Pieces of Me (3 page)

              “Not sure yet.”
              “Me neither.” She takes a long sip of her water. She sticks her fork in her salad, but scrunches up her nose before she puts the bite in her mouth. “Wilted,” she complains.
              I am so out of practice with this whole conversing thing that I just sit stiffly, biting my lip, playing with my own crappy cafeteria food. 
              “I can't stomach any more of this mess. I'm done. You coming?” she asks.
              “Um...” I rack my brain for some excuse. “I'm not finished yet.”
              “Suit yourself. I'm going to go find Beck.” She smiles. “See you later, Aria.”
              She glides away so gracefully I am almost surprised when she doesn’t begin to pirouette through the cafeteria.
              I get out my notebook and pretend to be engrossed in the blank pages in hopes that no one else will bother me.

Chapter 3

The beginning of a new school year used to be my favorite time of year. I would get so excited about school supplies that I would buy everything I needed as soon as Wal-Mart had them on their shelves.
              There's just something about the smell of new notebooks and unsharpened pencils that feels like fall even before the cool crisp air of my favorite season makes an appearance and the leaves begin changing into their glorious shades of red, orange, and yellow.
              This year, I couldn't muster up a single ounce of the excitement I used to feel. In fact, the
only
thing I feel is the urge to vomit.
              I recheck my backpack for probably the twentieth time this morning, just to make sure that I have everything I  need for the entire day so I don’t have to leave campus.  My bag is heavy with all the books required for my very full class schedule. 
              My only goal in life now is to stay as insanely busy as I can possibly manage. If there's one thing I've learned from the last two weeks it’s that I don't do well with downtime.
              During the brief break in between my afternoon classes, I plan on picking up an application at the coffee shop we walked by yesterday during the campus tour. My hope is that the busier I am, the easier it will be to pretend everything is okay. At least I will have something to tell my mom when she calls to check up on me. She won't have to worry that I've locked myself in my room again, refusing to talk to anyone. I won’t have anything exciting to tell her but at least I can tell her
something.
             
