Fireworks: A Holiday Bad Boy Romance (63 page)

Mia and I each pick a
seat on the front row, though Mia makes a point of making sure there’s an empty
desk between us, and wait for the professor to read our work.

The way Mia wants to do
this whole thing is totally wrong. She wants to give a bunch of people pieces
of paper and she expects them to come up with some sort of profound insight
based off of generic questions that are, by their very nature, incapable of
probing into a person’s psyche in any meaningful way.

If we’re going to get any
kind of decent data, we’re going to have to do interviews, and we’re going to
have to throw in a couple of unexpected turns if we’re going to trick people
into giving us something resembling a useful set of responses.

The most important part
of the project, according to the professor, is how we extrapolate our
information from whatever data we collect. Basically, we’re supposed to take a
big picture and pick out the psychological motivations for everyone it
captures.

That and I think her
whole focus was too general. I know what she’s doing, too, she’s trying to
leave things open for now so that she can narrow down the road when she has a
clearer idea which way’s going to be the most expedient. Well, that’s not how I
like to do things.

All right, that’s exactly
how I like to do things, but princess needs to get knocked down a few pegs or
there’s going to be no working with her.

The professor sets the
papers onto the desk in front of her and gives one last glance at the top to
make sure she knows whose is whose.

“I think they’re both
well written,” the professor says, “but I think Ian’s approach is more fleshed
out. As surprising an admission as that is, I think he’s got the more
compelling focus and the better procedure for obtaining results. That’s your
project. Thanks for turning it in; now start getting along or you’re going to
drive each other into blowing this whole thing, all right?”

We both mutter something,
but neither one of us is about to be the first to speak.

I just humiliated her.
She can try to hide it, but as her posture collapses and she tries to hide the
redness in her face, I know how delicate this moment is.

If I say anything right
now, it’s going to come across as condescending because the professor just shot
down her paper in favor of mine. I can’t make it apparent that I’m trying to
avoid saying something for that reason, though, otherwise, it’ll just come off
as even
more
condescending and I
don’t know if we’d even be able to remain in the same room after something like
that.

Not that it’s
particularly easy now.

Mia finally gets up from
her chair, and I wait a few seconds before I get out of mine, trying to walk
the tightrope just right so I can get the hell out of here without having the
whole situation explode in my face.

Nietzsche said something
about how it’s unwise to toy with someone whose pride has just been injured. I
don’t remember the exact quote, but whatever it is, I get the point.

At the first cross hall,
I wait to see which direction Mia’s going to go and I go the opposite way.

Now I can start to smile.

As soon as I come to an
exterior door, my board’s on the ground and I’m riding the pavement. It’s only
been a little over an hour since my feet have been on the grip, but yesterday’s
schedule change still has me feeling a little unsure of myself.

The skate park’s no
busier than usual, but as I start to skate up, suddenly I’m not so desperate to
start running drills.

Maybe if Rob wasn’t
standing there, nudging people and pointing at me from the moment he spotted me
coming up to the park, I might feel a little better about things, but I’m a bit
too self-conscious right now to consider trying to drop in.

I know the way my brain
works with this sort of thing and if I go up there right now and I don’t come
out of it flawlessly, I’m going to put up a huge mental barrier that’s going to
make it that much more difficult to look like I know what the hell I’m doing
when it’s time to do it for real.

Rob’s still hoping for
the best, though, and he makes his way over to the vert wall, motioning for me
to follow him up there. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s laughing while
he’s doing all of this, I might think it was a thoughtful gesture.

I’m here, and I’m not
just going to turn back because Rob’s being himself, so I take my eyes and
eventually my mind off of Rob and just focus on possible runs for the street portion
of the competition.

At first, people are only
nudging more people, telling all of their friends that the word on the street
is that guy darksliding that rail falls on his face every time he tries to drop
in. I can’t see their mouths move with enough clarity to read any lips, and I
can’t hear any of the words that are being spoken, but I know that’s what’s
going on.

It couldn’t have anything
to do with the fact that I’m feeling particularly conspicuous right now and
therefore everyone seems hostile.

I’ve really got to learn
how to drop in; otherwise, this could become a thing.

Chapter
Five

The Garden

Mia

“So you really think we
should waste our time doing another study to show a connection between racist,
sexist, and classist views and a lack of decent education?” I ask Ian as he
sits across the table from me.

It’s only been a day
since he ambushed me with his paper and talked Professor McAdams, though I’m
not quite sure how yet, into going with his instead of mine, but the fact
remains that we’ve got a lot of work to do and we’re still not working toward
the same thing.

“That’s not what I’m
saying at all,” he responds. “I’m saying that it’s specifically a lack of
critical thinking skills that causes people to fall prey to the kind of
hate-filled rhetoric that ends up defining such a large portion of their world
view.”

Sure, it sounds better
when he says it.

“And if, in the process,
we do end up calling bigoted people idiots, I think I’m okay with that, too,”
he says. “We’re going to have to get going on this, though. I was hoping to
have a lot more of the groundwork done on this by now, and the Midwest
Championships are only getting closer, and—”

“What made you pick up
skating?” I interrupt.

