by M. Billiter
Trevor may have been better built than me, but he wasn’t as smart. “What the hell?”
“The girls' numbers are the only ones I like.”
Trev laughed. “That’s good. I wouldn’t mind getting Ashley’s digits.”
“Ashley Bailey?”
Trevor nodded.
“Don’t even get me started on that annoying bitch.”
“What’s your problem with her? She’s hot,” Trevor said.
“Hot doesn’t make up for rude. The girl’s a major drama queen.”
“I’ve heard that.”
I cocked my head toward the kitchen. “Food's in the refrigerator. Help yourself. I’ve gotta take a piss.”
I went into the coveted upstairs guest bathroom that my mom forbade us from using. It was painted this drab gray with cream-colored hand towels that made it look like I was using the bathroom at Outback. I rolled my eyes and suddenly felt like Jimmy Neutron when all the parents in town are abducted by aliens and the kids run wild. “I’m peeing in the shower!” I wanted to yell, but instead, I left the toilet lid up when I was finished. What do you think about that shit?
I used her special antibacterial soap. Our house was full of antibacterial soap, lotion—hell, our shampoo was probably anti-something. For all her fear of germs and us catching something, there was nothing in our house that could wash away what was inside my head.
I dried my hands on the fancy towel she had laid out perfectly on the sink, leaving it in a wad on the counter as I looked in the mirror and fingered down my hair. It was wavy and blond like my dad’s, and always out of control. Lucky for Aaron his hair was perfection every morning. How the hell we were identical was beyond me. Looking at our baby pictures, it was impossible to tell us apart, but now? I shook my head and tried to get my hair to settle into place. We were as opposite as we could be, and I liked it that way. It prevented me from being called Aaron when clearly I wasn’t my brother.
I found Trevor with his nose in our refrigerator.
“Hey, what’d you tell your mom? I mean about why I'm here?”
“I told her you were helping me with my homework.”
Trevor shook his head and laughed. He closed the refrigerator and leaned against the kitchen counter.
“So how're your other classes going?” I asked.
“They’re all right. Senior year. I’m just ready to get done.”
“I’m with you there.” I opened the freezer. “You hungry?”
“I could always eat.”
“Okay.”
I put four frozen chicken patties into the microwave and grabbed two paper plates. When the microwave dinged, I slapped the patties on buns and doused them with ketchup, then snagged a bag of barbeque chips out of the pantry and sat across the kitchen table from Trevor.
Hmmm, this guy isn’t too bad. Someone I can finally tolerate besides Dakota. And she’s always so busy lately. It’s nice to have someone else to hang around with.
“So, what do you think of Mrs. Tuttle?” he asked.
“The office lady?”
“Yeah, her.”
“What about her?” I bit into the sandwich. The fried, breaded patty was delicious.
“She’s really pissing me off.”
“Why? What did Mrs. Tuttle do to you?”
“I don’t know. She was just being a bitch to me today.”
I thought back to third block. I didn’t remember Mrs. Tuttle even asking for Trevor to come to the office. But then I left to go see Clive, so it could've happened when I was gone.
“She’s always nice to me.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t trust that—someone who’s nice all the time. Something not right with that.”
I shook my head. “Man, you need to calm down. Mrs. Tuttle’s gotta be pushing seventy. She’s harmless.”
Trevor waved his chicken burger at me. “Just watch your back, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Got it.” I reached into the bag of chips and put a hefty amount on my plate.
“You eat like a horse.”
I grinned. “Lucky that way.”
Trevor raised his eyebrows. “I dunno, bro. You’re not as thin as you used to be.”
“What?” My voice rose. “Shut the fuck up.” I looked down at my stomach. It wasn’t as taut, but I hadn’t worked out yet.
“Listen, we both run indoor track, and we both know you feel every extra ounce. I just don’t want Coach Walker to ride your shit this season.”
