by Hughes, Maya
My shoulder killed after three hours of chopping and stirring, but it was a hell of a lot better knowing I wasn’t going to face down three-hundred-pound linebackers ready to knock me into next week. No chance someone at Tavola would tackle me into the walk-in fridge—at least not as a regular occurrence, though Gramps had been known to get a bit rowdy from time to time.
I’d run into that kitchen when I was eight with my backpack slamming into my back and an apron in my hand. Stepping inside the tiled and stainless steel kitchen brought back all the old memories I never wanted to lose—Gramps ruffling my hair, the stern looks from the line cooks who thought I’d be a pain in the ass, making food that made people happy—but the crazy hours restaurant employees worked had slipped my mind.
My eyes were bleary, and I bit back a yawn. Dad had had me on three conference calls with agents last night. I’d nodded off about five minutes into the second one then woke up to my phone practically jumping across my desk with him calling my name in his irritated and exasperated voice and a piece of paper stuck to my face at almost midnight.
Rushing over to the volunteer meeting site, I’d leapt out of my car when I spotted the bus pulling out of the parking lot. Late on my first day—that wasn’t going to go over well. Dad wanted me to check in on the place today and make sure it would make for a good photo op. I chaffed under his near constant badgering now that the season was over. Apparently, I’d been hit in the head a few times too many this season and it had made me think once I won a national championship, he’d let up. I did convince him to at least let me get a lay of the land first before he barged in with an entire press corps for my totally volunteer, in-no-way-made-freaking-mandatory-by-my-father community service.
I’d talk it over with the head guy when I got there and try to keep things as low key as possible while also getting my dad off my back.
Being late was the least of my problems now. The pink-haired menace’s glaring attention slammed straight into my chest the second I stepped into the aisle of the bus. Perfect. Maybe she was just hitching a ride to the nearest bus station for a trip out of town. If she was on this build, getting some good PR out of it would be a nightmare.
It was her fault I was in this mess in the first place. I found a little happiness in thinking maybe she was here for the same thing. Maybe she’d set fire to a toga party or run over the Trojan’s mascot with her car, perhaps burned some bras in the name of feminism. I’d never seen someone so against a good party. Sure we got loud sometimes, but that’s what college is about. With her funky light pink hairstyle, she needed to be careful—people might mistake her for someone who enjoyed having fun. She rested her head against a balled-up sweatshirt, and I didn’t look down at where her shirt had ridden up around her waist, totally didn’t check out the tanned, smooth skin there. That would’ve been suicidal.
I wedged myself into my school bus seat and collapsed. The spring greenery was finally here after a long winter, but the freezing snap always tried a few last gasps before spring finally told it to GTFO.
The bus ride was quiet other than the squealing brakes our driver rode for the entire drive. That’s what happens when you pack college students into a bus before eight AM. Our team rides to games had been the same, and no one gets rowdier than football players, just not at the ass crack of dawn.
Elle sat facing the front of the bus, not talking to anyone. The seats all around her were empty, like she projected a ‘don’t fuck with me’ force field. I kind of wished I had that ability. Our paths had crossed a few times before on campus, usually with her doing everything but hissing at me before glaring and leaving. I had no idea what the hell I’d done to piss her off—joked with her to break the ice when she’d walked in on me naked? Returned her mountain of condoms? Invited her to a party at our house? Cardinal sins in her book, apparently. And then she went and called the cops on every party that sprung up at our house. We didn’t even have to invite people over. They’d just show up with kegs, red cups, and thumping bass. Sometimes we even called the campus cops ourselves to get people out, but she’d escalated that by calling the city cops and getting me arrested, so screw her.
The seatback dipped as the guy behind me leaned over. His arm hair brushed the side of my neck, and I braced myself for the invasion of my space. He rattled off the stats for my entire collegiate career.
I closed my eyes and let out a deep breath. “Thanks for watching me out there.” I wasn’t a dick, no matter what Elle thought of me. What she thought didn’t even matter.
After the tenth question about the draft, I smiled and didn’t hold back my yawns anymore. How do my tonsils look, dude?
“Sorry. I had a long workout yesterday to get ready for draft camps.”
The guy’s face blanched. “I’m s-so sorry to bother you,” he sputtered.
“Don’t worry about it.” A small twinge of guilt hit me, but he hadn’t stopped talking for a solid ten minutes straight. Yes, I’d kept count, in between glances toward the front of the bus where Elle leaned her head against the window and slept. She wasn’t faking, because her lips parted and her gentle—well, not so gentle, more like garbage-disposal-with-a-fork-stuck-in-it—snore made it the three rows back to where I sat. If it hadn’t been her, I’d have appreciated that she didn’t give a crap what anyone else thought, but it was her, so it annoyed the shit out of me.
I pulled my hat out of my lap and threw it on my head. Crossing my arms over my chest, I rested my head against the seat and switched off my brain. After hours on the road on buses and planes, I’d trained myself to fall asleep anywhere necessary. Here was no exception. All I needed to do was get through the next six days without going anywhere near her. How hard could it be?
