by Fields, MJ
After kicking the damn chair that’s hooked around my leg off, I push myself up fully and stand, holding my hand out so I can pull her up as I tell her, “You really need to chill.”
She flops around as she kicks and pushes the sleeping bag off her and stands on her own. “What do you think you’re doing here!”
“Jesus.” I step back, my hands raised in surrender. “How much have you actually had to smoke?”
“Don’t you dare make this a me problem. I was minding my own business,” she says as she grabs one of the chairs and begins folding it.
I reach for the other and do the same.
“I don’t need your help, but I will get a damn restraining order if need be,” she snaps, pulling the chair I’ve folded away from me then starts stomping toward the bus that I now know is hers. She slides open the door and tosses both in.
This shit’s not so cute anymore. Actually, she’s pissing me off.
“You do what you gotta do.” I grab her sleeping bag and start to fold it. “But you messaged me, so—”
“I certainly did not.” She stomps toward me and snatches the sleeping bag. “Get it through your head; you’re not my type. The fact that you have a dick makes that so. Now, leave me alone.”
Momentarily shocked at the confession, because “not my type” could mean a lot of fucking things, like she likes short, skinny dudes, not tall, athletic, and hot. Or what I previously thought she meant—that men who have money are assholes. Never in a million years would I have thought that meant she was a lesbian.
My head is racing, because when the word lesbian pops into a teenage guy’s head, it’s normally a big turn-on. Our asses immediately jump to the idea that we may end up with four titties to chomp down on, but with her, I all of a sudden think I want to become one, not join them. Add to that the fact, I’m suddenly jealous that some girl could be playing with her and not me.
Distracted as fuck, I don’t even see the little shit get in her vehicle until it starts, and now she’s tearing ass out of here.
“Dammit, Savannah!” I yell like she’s even going to hear me, but I yell anyway.
I kick some dirt over the hot embers before hurrying to my Jeep.
Having no idea if the buzz wore off in her sleep, I’m irate that she’s being so fucking careless.
I start it up and hit the gas, determined to at the very least follow her, hoping that she doesn’t get in a fucking accident.
For twenty fucking minutes, I follow her until I recognize where I am—just a mile from the academy.
“Good fucking idea, Savvy, good fucking idea,” I hiss, knowing she’s heading back.
Chapter 8
“I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life's a bitch.
You've got to go out and kick ass.”
~Maya Angelou
Savvy
I toss myself down on my twin-sized bed in my dorm and hope to fall asleep before Judas returns from wherever the fuck she is, with whoever it is she’s fucking.
Ho.
I roll to my side and try to get comfortable, but I can’t, and it’s not because of her; it’s because of him.
What a way to wake up from a killer buzz.
So, he wasn’t wrong. Somehow, I texted the wrong person. I’ve yet to send him an apology for the misunderstanding, and he may not get one since he followed my ass all the way back to campus, making me a nervous wreck. I’d like to say it’s because I was scared of this total stranger showing up at my favorite spot, or that him hovering above me didn’t make me puke a little in my mouth, but that’s not it at all.
He confuses me. I don’t like it at all, because I do, actually, like it.
I mean, no judgment against those who are bisexual or, in Chloe’s case, try-sexual, meaning she’ll try anything with anyone, but I’m not.
I hate men, especially ones who wear power and control like a badge. Men who think, just because they have a stick swinging between their legs, that means they are bored with a sword; therefore, they can cut everyone around them apart. “The alpha male.” Pfft.
The door to the room opens, and I pretend to be asleep.
She quietly shuts the door then tiptoes around the room. After she puts whatever she has with her away, I feel her hovering over me. Oddly, it disgusts me more than Patrick Steel did when he was hovering.
“I know you’re awake, Savvy. You’re the only person I know who moves nonstop when they’re sleeping. I just want to apologize and explain.”
“And I want you to eat rotten cock and die.”
She gasps.
“Now leave me the fuck alone so I can sleep.”
“Savvy,” she says, her tone indicating that Chloe’s waterworks are beginning.