His lips part a little
and his fingers touch both sides of the gap. “What?” he asks.

“The way you skate,” I
say. “I don’t know what there is, but there’s something about the way you skate
that just seems different. How long have you been doing it?”

“About five years,” he
says. “Before that, it was BMX. You couldn’t get me off a bike and on a
skateboard.”

“What changed?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says.
“Things change. We should probably get back to the—”

“You take a more relaxed
stance, that’s got to be it, right?” I ask.

“I don’t get you,” he
says. “You blew me off at the competition and you’ve been trying to blow me off
ever since. Why are you so interested when you so clearly dislike the sight of
me?”

It’s a reasonable
question.

“You know what I love
about skating—or watching people skate?” I ask.

“What’s that?” he
returns.

“It’s like you can see
how a person’s mind works, how their emotions work,” I tell him. “Every inch
traveled requires an adjustment and even if it’s a minor one, that’s still a
lot of opportunity to see how someone processes information, you know?” I ask.

“So it’s a window to the
soul better than the eyes?” he asks.

“Something like that,” I
answer.

“If that’s the case,” he
says, “and you find the way I skate to be so enthralling, wouldn’t it stand to
reason that I must be a particularly interesting guy?”

“No,” I tell him. “It
just means that you’re complicated, or at least that you deal with things in a
complicated way. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Occam’s razor and all
that, you know.”

“Let’s see, that’s the
one where you just assume that anything that can go wrong is going to go wrong,
right?” he asks.

“That’s Murphy’s Law,” I
answer.

“I thought Murphy’s Law
was the one that stated that an object at motion will stay in motion unless
acted upon by another force,” he says.

“That’s the law of
inertia,” I tell him, and it’s dawning on me that he’s having a little fun at
my expense.

“Really?” he asks. “Then
what is the one that states that the entropy of a perfect crystal at absolute
zero is zero?”

I think about it for a
moment. “I don’t know that I’m familiar with that one,” I tell him.

“It’s the third law of
thermodynamics,” he says. “Can we get back to the paper now?”

“You have to have noticed
that you skate differently,” I say, trying one last time to pry some sort of
depth out of the guy. Maybe it’s something wrong in me that he can quote me the
third law of thermodynamics, but I still think he’s shallow because he won’t
delineate his skating style for me.

I don’t know if Ian’s
going to answer or not, because my dad’s coming in the room now with that
familiar ridge between his eyebrows that tells me I’m going to have to explain
again why I’m alone with a boy in his house.

This is getting so old.

“What are you kids up
to?” dad asks and the merciful side of me is trying to communicate an apology
to Ian for whatever embarrassment is about to happen, but he doesn’t seem to
understand the random string of lip-parting, eye-darting and scratching of the
back of my neck as the contrition it’s meant to convey.

“We’re just trying to get
things hammered out for our final project in psychology,” I tell my dad, nearly
verbatim to the explanation I gave him before Ian showed up.

“That’s quite the shirt
you’re wearing,” dad says, and I’m a kid again, watching my bungling old man
place himself on a collision course with the kind of display that’s going to
leave me scarred, unable to do a thing about it.

Ian looks down at the
plain black shirt he’s wearing.

“Thanks?” Ian answers.

“Colorful,” dad says.

“You know, dad,” I say,
“we really do have to get this thing laid out, otherwise, we’re both going to
be playing catch up for the rest of the semester.”

“I’m sorry to bother
you,” Dad says. “I’ll leave the two of you in—oh! Those are tattoos!”

“Seriously, dad, can we
not—” I start, but the old man’s in full overprotective father mode right now
and incapable of listening to reason.

“I got a burger today
that was handed to me by a guy with tattoos like that,” dad says. As if the
implication wasn’t enough on its own, he adds, “He didn’t seem very happy.”

“I’m sure he’s not
miserable because of his tattoos,” Ian says, and I can see this thing getting
out of hand before the next exchange is over, so I stand up and move in front
of my dad.

“This is Ian, my partner
for my final project in psychology,” I tell my dad. “If the two of you want to
get together on your own time to discuss the perils of ink on skin, that’s up
to you, but we’ve got work to do right now, okay?”

Dad is a legend in the
sport of child embarrassment, but he’ll usually calm down and listen to reason
as long as he’s stopped before he’s done anything too left field. That’s
usually.

“So, how many tattoos do
you have to get before they give you a free hepatitis vaccine?” dad asks and
even I’m taken aback by that one.

“Dad!” I scold.

“Nah, tattoo shops are
surprisingly clean these days,” Ian says.

“Yeah,” dad scoffs,
“they’re totally clean except for the people that walk in there.”

“Have I done something to
offend you?” Ian asks, doing a better job of handling his temper than I would
have expected.

“Not at all,” dad says,
and I give him a gentle push on the shoulder to let him know it’s time for him
to leave. “I’m just hoping you’re not going to drag my daughter down too far as
you take the long way to figuring out that people like you aren’t meant for higher
learning. People like you are evidence that our institutions of higher learning
are fallible.”