My first class is Biology 101. I hate science. But it has a lab which means it’s pretty time consuming as far as a lower level class goes and I need to have as much of my time consumed as possible.
              Yesterday during the tour I spent a lot of time locating the bike racks on campus. Since most people drive to school I wasn’t expecting many but I was surprised to see one outside all the buildings I have classes in.
              I chain my bike to the metal rack outside Harvey Hall and re-check my schedule for the hundredth time even though I have all of my classroom numbers memorized already.
              The inside of the building appears just as outdated as the exterior, but I like it. It even smells like history, musty and cozy. The Biology classroom is about the same size as the ones of my high school.  However, whereas my high school teachers always seemed to clutter their rooms with posters and charts of every little thing (none of which we ever paid any attention to), these walls are glaringly bare. I take a seat at one of the black rectangular tables in the back and pull out my books and notebook.
              Soon other students begin filing in, followed by the professor who introduces himself as Dr. Hilburn. He does the usual handing out of the syllabus and discusses what we can expect during the semester before diving right into his lecture—not a good sign. I'm already freaked out about this class as it is, so of course I would get stuck with a hard-ass.                About twenty minutes into class the door opens and I can't help but look up to see who has the nerve to arrive so late.
              “Ah, Mr. Whitmore. How nice of you to join us,” Dr. Hilburn greets Holden. Holden just smiles and hands him a slip of paper, which Dr. Hilburn raises an eyebrow at suspiciously before reading. He gives a disgruntled cough before saying, “I guess you'll do.”
              “Thanks, sir.” Holden smiles even wider.
              “Class,” Dr. Hilburn addresses us. “This is Holden Whitmore. He will be the lab assistant on Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you have any problems bother him, not me.”
              Then he returns to his lecture as Holden takes a seat in the back of the room, not very far from where I am sitting.  I pretend not to notice him but I swear I can feel his eyes on the back of my head.              
              I lean forward on my elbow, allowing my dark hair to fall around my face so I can’t look back at him to see if I'm right.
              I force myself to focus on Dr. Hilburn and take notes but it's like high school biology was a hundred years ago. Nothing sounds familiar and it all seems to be going right over my head. I try not to think about why I'm so distracted. I honestly don't even know why I'm giving Holden a second thought.  He's probably not paying any attention to me and I'm just being paranoid. Back home I've been dealing with the constant stares and looks of pity over the past year so I guess I just expect it now—which is dumb since nobody out here knows anything about me.
              Dr. Hilburn finally dismisses us and I gather my belongings quickly. I can't help myself, so I sneak a quick peek at Holden and confirm my original suspicions. He is casually leaning back in this chair with his hands folded behind his head smiling crookedly at me.
              He's definitely not looking at me with pity in his eyes which is good, but it still makes me uncomfortable. The way he's staring at me makes me feel like he can't see anything else but me and for some reason, the idea of that suffocates me.   
              I roll my eyes, more to myself than to him, and leave the room. I need to get over myself. I'm more than likely reading way too much into this.
              Out in the hall I feel like I can breathe again. I spot Olivia waving at me from down the corridor and I hesitate before giving her a quick wave. I immediately glue my eyes to the floor and walk hurriedly toward my next class. She doesn't let me escape that easily.
              “Aria!” she greets me cheerfully. This girl is a little too perky for her own good. She's practically bouncing towards me.
              “Hi.”
              “What's your next class?”
              “American Literature,” I answer.  I realize I should probably ask her the same question so I don't seem rude but before I can get the words out she squeals.
              “Me too!” She claps—actually claps. “I'm so excited that we have a class together! Come on let's go get our seats.”
              Apparently I don't have a choice in the matter so I follow her to the front row of the classroom—figures—and take the seat beside her.
              “What are you doing this weekend?” she asks as we start getting our notebooks out.
              “Um, well, I was hoping to have a job by then so hopefully working.”
              “Boo, that's no fun. There's a party down on Oak Street. Do you want to come?”
              “Ah, um, probably not this weekend. It's not really my thing.”
              She doesn't give up. “Oh come on! It'll be fun! You can meet me at my room. I'm in Barnaby—room 104.”
              I bite my lip nervously. I'm not really in the mood to hang out with people and be social but then again, did I really want to spend the night holed up in my one-bedroom apartment alone with my memories?
              “I don't know.” My mind is a whirling mess of thoughts and excuses. Trying to pick something to say is proving more challenging by the minute because she’s staring at me expectantly like an excited little puppy waiting for an answer.
              After several awkward seconds, a visibly deflated Olivia speaks first.  “You know, it's okay. I just thought that you looked like someone who could use a friend, but if you don't want to—”
              I'm not sure if I should be offended that she thinks I need a friend or if I should hug her for being so nice to me when I'm not exactly acting warm and inviting.
              “Okay, yeah, I'll meet you at your dorm.”
              “Yay!” She does that whole clapping thing again. “Apparently Beck lives there. Do you remember him? From orientation? That schmexy—”
              I sink into my chair, not even bothering to pretend to listen to her babble, already starting to form a list of excuses for why I'll have to bail last minute.
              I make my way over to the coffee shop I saw the other day during the tour and pick up an application and a mocha latte to go.
              The rest of my day is about the same. My other classes should be a breeze compared to Bio which is a relief because I want to make sure any free time I have will be occupied with studying. 
              I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner and fill out the application while I eat. I turn the television on for some background noise. My apartment is too quiet. I sit on the only chair at the kitchen table that doubles as my desk and look around at this place that I now call home.
              All of my belongings and things that remind me of home are here, but it still doesn't feel like me. It's plain and dull and lifeless.
              Then I realize it's not that my apartment doesn't feel like me, it just doesn't feel like the old me.  It actually seems just about right considering these days I'm pretty lifeless myself.