* * *
Real freaking hard, apparently. The bus rumbled into the gravel parking lot. People stood around me. Opening my eyes, I massaged the side of my neck. These seats weren’t made for football players; they were designed for underdeveloped third graders.
Elle shot forward in her seat and rubbed the side of her mouth with her hand. Damn, she really had been out, drool and everything. Her head whipped around so fast I jumped. Had I said that out loud?
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t climb over the seats between us to strangle me, so I was going to go with no.
The collective eyes of everyone else on the trip bored into me. In front of a stadium full of people, it was no issue. Even parties at the Brothel I could handle; drunk people were never too interested in the answers you gave, just repeating the same question ten times and laughing like their jokes got funnier each time they said them. But with the season over, being around people I didn’t know well meant the uncomfortable conversations cropped up more and more.
What team do you hope you get drafted to? No idea.
What city will you end up in? Who knows.
What are you going to do with your big paycheck? It’s never been about the money.
I tugged my hat down farther like that hid anything from anyone. My knees banged off the seat back in front of me. I hissed, my bone hitting against the metal bars nicely hidden away under half an inch of padding. Maybe I should’ve brought my brace. Freaking twenty-two years old and my body was already breaking down.
Damn these buses were a hell of a lot smaller than I remembered from school. I had been maybe ten the last time I was on a bus like this. The team buses were the long-haul, charter types that had ports to charge our phones and personal TV screens on the back of each chair. Some of the guys had even snuck an Xbox on before Coach shut that down.
A sprawling lot was surrounded by parking spaces. There was lumber out in different configurations in various areas. Half-built frames were dotted around the space. Leaves on the trees swayed in the gentle breeze and provided some shade. At least it wasn’t June. There wasn’t much cover, so we’d bake under the sun by noon.
Ducking my head, I filed out after everyone else. Rick, the guy I’d spoken to on the phone, handed everyone matching na
metags. He had a thick, blue plastic one with worn edges.
His well-rehearsed spiel meant to pump us up came tumbling out. “We’ve got five groups here this week working on a few different projects. These are houses we’ll build here and then they’ll be shipped off site. They’re a cross between tiny homes and permanent structures, so it’s easier to do it here and move them later.”
Everyone stretched and nodded.
“We have smaller projects we might recruit people for as needed. Elle’s done this before, so she can help if you have any questions. The construction expert volunteers will be over to check on everyone, show you what you need to do, and inspect your work. We appreciate everyone being here, but we’re not trying to build death traps. When in doubt, ask someone for help. Let’s get going and have some fun.” He clapped his hands together and handed Elle his clipboard.
And the hole just got deeper. Of course she was the right-hand man—err, woman on this job. I don’t know what I did, but universe, I’m sorry, okay? Can we call a truce?
“We’ll be building the shell for one house and the interior on another as well as any additional features the houses might need, like ramps.” She called out the orders, sending groups of people off to different areas to pick up their tools.
Feeling like the last kid picked for a game of kickball, I stood in the empty area waiting for my assignment.
She refused to look my way, slipped her pen into the top of the clipboard, and turned around.
Stepping forward, I took my hat off and dragged my fingers through my hair. “Elle, I didn’t get an assignment.”
Spinning on her heels like I’d catcalled her, she stared at me with her full, soft lips turned down. “You’re not on my list.”
Do you think I just like riding miniature school buses for fun? I bit back those words. “I called Rick on Friday. He said it was no problem.”
Her lips tightened like she was trying to eat them, and she stared at the clipboard again. “Fine. Grab some gloves. You’re on lumber duty.” Was that a gleeful smile, or did she always wear that smirk when sentencing someone to hard labor?
“Can I be on lumber duty?” One of the girls from the bus rushed up to us.
“No,” Elle bit out so sharply the poor girl jumped.
“No need to be so mean about it,” she mumbled and slinked away, rejoining her girl squad.
“Are you always so charming, B and E?”
“There’s a lot to get done this week and I don’t have time to hold anyone’s hand or break out the hose when you two are going at it behind the work shed.”
“Way to jump nine hundred steps ahead. If there’s anyone who’d be banging someone, it would probably be the woman who has enough condoms to last most people half a century—or are you all out of those? Been busy lately, huh?” All I wanted was a chill spring break, but she had to push buttons like she was manning a submarine.
“You’re such a cocky asshole. And you know what? Yeah, I’ve been drowning in dudes. You haven’t heard? Everyone on the block has had at least three rounds, but still nowhere near your man-whore levels, I’m sure.”
“This man-whore doesn’t kiss and tell.” I puckered my lips, which were met with the cold, hard metal of a hammer shoved up to my mouth.
Could’ve been worse.
She could’ve used the claw end.
“Don’t trip and fall over your ego and end up with a hole in your head.” She dragged her hands down her face like the world was perched on her shoulders. “Listen, be careful and pay attention. We don’t need anyone getting hurt and it screws up the work permits and stuff for the site. Wouldn’t want to injure the campus golden boy.” Her barely contained eye roll was all I got before she shoved a pair of work gloves at me. Her about-face from claws out to a hint of actual concern threatened me with whiplash. Was there ever someone more confusing and infuriating than Elle? Shaking my head, I got to work.
