The Girl I Was Before (5 page)

“I’m not sad,” I fire back. Am I sad? I’m worried, and I set off a chain reaction that is bound to ruin my social life, but…fuck. I’m sad.

“Oh, well I guess that’s good,” he says, and his eyes fall to his feet. He doesn’t believe me, and it’s irritating me. I don’t care if I am sad; I don’t need the guy who makes my sandwiches coming in and making things better.

Before I can open my mouth, my phone buzzes at my side. I pull it out to check who’s calling—it’s Carson. I let my phone rest on my leg long enough for Houston to notice. I can tell he does by the way his right cheek lifts with his slight smirk, just before he gestures for me to go ahead. I answer in front of him, smiling tightly and raising eyebrows so he’ll get the hint: we’re done here, and I’m not sad as far as he’s concerned.

“Hey, baby,” I say, laying it on a little thick. Houston holds up a hand and nods before turning and heading out the main door. I’m left to talk to Carson in privacy, and now that I’m alone, I wish I could hang up.

“Hey! Get the fuck off of my bike!” Carson yells at someone in the background. “Sorry, babe. Douchebags don’t know how to leave my shit alone.”

He rides a motorcycle, some Ninja something or another. It was sexy the first time he took me out on it. Now, it’s just one more thing he obsesses over.

“Right, so…you called me,” I say after a few long seconds of silence. He’s probably still death-staring someone for touching his bike.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.” He says this a lot. Three
yeahs
. It’s so goddamned annoying. I bite my tongue and wait for him to find his rhythm again, remember his point. “Party, tonight at Smokey’s. Sigmas are buying, and I know how much you like their fruity drinks.”

“I do,” I smile, remembering the first time Carson took me to the cowboy bar at the edge of town. It’s this huge indoor-outdoor barn-looking thing, and there’s an enormous dance floor. I was glued to it for three hours, my body drenched with sweat by the time Carson took me home. He spent that entire night watching me, and I loved his attention. We’d only been seeing each other for a few days at that point, and everything was new and sexy. Maybe a trip to Smokey’s was all I needed.

“Cool, so I’ll pick you up at the house. Be ready at nine,” he says, before holding the phone away from his mouth and screaming more obscenities at whoever was still touching his bike. “I gotta go.”

He hangs up without another word, and I’m left right back where I started—alone in the library, brushed off by my boyfriend who makes me feel embarrassed sometimes, and regretful others. I might be pathetic.

My phone buzzes again; this time, with a text from Ashley.

I begin typing, but then delete quickly, turning my phone off, and zipping it away in the bottom of my purse. There’s no sense in putting this off any longer; I’m going to have to confront Chandra eventually. For a while, I thought I might lie. But she’d see right through that. I don’t want her thinking I’m afraid. I’m not. I feel sick about everything I know I’ll have to give up, but losing Chandra isn’t something I’ll regret. I’d regret lying more.

My pace back to the house is nearly as fast as it was when I ran away. As a kid, I used to hate getting shots or pulling off Band-Aids. My mom would make me count backward from ten, and after I got to seven, she’d always rip the bandage away or tell the nurse to proceed with the needle. My pain was always over quickly that way. I love my mom for giving me the false expectation that something painful would take longer than it really did. I’m thinking of this now—my steps coming quicker. By the time I count down to zero in my head, I’m at the front door of the Delta House, my hand rested on the ornate iron handle, and the only sound I hear is the blood rushing over my eardrums as my heart rate climbs.

When I step inside, Chandra is sitting right where I left her—waiting for me. She’s alone, not because she wants to give me privacy; this has nothing to do with her respect for me. This is about her, and wanting to make sure I don’t spread the poison. I won’t. It will spread on its own; it’s just a matter of time.