“You don’t even know me,
but you seem to have made up your mind on exactly who I am,” Ian says.

“Dad, could you please
just let us do our schoolwork?” I ask. “We really don’t need to do this right
now.”

“Fine,” Dad says, but
he’s not leaving. It’s good of him to have his mouth shut right now, but he’s
not leaving the room.

“You know, maybe it would
be better if we got together another time,” Ian says. “I’ve got a lot of
tattoos to plan out for when it’s time to apply to the fast food place.”

“I’d like it if I didn’t
see you in my house again,” dad says. “How do we work that one out?”

“What’s gotten into you?”
I ask my father.

Given the balled fists
and the pulsing vein in his forehead, I’m almost expecting Ian to take a swing
at my dad, but he takes a deep breath through his clenched teeth and slowly
relaxes his hands.

“Mia, give me a call when
you can find another time to get together and we’ll finish hammering this thing
out, all right?” Ian asks.

“Sounds good, Ian,” I
tell him. “I’m sorry things went—”

“Oh, you’re not actually
apologizing for me, are you?” dad asks.

“Ian, I’m sorry, but you
should probably go if for no other reason than to give me the opportunity to
kill my father without witnesses,” I say to Ian, but my eyes are still on my
dad’s.

The old man’s eyes catch
the light a little as his crow’s feet stretch their toes with his smile. I’d
love to be able to tell Ian that my dad’s not usually like this; that we’d just
caught him by surprise and he thought he’d have a little fun with us, but nope.
This is pretty much standard dad.

Ian does the tactful
thing and simply leaves, but as soon as Ian’s out the front door, my dad is
laying right back into it.

“I don’t know what kind
of professor you have that would pair a sweet little girl like you with a
waster like that, but I think it’s shameful,” he says.

“What is with you today?”
I ask.

“He’s wearing the uniform
of the scumbag and you’re asking what’s wrong with
me
?” he asks.

“He’s not a scumbag,
dad,” I tell him. “He’s just a guy from my psychology class.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not
having him over here unless I’m in the room with you, is that understood?” he
asks.

“What? That’s
ridiculous,” I tell him. “You’re not always going to be home when we need to
work. I guess we can go somewhere else, but—”

“No,” he says, “I think
you should do it all here.”

“I’m not going to,” I
tell him. “Not with the way you’re acting. I know you think you get some sort
of weird sixth sense when guys are around and you think you can sniff out the
dirt-bags, but have you considered the probability that you’re going to think
every guy who wants to spend time with me at any time for any reason is a
loser? It’s overprotectiveness,” I tell him. “It has nothing to do with anyone
but you.”

“Well, it’s my house and
as long as you’re living in my house, you’ll abide by my rules,” he says.

“I don’t suppose that
means you’re offering me the opportunity to move out of here and actually start
to live my own life, does it?” I ask.

His mouth comes out with
a bit of a gasp, and he swallows a couple of times before answering, “It has
never
been my intention to prevent you
from starting your own life.”

“Then why do you freak
out to such a radical degree when I make any move that could potentially take
me out of this house?” I ask.

“Are you in love with
him?” dad asks.

“Don’t be stupid,” I tell
him. “He’s just a skater guy from my—”

“So he
is
a skater,” dad interrupts, smirking
as he crosses his arms. “I knew it wasn’t just some project.”

“No, dad,” I tell him.
“It really is just some project. I didn’t choose my partner, Ian was assigned
to me and even if he wasn’t, you’re still going to have to stop treating me
like a child. I’m twenty years old!”

“Yeah,” he says, “you’re
twenty years old. That’s too old to be wasting your time on guys with tattoos
and skateboards.”

“You know, dad,” I argue,
“someday, I’m going to move out of here no matter what you do, and it doesn’t
really make sense to me how you keep trying to make sure I never come back when
it’s that very fear of abandonment—”

“My house, my rules,” dad
says, tapping his foot as if to indicate punctuation.

For a moment, I just
glare at him as my fingernails bite into my palm, but it’s no use trying to
reason with him. Once he’s got an irrational idea in his head, it’s impossible
to get it out, so finally, I push past him and hole myself up in my room.

“I hate this place!” I
scream as I slam the door, but the vitriol of my teenage years has grown weaker.
I’m getting sick of fighting.

I don’t hate my dad, but
I hate what he’s doing.

It seems like
every
time, there’s the slightest
indication that I might be starting down a path that could lead me out of here,
though I’d say he’s overblown things between me and Ian to a pretty stupid
level, he puts me on lockdown.

There’s nothing really
keeping me in my room but the ever-building tension in my neck and shoulders,
but dad long ago trained me that the place for me to go when I’m upset is my
room. I don’t know how it is that I never learned to storm out of a house, or
at least have that in my mind as an option, but at a time like this, I only
feel better in this stupid room with the door closed behind me.

Ian’s performance with my
dad was actually pretty impressive. He snapped back at my dad, but he did it in
a way that was still moderately respectful and he didn’t devolve into shouted
curses.