I sit up and turn to face her. “I don’t care if you cry. I don’t care if you need to explain yourself with some pathetic lie. I am done talking to you. And you don’t get to talk to me or at me. So, Chloe, shut the hell up and leave me alone.”
She sniffs. “I’m not living the rest of my junior year like this here, too.”
I pull my pillow out from under my head and cover it.
“I didn’t accept you as a roommate; I asked for you. I found out about the discount by accident. He thought that’s why I was asking. He knew about my family’s financial issues. And yes, Savvy, my family is fucked up. I wasn’t lying about it. I don’t want to go home.”
Having had enough, I push myself up and hop off the bed. “Cry me a fucking river, Chloe. Poor you. At least you still have a mom.”
I attempt to walk past her, but she blocks me.
“You do not want to get in my way,” I sneer.
“We need each other,” she pleads.
“Move!”
“We do, Savvy, and you know it!” she scream-cries.
“Get. The. F—”
She throws up her hands and steps back. “Fine. But just don’t leave. I promise I’ll make this right, okay?”
“I don’t care what you do, just don’t talk to me.” I walk around her and toward the bathroom.
“For how long?” she calls to me.
You have got to be kidding me, I groan to myself as I head in to take a shower.
* * *
Lying in bed, horizontally, with my legs straight up, resting on the wall, reading from my History of World Religions textbook and listening to a playlist Chloe has streaming, all music I happen to love, and she hates my music. It’s been on repeat since I decided to let it be known I was away. Clearly, she’s kissing up. Obviously, she’s worried about the discount and whatever extra she makes for basically babysitting.
I only have an hour before I get to go to work. Yes, get to. I only work on weekends, during breaks, and one day a week, but it’s an excuse to get the hell out of here. Walls, money, backstabbing bitches stifle my spirit.
When the next song starts, I feel my throat tighten, a natural reaction to the song that reminds me of Mom, “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. This time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop whatever happens next, so I set my book down and hurry to the bathroom.
I shut the door, lean against it, slide down until my ass is on the cold tile, and then just breathe.
The first tear falls. At the same time, there’s a knock on the door.
“Savvy, are you okay?”
“I said, don’t talk to me.”
“Well, I need to know a timeframe.”
Is she fucking serious right now?
“Two days? Two weeks?”
Two lifetimes, I think as I hug my knees.
* * *
I actually enjoy closing much more than opening. The one to nine p.m. weekend shifts are the best. I’m alone during the last two hours. It’s dead, and I’m glad. Very rarely is it busy enough that I have to call Marcy and have her come back. She only lives three minutes away, so if by some freak happening that it’s too busy I can’t handle it, she’s here before anyone gets agitated.
And even though I
need the money, Marcy’s granddaughter is looking to pick up an extra shift while home from college, so I gave her a morning shift tomorrow. Knowing I’m not opening, I don’t necessarily have to have everything ready like I normally do when I close then open. Being the queen of snooze, I like to get as much of the opening work done so I can sleep as long as possible. But because I like Peggy, and I get a feeling she’s going through something, I don’t.
I crank up the old-school radio, because Marcy doesn’t believe in satellite radio, which is only part of why I have a strong like for her. The local pop station that comes in is the only one worth a damn, so pop music it is when I’m at The Bean. I don’t hate it; it’s catchy, which is why it makes it popular, but it’s also all about broken hearts, drinking, over-sexualized innuendos, or falling in love. Give me a bitter bitch or a fight song about empowering the people … I mean, women. Men have enough of it already.
After a commercial for snow tires finishes, “Green Light” by Lorde plays. I like her grit. I bet Mom would, too.
Mopping the floor, I’m singing along to her lyrics when I turn, something in the drive-thru window catching my eye. I jump, my hands to chest, causing me to drop the mop.
“Jesus Christ.” I tap my headphones, wondering how the hell I didn’t hear the chime, and then I pull it off. Dead battery.
The guy in the big-ass black vehicle arches an intimidating brow and gives me a look like I’m crazy.
I walk over, pulling off the headphones, and open the window to take his order. “Sorry, dead battery.”