“Have second thoughts about running away, Paige?” she asks, her legs folded up in front of her, a pillow on her lap, her hands resting neatly on top. She’s anxious. I’ve learned some of her tells over the few months we’ve been friends, and when she’s sure of herself, she stands, lets her arms and hands be free—so she can make gestures and move with her speech. She’s compact right now, hiding under the chenille butterfly pillow. No matter what happens, I’ve won this round, because I intend on standing.

“I was gone for thirty minutes. I’d hardly call that running away,” I say, turning my back to her and taking my time to pull my bag from my arms, then removing the sweatshirt from over my head. I want her to think I’m making her wait, that I’m not nervous, but really…I’m just buying myself time until I can think of exactly what I’m going to say. I think it depends on what she asks.

“You’ll need to be out by tonight,” she says, speaking the second I’m done pulling the cloth over my head, trying to catch me off guard. And she has.

That
is not what I thought she would lead with. Seems we’re not going to go through the pretense of checking my phone and social media. Just as I thought, that was all part of the performance. I’m sure she’ll tell everyone they did a
thorough
investigation, and everyone will believe it, because she’s checked everyone’s phone—but mine.

“Pretty sure you don’t have the right to kick me out,” I say. Benefit of being a lawyer’s daughter is a shallow understanding of the law. I know more than Chandra does, and that’s all that matters. Sticking to my promise to myself, I don’t move from my spot about twenty feet away from her. I stand there, in the open foyer, where my voice echoes. And I revel in how it makes her uncomfortable.

“How did you think this was going to go?” she asks, never fully admitting to anything—never really laying out what
this
is all about.

“Not sure what you mean?” I say, resisting the urge to fold my arms. I won’t close my body off to her. These might seem like tiny wins in the chess game of interpersonal communication, but I need every tiny win I can get.

Chandra looks down at the pillow, running her hands along it, pulling at the corners to make it even and straight. She lifts it from her lap and sets it to the side, then untangles her legs, walking over to me slowly. I hold my ground.

“You will be out by tonight, or I will make your life so fucking miserable, you will literally run home to California,” she says, each word coming out amid her steps, until her elbows are brushing my body and her breath is choking me she’s so close.

I don’t blink. Not once. Inside, I’m crumbling, because I didn’t expect Chandra to fight so hard. That picture; it will ruin her. But she’s acting as if she has it completely contained. I know how rumors spread. I’ve helped pass them along. I’ve watched my dad spend millions trying to stop them. And when there’s something as sexy as a photo of the campus
it
girl with a shitload of drugs—it’s only a matter of time.

“Do your worst,” I say, waiting for her to flinch. She doesn’t, and the only thing I have left is my sister. I think of my sister, and the shitty things I started, and the cruel things this girl standing across from me has done. I know I’m right, and good has to win. I’m not naïve enough to think it always wins, but this time, it has to. And I’m willing to be a relentless bitch just to get my way.

Chandra doesn’t respond. She let’s the half smile on her overly-red lips linger, and waits for me to back away, which I finally do, retreating to my purple room. I pull the small screwdriver from my desk drawer as soon as I step inside and take down the overpriced coat hanger I bought with my own money. I place it in the side pocket of my duffle bag.

One way or another, I’ll be out of this house soon. And I’ll be damned if I’m donating my good decorating taste to this place.

H
ouston

“
R
emind
me how much they’re paying you for this…and how much you’re giving me for being here?” I ask Casey while I lie under a table shielded by a black tablecloth. There are at least a dozen cords in my hands, and I’m trying to find a way to weave them through a one-inch space in the plywood, makeshift-stage we’re propped up on.

“Two K,” he says, “and I said I’d give you half. Of course, that was when I thought you would fix my shit, not lend me yours.”

“Way I see it, the fact that I’m spending the night here with you is worth way more,” I say, peering up at him with my back flat on the floor.

“Wow, is that your best pickup line? No wonder you haven’t been laid in…what, two years?” he says, feeding one more cord down to me from the back of his speakers.

“If you’re going to be a dickhead all night, I can leave…” I start to get up.