Chapter 4

I need to keep busy so my mind doesn’t have time to focus on the fact that my heart is shattered into a million jagged pieces much too miniscule to ever be put back together right again. My heart will never be the same. I will never be the same. The only thing I can do to at least pretend to be normal is to keep so busy that I don't have time to think about anything else.
              I take a deep breath and start across the sidewalk toward the coffee shop located across the street from campus which I now know is called The Java Bean. 
              “So we meet again,” a familiar voice says from behind me. I'm pretty sure he's not talking to me but I turn to look who it is anyway since he sounds awfully close.
              Holden is trailing behind me with a lopsided grin and his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.  Is this guy following me? I can't help but feel a little weirded out by the fact that he seems to be everywhere.
              “Aren't you going to say hello?”
              “Um, yeah, hello,” I mumble nervously as I realize I've stopped in the middle of the road. There isn't any traffic but it still makes me nervous. I quickly walk to the other side, acutely aware of the fact that Holden is no longer walking behind me but rather right beside me.
              “Did you just get out of class?”
              “Yes.”
              “You know that you can park over there.” He points to a little parking lot to the right. “That way you don't have to leave your car on campus.”
              “I don't drive.”
              “Did you walk here?”
              “No.”
              “Talkative aren't you?” he laughs. “Ladies, first.” He holds open the door of The Java Bean just wide enough for me to walk through, but without any extra space so I'm forced to brush against him as I enter the building. A cool surge of air greets me, causing a shiver to run down my spine. At least I'm blaming it on the air conditioning and not on the way Holden smells like Irish Spring soap and something else so deliciously male. I force myself to hold my breath so I won't be tempted to inhale deeper. I hate myself for even thinking the thoughts. How could I be so easily affected?
              I remain frozen awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of where exactly I'm supposed to go for my interview.
              A guy that looks about my age, maybe a little older, with red hair and a baby-face full of freckles comes out of a door behind the counter.
                “Are you Aria?” he asks, sounding awfully flustered considering that there's nobody else in the coffee shop right now.
              “Um, yes. Hi, I'm Aria Watkins.” I hold out my hand to introduce myself to him.
              “I'm Mason, the assistant manager.” He sounds like a thirteen year old boy just starting to go through puberty.  It's hard to believe that people take him seriously enough to be in a position of authority, even if he was just the assistant manager of a coffee shop.
              “Do you guys already know each other?” Mason asks as he gestures between Holden and myself.
              “No,” I reply quickly at the same time Holden says, “Yeah.”
              Mason just looks confused.
              “Sorry, I mean, yes, we sorta know each other. We're, um, acquaintances I guess,” I try to explain.
              Holden chuckles quietly, obviously amused by my stammering even though I notice that he didn't offer a better explanation.
              “Alright then, well, Holden, can you handle the front while I interview Aria?”
              So he isn’t really following me, he actually works here. That is good to know. Maybe he isn’t a creepy stalker after all.
              Holden goes around the other side of the counter, smiling at me as he pulls on a forest green apron with The Java Bean logo in white funky lettering on the front.
              Mason motions for me to follow him over to a small table toward the back so we'd be out of the way of any incoming customers. I'm not sure how busy this place would be at this time of day though, since it's the middle of the afternoon. Only serious coffee-drinkers like myself can drink this stuff all day long.
              The two navy blue striped chairs he guides me toward look cozy and inviting with vintage looking throw pillows that didn't technically match, but still worked in an eclectic sort of way.  There are no cold, hard metal chairs typically found in most chain coffee shops, only oversized couches and plush arm chairs. I sit down and try to make myself as comfortable as possible as Mason sits down in a gold and cream chair across from me.
              “Okay,” he starts. “I don't really know what I'm doing here. Suzi left me in charge while she took off to New Orleans for the week, so basically I guess all I really need to know is if you have any experience and what hours you are available.”
              “Oh, well, I have no experience and I want as many hours as I can fit in between my classes,” I answer honestly.
              “Are you a student here?”
              “Yes, this is my first semester.”
              “What are you majoring in?”
              “I'm currently undecided so I'm just taking my core classes right now.”
              “That's a good idea. I've changed my major so many times I think I'll be thirty before I finally graduate,” he scoffs in a self-deprecating way. “When can you start?”
              “That's it?”
              “Yeah, I mean, you seem like a nice girl and we're really desperate.”
              I look around at the empty shop and I'm sure he knows what I am thinking because he's quick to add, “This is our down time. This place is crazy packed during the morning and in the evenings—especially during finals week.”
              “Can I start tonight?”
              “Really?” Mason seems surprised by my eagerness. Of course I wasn't planning on telling him how desperate I am for anything to keep me busy.
              “Yeah, I mean, if that's okay?”
              “Of course, Holden can start training you now.” He smiles so I smile back, thankful that I won't be spending my evening drowning in memories.
              “Holden, grab a couple of menus and show Aria around would ya? I have some work in the back I need to do.” Holden nodded and Mason headed back to where I assume the office was.