“Coach is a douche. My mom says he’s got a million-dollar body and a face to protect it.”
That made Trevor burst out laughing.
“Yeah, Coach is pretty fugly.”
“It’s all his acne. It scarred up his face.” I shuddered. “It’s disgusting. He’s got these pits like a fruit that’s gone bad or something. Freaks me out.”
“Yeah, it’s nasty.” Trevor sighed. “I dunno, I just worry about my weight all the time.”
“Why?” I grabbed some more chips.
“One of my friends used to be able to eat like us, but then he turned eighteen and it was like he changed. He went from having this lean high school body to like a dad body—you know, like what you see in college. Those guys who have beer guts and everything.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, well I work out and run track, so that'll never be me.”
“What about your medication?”
“What?” It felt like my heart dropped to my stomach. “What medication?”
“I saw it on the counter.”
I glanced over Trevor’s shoulder to the kitchen counter. My antidepressant was in full view for the world to see.
“What about it?” I asked.
“Did you read the side effects?”
“No. Did you?” What the fuck is up with this guy?
“Listen, you don’t need to get defensive, but you were in the bathroom for a while, so I googled the medication and read up on it. It can cause weight gain.”
I thought Dr. Cordova had said something about that, but I couldn't remember exactly. I shrugged. “It’s for depression. I get down sometimes. It’s temporary.”
“Hey, I’m just looking out for you, that’s all.”
I was about to grab another handful of chips, but instead, I folded up the bag and stuffed it back in the pantry.
“You want to play video games?” I asked.
“I thought we were gonna finish our math homework.”
I shrugged. “Like you said, why bother when I can do it in my head. Besides, we can do it later or before class tomorrow.”
Trevor held out his fist and I bumped it. “Hells yes. Let’s go play.”
16
Tara
I walked briskly into the foyer that led to my office. After my session with Ed and Dr. Cordova, I wasn’t sure how well my concealer would cover up the fact that for the last hour, I'd been crying in my car, and the hour before that, I was sobbing in the good doctor’s office. There was never a time in my life when I felt more alone or scared. I wanted to talk to someone, but who?
Add to it that I couldn’t seem to shake this heaviness that hung on me like extra weight. It was ironic really, because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t battling the bulge. Not even close. The only upside to all of this was that I had long ago lost my appetite. There was only one thing I craved, and it was my son’s peace of mind.
I quickly glanced at my staff who sat outside the perimeter of my corner suite and nodded toward them as I headed toward my office.
“Tara,” Rachel’s voice called out after me.
Crap. I turned on the four-inch heel of my Jimmy Choos and flashed the pointed toe of my snake-embossed pumps at my executive assistant. To be fair, in my smoky, slim-cropped Hugo Boss slacks, it was impossible to ignore my footwear. And besides, being cheeky with Rachel helped elevate my mood.
I looked at her and a long “Yes” followed.
“Nice shoes,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
�
�Oh, these?” I rolled my shoulders and playfully wagged my foot at her.
My assistant had no idea that my six-hundred-dollar footwear was one of the perks of my job. When the dean of academic affairs informed me that I’d be rubbing shoulders with admission directors across the nation, I negotiated a clothing allowance into my employment package. It was unusual for a university, but I reasoned if they wanted to hire the New York Times bestselling author of the top-rated admissions handbook, they’d have to sweeten the pot. They did, and each month I had a fat allowance to spend on clothes.
“Yeah, feeling swaggy,” I said, and instantly felt my cheeks ignite with heat. I should never try to mimic the college kids.
She shook her head and her long blonde ponytail swayed behind her. “You’re getting there, boss, but don’t go to a nightclub without me.”
I wagged my index finger back and forth. “No worry there. I don’t do nightclubs.” Rachel knew I was always trying to stay current with the lingo of the college co-eds. No matter how moronic I sounded, I knew that, as the director of admissions, it was important to be in touch with the trends. And the millennial generation developed Urban Dictionary to define their trend toward creative word choice.
