No matter how many times I called, Kamiko never answered. I was worried about her.
When the customers started coming in, I did my best to put Kamiko out of my mind and focus on my work.
An hour later, my ongoing exhaustion hit me like a brick. I could barely keep my eyes open during customer lulls, and when it was busy, I felt wired and delicate, like a fragile glass version of myself.
Every night, I still went through job websites unsuccessfully and never got enough sleep. I was starting to wish the math tutoring had panned out, but no luck there either.
I knew Grab-n-Dash wasn’t a long term option. Not only was it physically tiring, but it was emotionally draining as well. There was this depressing quality about it I couldn’t identify. Maybe it was the fact that I knew being a convenience store clerk wasn’t the sort of job my parents would be proud of. They’d probably chuckle and tell me they’d told me so.
Eye roll.
I wondered how long I could keep up my pace with four classes and two jobs. Could I maintain it through the end of the quarter, until Spring Break? And keep my grades up? What about Spring Quarter after that? Would a week’s rest from classes be enough to rejuvenate me?
I feared it would not.
At the moment, the only thing keeping my tired eyes open was the hot-dog odor wafting off my neon-urine uniform shirt. No matter how many times I’d washed it, the smell wouldn’t go away. I’d begged my boss for a new one several times.
His response was always the same, “It’s not in the quarterly budget,” he’d say sarcastically while his prickly eyebrows caterpillared over his glasses.
Silly me. I’d forgotten that Grab-n-Dash was a Fortune 500 company with very tight margins to maintain if it hoped to meet shareholder expectations on a quarterly basis.
So I diligently hand-washed my uniform shirt nightly, air-dried it from the walkway balcony railing outside my front door every night, and stuffed it in a garbage bag when it was dry to trap the smell. Every morning, I prayed I’d wake to discover that someone had stolen my shirt off the railing, but I think the criminals were smarter than that, as were the homeless people who had minimal standards to maintain when it came to personal odor.
Hot dogs.
Yeah, I was never eating one again.
The front doors bing-bonged as Eminickle, my favorite illicit twelve-year-old Lothario, walked into Grab-n-Dash with his posse, 2 Small Crew.
“What up, girl,” Eminickle said. “You sure look foxy today!”
I smirked down at him. I think he was just shy of three feet tall. Perhaps shorter. And that was standing on his tiptoes. Was he really twelve? Maybe he was six?
“Hey, Eminickle,” I said.
“You know you call me dat cuz you know I’m yo number one playa,” he said suavely.
“Um, no? I think it’s because one is your shoe size.”
“Oh, snap!” his buddy to the right said. This buddy had red-hair, freckles, braces, and wore a T-shirt with an eight-bit Space Invader on the front.
“Come on, girl,” Eminickle said, “let me be your baby daddy!”
“Get her, dawg!” his other buddy said. This one had big glasses and a Jew-fro. His t-shirt had a picture of a rabbi holding a pair of six-pointed throwing stars of David, posing like a ninja, above a logo that said “Jew-Jitsu.”
They were harmless.
I would never tell them how much I thoroughly enjoyed their friendly visits. They were a pleasant distraction from the regular customers.
Eminickle and his crew raided the candy display and filled ICEEs at the machine before bringing their treasured treats up to the counter like they held golden jewels and silver chalices in their hands.
I rang everything up.
“I got y’all covered, boys,” Eminickle said generously, pulling out his velcro wallet to pay. It had an Angry Birds logo silkscreened on the outside. He handed me a ten dollar bill, which covered everything.
I made him change and slid it over the counter.
He lifted up the remaining dollar bill and held it out to me. “For you, girl, because you is so damn fine.”
“Save it for milk tomorrow at school,” I sneered.
His buddies cackled.
“Down in flames, dawg!” Space Invaders said.
“A’ight, I get it,” Eminickle said to me confidently. “You playin’ hard to get. But I can tell, I’m growing on you.”
“Like a zit,” I said.
His friends erupted with laughter.