“You’re not leaving. I know how much a thousand bucks means to you,” he says quickly, holding the end of the cord out for me. I take it, because he’s right. That’s at least a week and a half of shifts and tips at the grocery store.

“And I’ll fix your hard drive. Let me take it home with me tonight. It’s easier for me to get things done at home,” I say, going back to work connecting the power.

Casey is an engineering student, but he’s sort of made a name for himself deejaying for some of the hotter bars around the college. His parents aren’t real hip over the idea of him moving into sound engineering, but it’s hard to argue with two thousand dollars for a night’s worth of work.

“What’d you say this event was again?” I ask, pulling myself out from under the table, moving to my laptop, which I’ve loaded all of Casey’s programs onto.

“Some frat house is having an end-of the-year party,” he says, his fingers practically twitching while he waits for me to get out of his way. I step to the side when I get everything pulled up, and he starts testing mixes and sound.

“This school has a lot of parties,” I say.

“Yeah, like you’d know,” he laughs.

“Har dee har,” I say. Casey twists his head in my direction, pulling his sunglasses down to look at me—sunglasses he doesn’t need, because we’re inside, in a very dimly lit bar. “What?”

“Har dee har? You sound like an old fart,” he snorts, pushing his glasses up and moving through a few more screens on the computer.

“Yeah, well you look like a tweaker in those sunglasses, so fuck off,” I say. He raises his right hand and flips me off, never taking his eyes away from his work. Of course, maybe he did look at me. I can’t tell, because the douchebag is wearing sunglasses inside.

Casey spends the next thirty minutes pre-loading a series of songs, mixing them into each other, overlapping and coming up with a pretty cool vibe. What he does is really damn impressive, especially to a guy like me who can’t even sing along with the car stereo. I wish his parents saw it that way. Casey’s parents are both mechanical engineers at a big oil and fuel company in Oklahoma City. Casey has been bred to follow their footsteps, and while that’s what his degree is for, his heart is for something else. His father cut him off last year, dropped his tuition payments, and told him he couldn’t live at home. That’s when he started taking the deejaying seriously, and so far, he’s been able to pay his bills. He’s finishing out his degree because he’s only two semesters away.

“You want something to drink, man? I’m buying,” he says, pausing in front of the stage, a twenty in his hand.

“Just a Coke,” I say, and he rolls his eyes.

“One day, I’m going to get you drunk, just like the old days,” he says over his shoulder as he walks to the bar.

“Yeah, well I was sixteen in the old days,” I say to his back. He doesn’t hear me, but I flash to those simpler days for a few seconds. High school was so much better than being twenty-one. I had no idea how much five years would change my family’s life.

Besides, Casey’s gotten me drunk since then—a few times over the last year. That usually ends with me waking up somewhere I don’t belong with a bellyache made of guilt and remorse. I think I’m capped out on regret for the year.

The bar isn’t very crowded, and there’s an old country song on the jukebox in the corner. It’s funny how the bars near McConnell shift throughout the day, catering to the old-timers until the late-night crowd of college kids starts to stream in. I can tell we’re on the cusp when a Taylor Swift song plays next.

There are a few old men shooting a game of pool in the back room. I look at my watch and kick away from the stage, picking up my Coke from Casey on my way.

“I’m gonna get a game or two in. What time do things start?” I ask.

“They start paying me at ten,” he says. I nod and head over to the pool table, introducing myself to the guys and calling the next game. They’re playing for money, but when they ask me if I want in on the action, I turn it down. I’m rusty, but I would probably still kick their asses at nine-ball. Something doesn’t quite feel right about taking twenty bucks from sixty-year-old men, though—even if I could use it.

“Make sure you have the good shit on tap. We’re not paying for that piss you usually serve!” I’m fairly confident I recognize the voice without turning around, so I don’t bother. I wait for him to say something else, because if it’s that guy who Paige is seeing—
Carson, I think?—
I know he won’t be able to shut up. My suspicions are confirmed when, after a short-lived five seconds without having to hear his voice, he begins singing loudly with the country song finishing on the jukebox.

