Chasing Peace (2 page)

Annie crosses her legs in the cramped space on the bus while
my knees bump into the seat in front of us. That’s when I spot the telltale
colored soles on her pumps. The bus jolted along, the PA system droning on, but
I no longer try to listen to the tour guide.

Annie’s wearing a simple sleeveless blue shift with a
necklace long enough to puddle in her lap while sitting. The necklace combines
tiny silver links with blue, green and clear crystalline stones. Based on the
shoes, I figure the chain came in a signature box and is probably platinum, not
cheap-ass sterling, like me. The small sparkly stones in her ears are a bluish
green, maybe aquamarine, or maybe colored diamonds. I know next to nothing
about gemstones so there’s no way I can tell, but again, based on the shoes, I’m
guessing diamonds.

Her skin glowing and smooth sports an all-over golden tan,
not the farmer tan I get from wearing T-shirts and shorts all summer. Her hair
thick and long looks healthy and the simple cut probably cost a fortune.

Yep, now that I really look, I can see that Annie exudes
wealth, unless the shoes are fake along with her parent’s expectations of a
good marriage. That explains people trying so hard to be her friend. Maybe she
really did need me.

I meet her eyes. Sadness colors the clear blue with muddy
uncertainty as if she’d misjudged me and doesn’t know where to go from here.
Embarrassed by my obvious assessment, I brush it off, by questioning her name.

“So your parents really named you Annie Oakes, huh?”

Her eyes clear. “Clever, right? Actually it’s Annabelle, but
who wants to go through life with a name like that, so Annie it is.”

“No cowgirl themed birthday parties?”

“Nope and now I can’t wear cowboy boots, shoot guns or round
up cattle without someone spouting banality. However will I survive?”

She pressed a hand to her chest and fluttered her eyelashes,
mocking a Southern belle, but I can see the secrets she hides so well from
those dazzled by the exterior trappings. Loneliness lurks in the fringes,
escaping occasionally as she yearns for honest attention.

Her vulnerability called out to me. I chuckled at her
actions, playing along and pretending amusement, but all the while thinking
about Annie as a poor little rich girl. Damn! Now I’m describing people in clichés.
What does that say about me?

“So let me see your schedule. Maybe we have some classes
together,” I suggest moving away from a subject that might prove alienating. I
didn’t know it then, but Annie put the first chink in my resolve, a chink that
would open me up for more and I have no idea how she did it.

Expecting premed and biology students to share science
classes, I pull my crumpled schedule from my pocket. Annie pulls hers up on a
shiny new phone.

Turns out we have Philosophy together with Campbell, not at
all what I expected.

“So premed includes a little philosophy.” I raise my eyebrow
making the statement a question.

“I think doctors need to be well rounded before they get to
the medical stuff. A science geek just doesn’t cut it when you have to tell
someone they’re dying of cancer or explain their child’s injuries.”

The bottom drops out of my stomach and I’m falling through
space and time, unable to focus on her words.

She didn’t notice right away, rattling on. “They should have
a lot of experience…” I don’t hear her anymore over the roar in my ears. “Hey,
Sterling, are you okay?”

I collect myself and come back at her coaxing. “I’m fine. You’ve
really thought this through, huh?” I haven’t given my career choice nearly as
much thought.

Annie continued, but bad listener that I really am, I
listened with only one ear as I looked around the bus, wondering if I would
ever see any of these students again or if, like Annie and I, we’d share some
classes.

Looking over my shoulder, I spot the girl Annie chose to
avoid. She glared at me with mean intent. I’m usually pretty good at reading
people, but I didn’t need to be in this case. Even the most clueless among us
could read the anger in her eyes.

She dressed well, but with clothing from mall stores, not
exclusive boutiques. Her shoes are fashionable flats, but nothing special. Her
hair looked good; maybe her best asset, but the ugly expression she wore
overshadowed everything else. She might have been pretty if she weren’t so
irate.

Annie paused and I jumped in. “If I turn up dead, point the
cops in her direction. I don’t think she likes me much.”

Annie turned around to see a friendly winsome countenance. “Oh
Julie, yeah, she wanted to sit by me, but I couldn’t take another minute. I’m
looking for friends, not sycophants.”

“Dressing down a little bit might not attract so much
attention.” Yeah, I said it, but I’m not sure it will do much good. It looks
like privilege is in Annie’s genes and clothing probably won’t make much
difference to the observant among us. “Most of us don’t look past clothing to
see the person beneath.”

“See,” said Annie with a big cheesy grin, “I knew you were
someone different, someone genuine. So, are you going to the freshman barbecue
tomorrow?”

“Nah. I think it’s pretty lame. We’ll meet people in class,
study groups, ya know. That’s enough for me.”