“Dean Bryant stopped by while you were at your appointment.”
I nodded. Clearly he’s read the list of early admissions.
“He’d like to see you when you have a moment,” she added.
Maybe I could talk to Rachel about my son. She’s young. She knows him. She’d understand.
“He seemed pretty bent,” she said.
I tilted my head. “Bent?”
“You know, schizo,” Ben jumped in. “One minute he’s the nice dean of academic affairs who gives us tickets to the football game on Friday, and the next minute he’s ranting at Rachel about the list of early admissions.”
I volleyed my head toward Ben, my graphic designer. Even though September had passed, it was still warm outside, yet a blue-and-gold beanie sat low on his head. Combined with his goatee and long hair, he always reminded me of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. Not something I’d ever share with him, of course. Or really anyone.
Ben was usually as good as they came, but his comment completely took me off guard. Schizo. It was like a one-two punch to the gut.
I shifted my weight on my stilettos and hoped to hell they’d hold me when I felt like I could fall like a house of cards.
“I’ve never heard that expression,” I said.
“I’m sorry.” His fair skin tinged crimson. “It’s probably not PC to use. I apologize.”
I nodded. “I understand that I’ve created a more liberal work environment because of the nature of what we do. We're constantly in a pressure cooker with enrollment numbers to meet, applications to accept, deny, or place on hold. Parents and students contacting us, and our dean of academic affairs checking on our every move. I understand the frustration. However….” I steadied myself when I could just as easily have cried and told them, Don’t say that. Don’t ever hurt someone I love with those words. It’s not his fault. But instead, I swallowed hard and gently smiled at my young staff.
“I don’t think using terms like….” I couldn’t say it. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate workplace language, and besides”—I broadened my smile—“there are ears everywhere, and if it were to get back to Dean Bryant, there’s nothing I could do if he decided to go to human resources. The university is pretty clear on affirmative action, and while still a new area, individuals with disabilities, like mental illness, would fall under that class of protection.”
“Understood,” Ben said. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
I raised my shoulders. “It happens. I put my foot in my mouth all the time.”
They both laughed when I knew I hadn’t been funny, but it broke the tension from my little workplace speech. “So”—I clapped my hands together to further rally my troops—“anything new on your front?”
Ben tilted back in his ergonomically crafted chair. “I’m still working on the spring brochure.”
I nodded. “Good deal. I’d really like to incorporate those taglines we were spitballing about.”
Ben rubbed his chin and glanced at the notepad on his desk. “Round ’em up, head ’em out, the Posse’s coming—look out!” He looked up at me and smiled. “Those taglines?”
“Okay, now when you read it like that, it sounds corny.” I rolled my eyes for good measure. “But didn’t we think we could craft a clever spring enrollment promotion with a cowboy riding the range?”
Ben looked at Rachel and then back to me. “We were thinking about maybe veering away from the cowboy and using a team roper instead.”
“Okay.” Now this I can do. Work makes sense when nothing else does. These aren’t people I can confide in, but I can lead them. “What’d you have in mind?” I leaned against the doorframe of my office.
“I know Wyoming’s the Cowboy State, but we were thinking of having a series of photos with team ropers. Maybe three shots that capture a moment as the team ropers compete. So they’re both coming out of the chutes, and in each frame we capture our brand. As the riders are heading out, it’d flash ‘Round ’em up,’ and then as they're throwing their ropes toward the steer, we’d flash ‘Head ’em out.’ Then when they’ve looped the horns and the heels and have the steer tied up, it’d flash ‘The Posse’s here—look out!”
“Oh, I really like that. So why the team ropers versus, say, a calf roper? Or a bull rider?”
“A majority of the freshmen coming to WSU are probably going to feel alone because they’re on their own for the first time, so we thought projecting the image of a team might possibly, subliminally, make them feel more connected?” Rachel’s voice rose with uncertainty at the end.