“Any time you wanna pop me, girl,” Eminickle winked at me, “and I know you know what I mean… you let me know. A’ight?”
“Gross!” I don’t know how, but he made zits into sexual innuendo. So not hot. Sigh. Kids today. I rolled my eyes at the three of them. “Don’t you guys have homework to do?”
“See you next time, foxy momma,” Eminickle winked as he and his buddies walked out.
I waved sarcastically and rolled my eyes.
Once Eminickle and 2 Small Crew were gone, my tiredness set back in.
I eyed the coffee machine. Did I need a fourth cup?
No, caffeine wasn’t helping. All it did at this point was make my hands shake and my eyelids quiver.
I checked the clock on the far wall. Yup, it was running backward.
I really needed to find a different job.
Chapter 20
SAMANTHA
As mid-terms neared, I felt the crushing weight of looming disaster hovering over my life. Not only had my friendship with Kamiko gone off the rails, but my grades were falling into the crapper as well.
On the plus side, Oil Painting was most likely an A. Professor Cogdill was a great teacher, and very supportive. Check.
Sociology 2, on the other hand, was looking like a solid B. Not what I wanted. My parents wouldn’t be happy about anything less than an A. Unfortunately, Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn kept putting me to sleep, no matter how hard I tried to focus. The energy drain from my two jobs wasn’t helping.
History was heading toward a C. That freaked me out. I hadn’t had a C since junior high. Maybe I could pull it up to a B by the end of the quarter, but no hope of an A. Groan.
Figurative Sculpting was a wild card. I needed to actually go to Bittinger’s office hours to find out exactly where I stood.
I wasn’t looking forward to a friendly visit with the Bitchinger.
Luckily, her office hours were not on the same day as classes. Maybe she wouldn’t be so bitchy without Hunter in the room making gaga eyes at me while ignoring her.
I walked across campus in the morning and into the Visual Arts building to her office. I’d made sure to arrive well before her posted office hours. I wanted to be waiting on her, not the other way around. I needed all the advantages I could get.
As I hoped, she wasn’t there.
I slid down against the wall and pulled out my sketchbook to doodle while I waited. I almost started cartooning her, but I knew I’d get carried away and she’d walk up at the exact moment I finished an insulting picture of her.
I could see the cartoon in my mind. Marjorie would have a sour look on her pretty face and the body of a mangy dog from the waist down. She would be sitting behind a little roadside stand, waiting for the next willing idiot to come along and pay for her unique brand of cheap grief. The signage scrawled on the front of the stand would read:
“Insults and Aggravation. 5¢.”
“The Bitch is In.”
With a grin on my face, I started drawing Doggy van Peltinger. I couldn’t resist. Maybe I needed to be a cartoonist.
Of course, that was the moment Marjorie Bittinger chose to walk down the hall. My drawing would have to wait. I stuffed my sketchbook in my book bag and stood up.
“Good morning, Miss Smith,” Professor Bittinger said as she pulled a ring of keys out of her purse and opened her office door. “I assume you’re here to inquire about mid-term grades?” She smirked.
“Um, yeah.”
She w
alked into the office and dropped her bags behind her desk. I sat down at one of the chairs in front of her desk. Her office had very clean, precise decoration. Three small pedestals along the wall had bronze sculptures of heads on top of them, each one of a different handsome young man. I didn’t recognize any of the people, but they were all very well done, and the men looked super-sexy. “Are those heads your work?” I asked.
“You mean the busts?”
“Yeah.” I guess that’s what they were called.
“Yes.” Still standing behind her desk, she rifled through a folder, looking for something. Maybe she’d find some social niceties inside, because I could tell she’d forgotten to bring hers with her this morning. A moment later she tugged out several sheets of paper and slapped them on the desk. “Your file.”
How did she manage to make me feel like I was sitting in the Principal’s Office, about to receive a bawling-out for in-class antics? Detention or expulsion to follow?
Marjorie sat down and slid a pair of reading glasses onto her face. Even in glasses, she projected an elegant beauty. Why was it that people’s insides and outsides could be so poorly matched?