“We’ll also meet people in the dorms. Where’s your room?”
Hope shimmered in Annie’s eyes as she asked the question, making her loneliness
even more obvious.

The thought that I would let her down churned in my gut, but
I couldn’t avoid the question. “I live off campus. I can’t imagine that I’ll be
hanging out in the dorms.”

“What!” she screeched. “I thought all freshmen had to live
on campus!” Incensed by the injustice, Annie’s irritation came through loud and
clear.

“Not if they’re older students or still living with their
parents.”

“So you’re living with your parents?” She looked perplexed
as she asked.

“I’m not. I’m twenty-one so I pushed to remain off campus.
There are others too you know. Former military aren’t required to stay in the
dorms, although most freshmen do.”

She continued on a rant and I half listened, “Sterling?
Sterling?” Annie’s voice interrupts my thoughts.”

Jerking my head back in her direction, my glazed eyes focus
on her face, register the question in her eyes. “Sorry. I thought I saw someone
I knew.” I’m not sure why, but I fibbed.

“Yeah, I saw him too.” A grin quirked her mouth, laughter
overflowing as I smiled back in foolish whimsy.

The bus tour ended had ended back where we’d started and I
still don’t know where any of my classes are, great. Thank God for navigation
on my phone. It’s the only good feature left on the old piece of crap.

“Maybe we can hang out at your house sometime,” Annie says
as we step down from the bus. “I have a car.” I could hear the hope in her
voice.

“Yeah sure.” My answer is noncommittal because at the moment
I don’t want to totally blow her off. My car could die at any minute and I
might need a ride.

It’s mercenary, I know, but this is my second chance and I’m
going to grasp, claw, seize and secure every opportunity to make it through
college and make something of my life. All I have to do is think about Emma and
my resolve is iron clad.

I’m polishing barware and thinking about Annie while we’re
slow before the conferences let out. Normally, I’d think about Emma and Brock
and my mom, but after yesterday I’ve had Annie on my mind.

“Hey sweetie. Daydreaming I see.”

“Hi Lyla.” I have a huge case of hero worship where Lyla’s
concerned and I’m sure she knows it based on the silly smile I wear every time
we talk. “I’m thinking about someone I met at orientation yesterday.”

“Oooh a boy huh?” Lyla is something else. She’s older but
still edgy, until she says something a mother might. Okay, not my mother, but
the kind of mother I wish I had.

“No, not a boy,” I say emphatic and a bit snippy, but that
just makes her laugh like a mother teasing her child about a crush. “Seriously,
I’ve been thinking about a girl I met today.”

“Well tell me about it.”

I don’t talk right away, choosing my words with care because
Lyla knows me better than anyone. She used to be my mom’s best friend and will
always be an honorary auntie to me, although she’s much like an aging rocker,
current and interesting and unique, yet older. Lyla manages the bar and I’m
something of an apprentice.

Tall like me, but even more lean, Lyla has biceps clearly
visible just at the edge of her T-shirt. I have to wear a jacket. Heck,
everyone has to wear a jacket except Lyla. When I think about whipcord
strength, that’s Lyla.

She’s far too tan and wrinkled beyond her years from sun and
cigarettes and booze. Her jet black hair, even darker than mine, is short and
spiky where it parts. A longer swath of blonde hangs over her right eye.

Lyla uses that curtain of hair to secretly keep an eye on
the clientele and they don’t even know it. She’s taught me some of her best
bartending tricks and I know that if college doesn’t work out, I can always
make a living tending bar. It isn’t my dream, but it’s a solid fall-back plan.

I work for Lyla at a nice downtown hotel, not a luxury
place, but a decent conference and business-travel hotel. Lyla offered me the
job when I couldn’t find anything else and I’m eternally grateful.

“Her name is Annie and I think she’s lonely,” I say, still
polishing barware.

“So you decide to be her friend?”

“Not actually. She found me and I think she decided to be my
friend.”

“Well that’s interesting. Why do you think she’s lonely?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t talk about it.” Lyla is silent,
expecting more and when I can’t stand the quiet any longer, I blurt out, “I
think she’s really wealthy.”

“So? What difference does that make?”

“None to me I suppose, but she doesn’t seem to trust the
people who want to be friends. I think they usually want something from her.”

Lyla didn’t say anything for a minute and then she did. “Maybe
she thinks you need a friend.”

“Yeah, except I don’t. I’m not looking for friends. I don’t
care if I meet anyone. I don’t even try. Besides, I’d make a terrible friend,”
I say, thinking about past relationships and how devastating their ends.

“You’re a great friend Sterling and I’m old. Just imagine
how much fun it’ll be to have a friend your own age.”