“Dude, get this shit off! You—isn’t it time for you to start playing the real music?” I turn around to see him snapping his fingers at Casey, who only glances up for a second, looks down at his watch, then returns to Carson’s attention shaking his head
no.
Casey comes from a large Italian family, and I’ve seen his dad work him into a corner, screaming at him and threatening to hit him. He never did, but Casey’s four older sisters would take over, smacking him until his skin was practically pink all over. Carson may be large, but the worst thing he could do is punch Casey and knock him out—and in Casey’s world, a nap isn’t so bad.

“What the fuck. You’re fired!” Carson’s moving closer, and as funny as it is to watch my small friend sit there, finishing his sandwich—as if the Neanderthal yelling at him were invisible—it’s also almost ten at night in the middle of the week. If I’m out right now, I need to be getting paid for it, which won’t happen if Casey gets fired from this job.

“Hey, chill out. He gets time for dinner. That’s sort of a law, and we’re not technically on the clock yet. He’s got you covered,” I say, totally making up that bit about the law. It sounded good, and I get the feeling Carson isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, so I took a gamble saying it.

“Hey…I know you!”
Great.
I glance down at Casey, who looks up at me with a full mouth and chuckles, his shoulders shaking. I let my eyes roll up and wait for it. “You’re that grocery-store dude. Yeah…hey, you make, like, the best fuckin’ sandwiches, yo!”

“WOW,” I mouth to Casey, my back still to Carson. I’m not sure how you respond to this. Are people really friends with this asshole? Does Paige actually kiss him? Not that I really care who Paige kisses, but she’s pretty, and he’s so…

“Yep,
sandwich dude
. In the flesh.” I shake his hand and regret every second of this conversation. I regret it more when I see Paige walk in behind him, her eyes zeroing in on our hands. I’m shaking this asshole’s hand—the guy I told her she was better than. I look like such a jerk.

I pull my hand away and look back to Casey. “I’ll get everything ready to go; you about done?”

Casey’s being obstinate on purpose, chewing slower, taking his time, adding things like salt and pepper to the last few bites of his dinner. He’s doing it mostly because Carson was trying to bully him. But now he’s taking it out on me. I kick his foot out, and his sandwich falls from his lap. He catches it, but barely before it hits the floor.

“What the fuck?” he yells, breadcrumbs spilling from his stuffed mouth.

“Sorry, man. Not in the mood for a scene tonight. I want to get this going and get home,” I say. I don’t do late nights, because I do early mornings. We’re not getting out of here until two in the morning, and I’ve been toying with the idea of just staying up all night. My shift begins at seven.

Casey wads up his food wrapper and tosses it in an empty box near the stage. “All right, let’s get this shit started then,” he says, pulling the headphones from his console and moving a few of his settings until that devilish smile spreads over his face slowly. He’s always loved music, but when he started collecting things for mixing—making his own tracks—he got really obsessed with it. I actually love watching him work. I help sometimes, when he needs to borrow my computer. He doesn’t really need me, but I think he feels bad using my stuff without paying me for it. I really don’t do much, but I need the money, so I take it.

His blend of pop and techno starts to take over the joint, and eventually, my pool buddies are the last of the afternoon and early evening crowd to leave, the rest of the bar filled with college kids looking to hook up and let off steam before finals week kicks in.

Sometimes it gets to me that I miss out on this stuff. But I can’t leave my mom with everything; that wouldn’t be right. And really, what am I
truly
missing out on? I think this just as two girls start to grind with one another—practically making out while they dance in the center of the floor, the spotlights helping to accent the right see-through places on their shirts. Yeah…this is what I’m missing out on.

“Every job has its perks,” Casey says, slinging his arm over my shoulder, his headphones resting around his neck.