Marjorie flipped back and forth between two pages, reading, flipping, reading. She pulled off her glasses, folded them up, and put them away before lacing her fingers primly on top of her desk. “Currently, your grade is a D.”
“A D?” I was shocked.
She pressed her lips together. “Minus.”
“What?” That was impossible. At worst, I was expecting a B. I was working my butt off in her class, and my sculptures were as good as anybody else’s. I had assumed that, like Life Drawing, sculpture class would be graded on progress. “Why is it so low?”
“Because your work is shoddy and heavy-handed.”
“Heavy-handed? What does that mean?”
She smiled with ample superiority. “If you want to become a mason and pour cement for a living, you’re doing a terrific job.”
“But I’m learning,” I hoped I didn’t sound like I was whining. “Isn’t this a beginning-level class?”
“I would hope to see a finer level of execution in a college level course.” She leaned forward, going in for the kill, all smiles. “Not all of us have what it takes to become a figurative sculptor, Miss Smith. Perhaps you should consider a ceramics class. Ashtrays and painted plates might be more your speed.”
More my speed? She was making it sound like I wasn’t smart enough or talented enough to join her club. What an epic bitch. I felt myself starting to tear up. Then everything clicked into place.
I leveled a look at her. “You’re trying to push me out of your class.”
Marjorie’s perfectly plucked brows knotted together in a nasty, nervous bunch.
“It’s Hunter, isn’t it?” I asked.
“What?” she scoffed.
Even I knew how to recognize bald-faced denial. “You like him. That’s why you hired him as your model. You wanted him to be closer to you. But he’s interested in me. And it’s driving you nuts.”
“That is ridiculous! I’ve never heard such—”
“That’s why you want me to drop your class,” I continued forcefully, “or give up, or whatever. That’s why you’ve been so hard on me since day one. I’m competition, and you’re jealous.” I smiled my own superior smile. Take that, you Epic Bitchinger!
“I don’t know where you get your crazy ideas, Miss Smith, but I assure you, your grade is a reflection of you performance in class, not some sort of teenaged love-triangle.”
“You know,” I said calmly, “one of the things I read about in Sociology, during the gender studies portion, was sexual harassment. I was curious, so I looked up sexual harassment policies here at SDU online. Do you know what a ‘hostile learning environment’ is, Professor Bittinger?”
“This is absurd, I don’t have to listen to—”
“You’re right, you don’t have to listen. But I see how you drool all over Hunter, and how you treat me worse than the other students. I’m the only one you single out for no reason.”
“I do no such thing, Miss Smith.”
“Then I’m sure you won’t care if I speak with the Dean about this. I bet he’ll be more than happy to hear me out.”
Marjorie’s eyes were wide and literally shaking with fear.
I stood up and slung my book bag over my shoulder. “See you in class, Professor.”
I smiled to myself as I walked out.
SAMANTHA
I was pleasantly surprised when I next attended Figurative Sculpting.
Professor Marjorie Bittinger was a new woman. You could even call her nice. I was able to focus entirely on my sculpture, and got a lot of work done.
Romeo, of course, was happy to distract.
At one point, when no one was looking, he caressed the butt of his Hunter sculpture and made bedroom faces at me, which for Romeo meant his tongue hanging out and his eyelids quivering. I giggled, expecting Major Bitchinger to be looking over my shoulder as usual, she had me trained, but she wasn’t. She was on the far side of the studio, helping another student.
What a relief.
I sighed contently. It seemed I would be enjoying a more forgiving classroom environment. One that was altogether non-hostile. Points for me.
Yay!
Hunter, on the other hand, was the same old laser-focused predator. Every single break was an opportunity for him to put new moves on me. Was he ever going to let me out of his sights?
The other thing I’d learned about sexual harassment at SDU was that the same rules applied to professors were also applied to Teaching Assistants. But Hunter wasn’t a TA. He was almost like a guest speaker, or contractor, for the school. I didn’t know if he had to follow similar rules or not. Maybe I needed to give him a lecture anyway, like I had Marjorie?