              He turns to me and asks, “Are you ready?”
              “Uh, yeah, I mean, yes.”
              “Good, because you've got a lot of work to do,” he says as he hands me a menu. “You've got to memorize this menu.”
              “The entire thing?”
              “By tonight,” he says matter-of-factly.
              “Tonight?!”
              “Yep, good luck.” He smiles as I frantically start reading the unexpectedly vast menu. Who knew The Java Bean offers such culinary variety?
              It takes me longer than I’d like to admit to remember the difference between tall, grande, and venti. I didn’t understand why they had to be all fancy-schmancy. This isn’t freakin’ Starbucks. Why can’t they just be called small, medium, and large? There are at least fifty different flavors and it seems like there is an unlimited number of combinations of them. An hour later, I've only made it about a quarter of the way through the list when I hear Holden sit back down across from me.
              I look up at him, irritated for interrupting me.
              “What are you doing?” I whisper so I don’t disturb the few customers who sit nearby.
              “Just thought I'd check on your progress. Do you think you have the hang of it yet?”
              “Um, almost. I think. Maybe. Actually no,” I stammer embarrassingly.
              “What? Surely if a guy like me can, a girl like you can too,” he smirks, clearly amused at my expense.
              “Honestly? It’s all a little overwhelming,” I reluctantly admit. “You have all of these drinks memorized? Every single combination?”
              “Shocking, I know. Feel free to quiz me if you’d like.” He props his feet up on the table and I look around wondering how he can possibly get away with doing something like that and not get fired. I'm pretty sure employees are expected to act more professional than that, but Mason doesn’t seem to be concerned about it. I scan the list and choose a drink.
              “Cinnamon Dolce?” I decide to start off easy. You know, being nice and all.
              “Cinnamon, brown sugar, and a touch of honey. Cinnamon sprinkled on top.”
              “Zebra?”
              “White chocolate and dark chocolate, drizzled with more dark chocolate.”
              “Witches’ Brew?”
              “Hazelnut, milk chocolate, and a dash of caramel topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.”
              “Almond Joy?”
              “Chocolate, almond syrup, and coconut syrup.”
              “Hollywood Blondie?”
              “Medium roast, white chocolate, and caramel,” he smirks. “Give up yet?”
              “Cherry Garcia?”
              “Ben and Jerry’s.”
              “Damn. You’re good.”
              “Obviously,” he grins slyly at me again.
              “How did you do it?” I ask curiously.
              “I don’t know. I just have a knack for memorizing shit.”
              “Fine. You win. I suck.” I stare down at the menu and all of the words start blurring together. How am I ever going to learn all of this?
              “Let me show you something,” he says, reaching out his hand for mine. I stare at it like it's a snake which makes him laugh. “Just trust me. C’mere.”
              I let him hold my hand and lead me over behind the counter. He turns to face me expectantly. I stare back completely confused.
              “What?” I ask after a few seconds of awkwardness.
              His eyes dart down then back up to mine and then down again until I follow his gaze. There taped to the cabinets underneath the counter and out of customer’s line of sight are all of the drinks and their recipes. Right there, plainly visible to anyone behind the bar.
              I smack him in the arm.
              “Why did you make me think I had to memorize them today!”
              “Because it was funny.” He laughs, obviously quite amused at his little joke.
              “I was really stressing out! That wasn’t very nice!”
              “I never claimed I was nice,” he points out.
              “No, I guess you didn’t.”
              “So anyway, here’s the reference guide for the drink orders. Let me show you how to work the machine and then you can make us some coffee. I’ll order something other than black to truly test your newfound skills.”
              “You drink it black?” I scrunch up my nose in disgust thinking about him smelling like an old man.
              “Yeah. Anything else tastes like sugar with a side of coffee.”
              “You do realize this is a coffee shop, right?”
              “I am aware.”
              “You’re sorta supposed to order something fun. It’s like, the rules.”
              “Maybe I’m not much for following the rules.”
              “Well, aren't you a rebel.” I roll my eyes at him then add, “You don’t think it’s weird that you don’t drink the product?”
              “Well, technically I do. I just drink it in its simplest form.” He shrugs. “Besides as long as I know how to make the sugary drinks, it shouldn’t matter whether I drink them myself, right?”
              “Yeah, I guess.”
              He proceeds to show me how to work the machine and then has me make him a Turtle-something or other coffee. He didn’t spit it back out so I’m guessing I made it correctly.
              At the end of the shift I hung my apron up on the hook and grabbed my belongings from my newly designated six-inch space on one of the shelves in the back room. Thank God it was the bottom one. There's no way I could possibly reach the ones on the row above mine. I reach into my purse to check my phone and notice I have a couple of text messages.
              The first one's from Olivia.

Olivia: Still on for Saturday?

              The next one's from my mom.

                            Mom: Just checking on you. Call me when                                                         you can.

             
I text Olivia back saying
yes
and then shove my phone back in my purse without responding to my mom.
I'll call her back later,
I tell myself, but I know that I won't. Because it doesn't matter what we talk about, the conversation always somehow leads back to Sean which ultimately makes me cry. And I don’t want to cry any more.