European history book and whisper, “Clayton, you really know how to show a girl a good time, but I think I’d better retire. I’m beat.”
“Okay honey. I better get a little beauty sleep, too.”
I throw my bag over my shoulder. “Night Clayton.”
“Good night Katherine.” He blows me a kiss from where he’s sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor.
I blow a kiss back and shuffle across the hall. I notice the red ribbon tied on the doorknob but unfortunately it doesn’t signal a warning in my sleepy head until it’s too late. It all happens so quickly. All I see are a tangle of legs and bare butt cheeks. And then the moans are interrupted by aggressive cursing.
“What the fuck?” Sugar yells. She’s trying to scream at me but she’s breathless, clearly in the middle of a fairly aerobic session here. “Get the hell out of here, you bitch!”
The scene, and the red ribbon, finally registers. “Oh shit. Sorry dude.” I pull the door behind me quickly. My heart is racing. I’m wide awake now. I head down the hall and use the bathroom, where I splash some water on face and weigh my options. Should I wait her out, or should I sleep somewhere else? I head back down to Clayton’s room and knock softly. The adrenaline rush has worn off and I feel sleepy again. Clayton answers the door, already in his pajamas. They’re burgundy silk.
“Did you forget something Katherine?”
“No. Dude, first things first, when did you turn into Hugh Hefner? Those pajamas are fantastic.”
He smiles and curtsies. “Thank you.”
I motion with my thumb over my shoulder to my door. “Um, yeah, so Sugar’s riding the baloney pony and I totally just walked in on them. Do you mind if I room with you tonight?”
He throws the door open. “Oh course not, Katherine.” He glances across the hall at my door. “Didn’t you see the ribbon tied to the doorknob?”