My gut crunches when I realize that while Lyla has been a
great friend to me, I’m sure I’ve never returned the favor. I confess my
mercenary thoughts thinking maybe I should. “As we parted, Annie told me she
had a car and I thought she might be a good friend to have if I ever need a ride.”

“Maybe you really do need a friend,” Lyla says, shaking her
head, censure in her piercing gaze, “someone who will teach you what it means
to be a friend.”

“But Lyla, I have you and you’re all I can handle right now,”
I jest.

My attempt to make light of the situation falls flat so I
don’t say anything more. Lyla really understands people and if she thinks I
need a friend, there might be something to it.

The glassware is ready and I move on to restocking the
garnish, slicing lemons and limes, fishing olives and onions out of the jar and
such until I hear the piano. We haven’t had a piano player since May and it’s
nice, a little cheesy, but nice. The piano is on the other side of the bar and
I look to see who’s playing.

“Checking out our new piano player I see.” Lyla’s back and
she’s nudging me in the ribs with her elbow, making fun of me. “What do you
think?”

“He’s good.”

“Yep, especially for his age.”

I’m trying to slice fruit, but my eyes stray to the piano
man.

“He looks young and that’s a really nice suit.” I’d worked
at a dry cleaner before and after school my senior year and I could spot an
expensive suit a mile away. I wonder why he’s working here.

“Here they come,” Lyla says, moving away from me as
customers begin to pour through the door in waves.

Lyla serves the bar while I mix drinks for the cocktail
waitresses. I lose track of time and the piano man.

“Hello ... Hellllooooo.” She is loud and brash, but she
really captures my attention because her voice is over the top sarcastic. I
look up to see a woman in her mid to late thirties sitting at the bar waving
and hollering. I hold up one finger, no not that one. I’m scrambling to keep up
and ask for a minute to finish my current drinks.

Lyla has twenty-two seats at the bar while I have more than
a hundred on the floor. She provides backup for me when it’s busy and I cover
the bar when she runs back to the stockroom or ducks out for a smoke.

“Don’t you put me off. I want a drink and I want it now or
you’ll be looking for a new job.”

I turn her direction as I place the last cocktail on Trish’s
serving tray.

“Good luck,” she whispers, grabbing the drinks and scooting
away.

“What can I get you?”

“Singapore Sling and don’t use any of that bathtub swill. I
want the good stuff.”

I know this woman, with her severely tailored red suit that
calls for attention among the darker suited men. She is successful, but not
because of intellect or compassion or skill. She’s successful because she’s a
bully. I pull out a tall glass as she turns to the man next to her to grouse
about the service in this place. I half listen, imagining her employees working
long hours with little recognition while she uses their paychecks, their
livelihood, to bend them to her will. I imagine she hollers, demeans and maybe
even hits her employees, while cozying up to the business leaders and taking
credit for her team’s work and preferential treatment for herself. She uses her
womanhood to get ahead when necessary and she uses gender discrimination to her
benefit.

She isn’t likeable or confident or happy and she’s single
when she’d rather be married. The chance to have children is quickly passing
her by. I’d feel sorry for her except I’m at her mercy right now as she
threatens my livelihood. I’m not worried, but that doesn’t mean I want her
hanging out near me at the bar all night.

Adding the cherry, I pass over the drink as the first
strains of “Lady in Red” float from the piano. This is my reprieve.

“I think he’s playing for you. Why don’t you head over to
the piano and I’ll have a waitress set up a tab.”

“You think?” Now shiny and eager, the sarcasm gone, she
questions without confidence.

“He’s looking right at you. Go enjoy the music.”

Sliding off her stool, she saunters over to the piano. I
feel bad for the piano man, guilt like a chunk of ice taking up residence in my
gut. I did a terrible thing to a new coworker and even worse, the “lady in red”
stayed at the piano all evening trying to sink her claws into the poor guy. Now
I’m in his debt.

The night finally slowed after midnight. I dry glasses while
Lyla washes. “So whaddya think of our new piano player?”

“I think I did him wrong, throwing him to the wolves on his
first day,” I confess, recounting my interaction with the “lady in red” who is,
as we speak, half sprawled on the piano, her red skirt stretched tight over her
ass pointed in our direction.

“Looks like he can hold his own,” she says, the gravel in
her voice crunching with disappointment.

My eyes slide sideways wondering what she didn’t say, but
Lyla turns away. “Let me grab a smoke before you take off. Okay?”

* * *

Saturdays are always slower nights. You’d think the
opposite, but we don’t cater to people who while away the hours in self
indulgence. Our hotel serves business travelers and they like to be home on
Saturday nights leaving us quiet and lonely. Don’t get me wrong, we still have
guests. There are plenty of people ready for a little self-indulgence, but not
nearly as many as we see on Fridays. So it’s a little slow tonight.