Something told me Hunter wouldn’t listen. Hunter did what Hunter wanted.
Besides, now that Major Marjorie was off my back, Hunter’s stalking didn’t seem like as big of a deal. He was a nuisance, but at least he was polite about it. He was harmless.
Wasn’t he?
When class was over, Romeo and I packed up our tools and walked out of the studio together.
“You know what I hate about sculpting class?” Romeo asked.
“I thought you loved sculpting,” I smiled.
“I do, but it’s a love-hate thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the truth is, I’m so embarrassed to say this, but, well…” He sounded really nervous.
“It’s okay, Romeo. Say whatever it is.”
He gave me a pleading look. “If you hadn’t noticed, I have a ‘thing’ for Hunter.”
I giggled. “No, I hadn’t noticed that,” I said sarcastically.
“Sam, I’m serious!” Romeo whined.
“Okay,” I relented. “Yes, so you think Hunter is hot? So what?”
“No, Sam. You don’t get it. I think I’m in love with him.”
We came to a stop on the pathway leading through the Eucalyptus grove outside the Visual Arts building
I looked at Romeo sympathetically. His face was genuinely desperate. Not fake Romeo comedy-desperate, but the real thing. I felt terrible for him.
“Oh, Romeo,” I said, “I don’t think Hunter is gay.”
“I know, but it doesn’t change the way I feel.”
“I don’t know what to tell you Romeo. I think you’re going to be disappointed, no matter what happens.”
“Maybe he’s bi?”
“I have no idea. But he doesn’t seem like it to me,” I said cautiously.
Romeo looked pathetically disappointed. “You really think so?”
“I’m sorry, Romeo. But yeah, I really don’t think Hunter is—”
“Hunter is what?” Hunter smiled, walking up behind us on the pathway.
Oh, great. Hunter was always butting in like clockwork. I think I was finally over it. “Nothing,” I sighed.
�
��Come on, what?” Hunter smiled. He had his aviator glasses on again, even though the sky was gray and overcast. “What do you think about me? I really want to know.”
I smiled to myself. I could so run with that. I could tell Hunter he was an egotistical jerk, he was shallow, he didn’t know when to quit, and being a dick model for underwear packaging was lame. Instead, I said, “I was just saying you were a good model for sculpting. It’s easy to see all your muscles.”
“I know,” Hunter smiled, his teeth shining prettily.
I saw Romeo swooning out of the corner of my eye. Why couldn’t Hunter be into Romeo instead of me? Then everyone could go about their business and live happily ever after.
“When are you going to let me take you out, Sam?” Hunter prodded.
“You could take me out,” Romeo said hopefully.
Hunter rolled his eyes at Romeo, clearly frustrated at him. I’d have thought that Hunter would be immune to Romeo’s constant overtures by now. I guess not. They were getting to him. So why couldn’t Hunter see that his hitting on me was just as tiresome? Too much testosterone applied to the classically one-track male mind was the likely answer.
Nothing I could do about that.
“Come on, Sam,” Hunter said, his voice rough with self-doubt, “let me take you out. Just once. I’ll show you a good time, I promise,” he pleaded.
I couldn’t believe it. Hunter’s confidence was finally starting to slip. It had only taken what, two months? He at least deserved an A for effort. But I wasn’t handing out any prizes. I sighed. “No, Hunter. There’s only one man in my life. In fact, he’s the love of my life.”
Hunter smiled his perfect smile. But this time, it looked sort of shark-like. “You sure?” he asked.
Yeah, he was getting frazzled. But he wasn’t giving up.
It was time for me to burst his bubble for good. I was tired of his game. Because that’s all it was. He didn’t listen. Ever. “What do you mean, am I sure? How many ways do I have to say it, Hunter? I’m involved. Off the market. Seeing someone. Going steady. Get the picture?”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. He still had some fight left in him.
Reckless Page 32