“You two are my dream team. I love it."
I pumped my fist in the air.
“I think that’s a brilliant idea, and it’ll generate interest from our ranch communities who may be on the fence—every pun intended—about whether to send their cowpoke to college. Excellent job.”
“Well, you came up with the taglines,” Ben said.
“You flatter me, but I know a bad cheer when I make it up, and you turned something corny into gold.” I bowed graciously. “Thank you both for making that a thousand times better. Is there anything I can help with?” I looked at Rachel and then back to Ben.
They collectively shook their heads. “We’re good on our end. We’ll work with the PR department for the photo shoot.”
I chuckled. “Good luck with that. They tend to be a bit hands-off, so if you need me to run interference, let me know.” I glanced at the wall clock behind Rachel’s head. It was nearing four. The college shut down by five in the fall, but there was one more thing I had to do before I met with my dean.
I went into my office, closed the door, and fired up my computer. Typing in my security password, I proceeded to find Ashley Bailey’s online application. With a strike of a key, her status changed from that of an applicant with legacy ties to a standard admission.
I drew a deep breath, shut down my computer, grabbed my Kate Spade-embossed binder, and headed out of my office. I glanced at Rachel and then at Ben. “I’ll be in Dean Bryant’s office if you need me. If this runs late and I don’t see you, have a good night and I’ll see you both tomorrow morning.”
Walking down the hallway toward his office, I didn’t have anything prepared to say in my defense for cutting short Wilson High School’s list of early admissions. I did have a lot to say about why I did it, but nothing that wouldn’t get me in hot water.
Dean Bryant’s office took up the entire north wall of the fourth floor. It was obscenely large, and no matter how often I stepped into his ivory tower, the feeling of envy never waned. What I would do with an office that could double as an apartment replete with a minibar and private bathroom, I had no idea. Still, I wanted what he had, but I wasn’t willing to pursue a doctoral degree to get it.
Alas, I’
ll stay in my modest glass corner office.
“Tara, glad you could make it in to see me.” He rose when I walked in, and even his height was supersized at 6’6. A row of Stanford basketball trophies stood on the glass shelves in his office, next to the framed diplomas: an undergraduate degree from Stanford, master's degrees from Pepperdine and USC, a doctoral degree from UCLA. While I kept looking for the partridge in the pear tree, fuck if I could find it.
Dr. Shawn Bryant, Dean of Academic Affairs, was my boss and assigned mentor, though I'd never sought his advice in my career. His blond hair and green eyes were too perfect. And for a man who'd just celebrated his fifty-fifth birthday, he looked like a Greek god. He was tan year-round because of his running regime, and unlike 90 percent of the administrators, his gut didn’t hang over his belt loop. He was, in a word, dreamy. And in another word, distracting. I didn’t need any more distractions in my life.
“Sorry it’s so late, Dean.” I purposefully shook my head and let my auburn hair fall around my face. Tucking a wavy strand behind my ear, I let the contrast between my fair skin and vibrant hair work to my advantage. I had my hair highlighted and cut every six weeks to ensure it was always in top shape. My sons may tease that I was a “ginger,” but I hadn’t found a man yet who wasn’t curious about a redhead. “I was wrapping up a project with my staff before they left, and time just got away from me. My apologies.”
“Stop with the formalities and take a seat.” He extended his hand, which looked like it could palm two basketballs, toward the open chair beside his desk, then pulled his high-back black chair toward me and sat next to me versus across from me. He always did that. I was sure it was some educational leadership class on social ergonomics that he'd learned in his PhD program. All I knew was it made me start to sweat like I was in junior high and the cute kid just sat beside me.
I sat down and placed my binder next to me, smiling tightly until it felt like my cheeks were going to explode. Anything to keep my mind off him and his cologne, which was a very subtle, spicy, sexy scent.
What the hell? Has it been that long since I’ve been with a man?