I make it to the midpoint of my shift without dying of
boredom. I’m not quite as sure I’ll make it through the last half, especially
when Logan walks in.

“Oh shit.” I freeze, wanting to duck down behind the bar so
he can’t see me, but I remain glued in position, frozen. It’s like fate demands
the confrontation, whether I want it or not. Distress seethes and then flares
into flame licking at me, consuming me, piece by piece until there’s nothing
left. I tried to put it behind me, but in reality three or four months will
never be long enough. A lifetime isn’t even long enough.

Logan spots me and veers my way. I can’t move. He’s an all-American
boy. Tall and gorgeous with thick blonde hair and bright blue eyes. His
features have the symmetry of Adonis. Perfect spacing between the eyes, a
straight slope to his nose, lips chiseled, a cajoling smile that can melt a
heart across the room, mine included.

His years as an athlete gave his body a similar symmetry.
Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist. Long legs prowl toward me. Biceps and
deltoids bulge with strength. Slabs of prominent muscle coil, ready to strike.
Logan stands tall and proud and beautiful. Is it right to call a man beautiful?
No matter, it’s beyond true.

Everything comes easy to Logan. He’s an only child and his
parents indulge him. Life proved carefree. I imagine that’s why he finds it so
easy to take what he wants, consequences be damned. I last saw him at Emma’s
funeral in May. He arrived angry then too. As I watch his approach today, fists
clenched, a grim militant slant to his lips, tension barely leashed, he’s angry
still. I can’t blame him. I’m angry too.

As he approached, I dismiss the threatening inferno building
in his eyes. He has no more claim to anger than do I. It dominates, but he does
not. He made his choice and I moved on until the world conspired against us
leaving behind flagging confidence, intense guilt, self hatred and, yes, anger.

Logan had played football in high school. I’d been smitten
when he turned his attention my way. I’m pretty, but I’ve never been popular. I
never tried out for cheerleading or sports or drama. I’m no socialite either. I
was the loner, the girl who never quite fit in. I enjoyed my high school
classes, while continually dreading the social interactions, until Logan turned
his attention my way.

We’d dated for more than a year, until I found him in bed
with someone else. I’m sure there’d been others. I just didn’t want to admit
it.

As his hand shot out to grab my forearm, I heard a growl to
my right coming from Lyla.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

The spell broken, I could move again. I turned toward the
sound and saw Lyla, hands planted on the bar, strength sizzling through every
fiber of her being. She looked ready to launch herself over the bar, smashing
her foot to his head on her way. I’d seen her spring from one side to the
other, feet never touching until she reached the other side.

“It’s okay Lyla. He has a right to be angry.”

“Fine, but he keeps his hands off you.” Her words were terse
and tight. She knew Logan and would defend me with the furor of the righteous.
She didn’t understand my guilt.

“Logan has never hurt me, at least not physically,” I said,
watching Logan, not Lyla.

“I don’t know what to do,” he mumbled, defeat weighing
heavy.

With a tilt of my head, I directed him to the cocktail
service counter at the end of the bar. Lyla stands guard, arms crossed, chin
jutting militantly.

“Why aren’t you in school?” I ask. Logan has a football
scholarship to an out-of-state college.

“I should be, but I can’t handle it right now. I can’t concentrate
on school or football. I can’t talk to people. I walk around angry, ready to
punch something or someone. You’ve ruined my life Sterling.”

“I’m sorry Logan,” I say, cringing at the ugly heat
radiating from him. I understand his anger. I told him about Emma and he’s
never forgiven me. He’d rather have never known. I know how he feels. It
distracted me too, punished me, tortured me everyday. He’s suffering just like
me and it’ll never stop, never go away.

“You owe me. I want my life back,” he snapped.

“I want my life back too. Everyday I wish the torture away,
only to pull it back again because when the pain is gone, Emma is gone. It’s
the best reminder I have. It’s the best reminder we have Logan.”

“Bullshit! This is not my fault, yet I’m the one suffering.”
He gets louder fast. “I heard you’re going to Central. How is that fair? It’s
your fault and now you’re off to school free and clear while I can barely get
out of bed in the morning. I should be able to live my life, move on, forget
about you, forget about Emma.”

It felt like a punch to my gut. I hunched over, my arms
wrapping around my middle, the breath whooshing from my lungs, the agony of
suffocation. My breath comes back slowly as Logan watches me, outraged and
resentful. His face glowing red, fierce, a snarl to his beautiful lips, but I
had to say it.

“Please don’t forget her,” I plead, placing my hand over his
and then flinching when he tears his hands away.

“It’s time for you to go.” Lyla’s voice broke through the
tension with reason. Logan glared. I heard his tormented breathing over the
silence. The piano had gone quiet. “Go on,” she continued calmly. “This is not
the time or place.”