“So, is this your thing?” Her voice does something to my chest, kind of like a sucker punch. I feel like I’ve been caught, but I’m not sure what I’ve been caught doing. No, that’s a lie—I’ve been caught ogling two chicks touch each other in a way that I didn’t think was real until right this moment. I’m not sure why I feel all sweaty and panicked over it.

“Hmmmm?” I ask, pretending I didn’t hear Paige behind me. I keep my eyes on the prize, Casey still looking at the scene with me. But all I’m doing is blinking, wondering why she came to talk to me, wondering why I care…and maybe wondering a little bit if her fuck-hole boyfriend is watching, waiting to start crap again.

“You crash parties to get your fill of girl-on-girl action. That’s your…thing?” she says, leaving her eyes on me, her lips tight. I don’t even have to look down to know she’s crossing her arms.

“Well, I didn’t crash. I’m working,” I say, nodding to Casey next to me, who offers a small wave with his fingers before turning his attention back to the girls on the floor. “But to be honest with you, yes. This is very much my thing.”

I’m so satisfied with my response, and I kind of love the fact that I’ve left her speechless. She’s siting next to me, maybe a full body-width from me, but I can feel her looking at me. I want to see her reaction, but I also don’t like the fact that I care about her reaction. She may have helped me get a
B
on my Spanish exam, but every time I try to be nice to this girl, to help her, she steps all over me. I’m kind of sick of it.

“Typical,” she says, after I spend several long seconds under her heated stare. She pushes off, and when I know it’s safe, I turn to look at her walk away, and well…shit. She’s wearing this red dress that hugs her body so well, I regret wasting all of my ogling energy on the two girls on the floor. Now all I want to know is what the front of that dress looks like—and if her body moves in the front the same way it does from behind.

“Who was that chick?” Casey asks, elbow at my rib.

“Paige Owens. She’s this pain-in-the-ass customer of mine,” I say, chewing at my lip wondering what else to say about her.

“She’s hot, dude,” he says, climbing back to his feet, to set up the next set at his table.

“Yeah…she is,” I say, my voice low enough I know he didn’t hear. I said it out loud, though, so it counts. I’m not too chicken to admit it. Paige Owens is hot. But she’s still a pain in the ass.

Casey lets me set up a series of mixes after the first hour, and after his touch, they don’t sound too bad. I work on some of the connections for him, making my computer jive with his equipment, then head to the restrooms in the back while we have a small break.

I’m in the back hallway thinking about what an easy gig this is for a thousand bucks when a mountain of a fist smashes into my jaw. My head flails to the right, bumping into the wall with enough force that I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a cartoon-type goose egg on my head in the morning.

“What the fu—” I’m about to protest when a second punch comes at me. I’m more prepared for this one, so I block most of its force, wobbling on my feet and getting my bearings back. My eyes finally focus on a very drunk, very big Carson standing in front of me. It might just be the effects of his punch, but I swear he looks like Popeye. His blond hair and barely-there beard frame his round face, and his body looks like it could crush me—and I’m not small.

“You see that girl right there?” I look around, and there are at least thirty people jammed into this tight space, all looking at us. I know who he means, but I’m not going to make this easy for him—not after he blindsided me with his knuckles!

“There are…lots of girls here?” I say, rubbing my jaw, but keeping my guard up. If he hits me again, I’ll be ready. And I have a feeling I might surprise him.

“Dude, don’t play that shit with me!” He comes at me, and I step back, raising my fist. He quickly moves his hand to my shoulder, turning me to face the back corner, where Paige and another girl are leaning, both of their mouths open, a little shocked at this ridiculous scene. “That. One! Right there! Red dress. Big tits.”

Okay, I’m done with whatever
Twilight Zone
episode this is I’ve walked into. “I’m sorry…which one do you mean?” I ask, just to be a dick. My eyes fall on Paige’s for a brief second, and she sneers at me. Seriously? I’m the one out of place here?