With my luck, I’d be knocked unconscious and that could be the story my dad ran in the paper to ‘repair’ my reputation.
7
Nix
Drenched in sweat, I unlocked the front door. Why did it seem like I’d gotten five times the amount of shit to move around than everyone else? Probably because Elle cracked the whip the entire time. I opened the front door and stepped inside.
Heavy lifting was never a problem for me and it felt better to be doing it outside than in a gym or on the field, but damn was I aching. I rotated my shoulder as the front door closed behind me. The click in my rotator cuff never went away, and the doctors said it would only get worse over time, the soreness turning to pain in a few decades, and that was if I didn’t screw it up even more. The upcoming season would be brutal.
Bypassing the couch, I kept myself from plopping down and passing out. I’d offered to buy a new one, but the guys had said no. Apparently the only thing they hated more than that couch was me throwing my money around. Walking into the kitchen, I skidded to a stop.
Marisa stood in the center in one of LJ’s shirts and I prayed some boxers or something underneath. I’d forgotten she was here. She’d bunked here after a fire at her apartment a couple days ago. LJ had nearly lost his mind when she’d called him to come get her at two in the morning. We’d all let her borrow whatever she needed, and I’d offered to get her anything else we didn’t have on hand, which had drawn a fire-poker glare from LJ. He’d been mother-henning her since she arrived.
“Hey, Marisa.” I yawned and cracked my back.
“Hey, Nix. You’re all sweaty. Keeping up your conditioning before the draft?” She closed a cabinet.
I threw my keys down on the table and looked at the state of the kitchen. Pots and pans out on the counters. Food in various stages of preparation. Mangled carrots. Raw chicken sitting next to grated cheese.
The blood drained out of my face and my skin went clammy despite being overheated. The horrifying terror of her scattered and erratic movements in front of the counters registered.
“What are you doing?” My voice was quiet, like when approaching a horse you don’t want to spook.
Her head snapped up and she closed the fridge door. “I wanted to thank you guys for letting me crash here, so I thought I’d make dinner.” She beamed. It was like walking in on a toddler who’d decided to make you a painting with the contents of their diaper.
I backed away, keeping my hands out in front of me like I’d walked in on a wild animal foraging in the kitchen, and shouted up the stairs, “LJ!”
He thudded down. “What?” He poked his head out over the banister, nearly banging the top of his head on the ceiling.
“She’s cooking.” I kept my eyes trained on Marisa. One false move and there’d be salmonella in our water and on every other surface in the house.
His eyes widened like I’d told him aliens had landed in the backyard. “No!” He jumped down the entire flight of stairs. “Hey, Ris, you said you were just coming down to get something to drink and study.” He stood shoulder to shoulder with me like we were headed into battle.
“I know, but I felt so bad about hogging the covers and you sleeping on the floor, so I wanted to do something for everyone.”
“But remember what happened last time you cooked?”
I clutched my stomach. We’d had a battle royale for who got to puke in the toilet. The rest of us had lined up along the bathtub like some seriously fucked-up watering hole. It hadn’t been pretty.
“I didn’t realize you were going to cook. I called in an order for pizza on my way home. It should be here soon.” I slid my phone out of my pocket, hidden behind LJ, and used the app for the pizza place to order enough pizzas to fill the fridge for the rest of the week.
Her shoulders sank. “Oh.” She stared out at the monstrosity of her meal prep. “I guess I can cook for everyone some other time.” Sliding everything off the counter into one big container, she attempted to clean up. My cross-contamination radar went off like a Geiger counter at Chernobyl.
&n
bsp; “We can do it,” I shouted and moved into the kitchen.
She jumped.
“Don’t worry about it,” I insisted. “I left a mess in here anyway, and it’s my turn.” I plucked the sponge out of her hand.
The front door opened. Reece and Berk stood frozen in the doorway. They spotted Marisa in the kitchen with her hands on a pan as she moved to put it away. They looked at each other, then at her. Lunging forward, they both shouted, “No!”
* * *
ELLE
I collapsed on the couch, my butt barely hitting the cushions before my bag dropped and the contents spilled out all over the dented and splintered wood floor. Could it even be called a wood floor at this point? It seemed more like plywood held together with duct tape.
“Whatever.” I rested my head against the back of the couch.
A successful day on the site. We’d gotten a lot done. Our posts to the Make It Home’s social media accounts had gotten good responses. Maybe we could get some good donations to stretch our hard work even further.
My shoulders ached.
My feet ached.
My aches ached.
“Elle, you home?”
“No, it’s Zoe, our ghost roommate.”
“I’d believe it was a serial killer trying to lure me into a trap before I believed that.” Jules snorted.
I closed my eyes and ran down my list of projects that were due. The final submissions for the Huffington Award had to be in at the end of the month. That didn’t leave much time for the rest of the work I needed to get done, but the Peace Corps option didn’t fill me with a yearning for exploration like it once had. With the Huffington Award stipend, I could finally pay off the last of my tuition, free my transcripts from registrar purgatory, graduate, and not be buried under the student loan cloud looming over my head. Until then, my life after May was a giant ball of who-the-hell-knows.