He lifts his dark brown, scruff-covered chin, his hazel eyes morphing from something similar to curiosity, to unamused.
Same, bud, same.
“What can I get for you?”
“Whatever’s easiest, Savannah.” That voice. “I know it’s closing time.”
“How many times do I have to tell you my name is not Savannah?” I snap.
His eyes light up in amusement, and he smiles bigger than I’ve yet to see.
“We’re here for coffee,” the driver says, drawing my scowl back to him, “not ’ttude.”
“JT, if she didn’t throw attitude, she wouldn’t be her.”
JT—the giant jackass has a tiny name—looks back at me with a shit-ass grin.
I look past him at Patrick. “Oh my God, you don’t know me. So, seriously, just—”
“Whatever the hell your name is,” JT cuts me off, “I’d like black.”
I glare at him. “It’s Savvy.”
Patrick lifts his hands, throwing up peace signs, and asks, “Two Vs?”
I cross my arms and glower at him.
“Your name implies you have good judgment. You’re throwing attitude where it’s not needed. I’d stick with Savannah; better suits you.”
“Bro, she’s chill,” Patrick says, sticking up for me, with a grin.
Unnecessary.
“Yeah, everything’s chill when you’ve had a few too many drinks.” He rolls his eyes at Patrick then looks back at me. “Two black, large.”
“Thought you wanted that pumpkin spice brew again?” Patrick asks.
“Whatever gets us out of here the fastest,” JT grumbles.
“Black it is, then,” Patrick says.
When I turn to grab the cups, which is out of eyeshot from the drive-thru, I hear JT whisper, “You like the girl or the brew?”
Patrick answers, “Like them both.”
I wish you wouldn’t, I think as I head to the one bean-to-cup machine I still have going.
“She’s a man-hater,” JT whispers. “Stay the fuck away from that, Tricks. She will Noah Beckett you.”
“I don’t think she’d pull some shit like that, bro. And she also likes girls, so—”
“So what?” Justice cuts him off.
Patrick laughs. “So, we have that in common, I guess.”
I can’t help feel relieved that he gets that, and I’m not sure why, except for maybe he’ll stop popping up everywhere and putting me on edge.
“So, you’re saying it’s the coffee.” JT doesn’t sound convinced.
“Coffee’s great, but so is the fact that she—”
“Tricks, don’t you say challenge. There’s a difference between going for a girl who’s out of your league, or has a boyfriend who doesn’t deserve her, than one who likes to lick pussy.”
“The challenge isn’t in getting my dick wet; it’s in chilling with a hot girl who’s deeper than my dick would be inside her. One who’s not gonna lay on the bullshit to get me, and then, day after day, the layers she slathered on to cover the ugly come to light. There are girls you fuck, and girls you can learn from.”
“What do you have to learn from someone who treats you like shit?” JT huffs.
“More about why she does.”
“That makes no sense, man.”
“Makes perfect sense. Sometimes, I need music, and sometimes, I need lyrics.”
“Tricks, how much did you fucking drink?”
Patrick laughs. It’s a good laugh.
Sometimes, you need music, and sometimes, you need lyrics, I think to myself as I dump the black coffee down the drain and make them the good stuff.
* * *
Returning to the dorms, in stealth mode, through the back door like always, I stop before walking through the common room when I hear them all, now back from break, crooning over the Steel boys who will be starting school here tomorrow.
I hear Heather’s big mouth telling everyone that Chloe already won the “pot.” It honestly makes me almost nauseous. Then I hear them all gasping, whining, freaking the fuck out, and acting as if they just found out there was something like abused women, starving children, and cancer in the world.
Unable to take it anymore, I storm out into the center off the room, stand on the coffee table, and yell at them, “You’re all pathetic!”
The room falls silent. Well, all except me.
“You all haven’t a clue who the hell you are or what you stand for. You get pissed when a not-so-hot guy checks you out, throw a fit if one dares to ask you out, cry objectification and wear the victim card like a badge, and here you are, doing the same fucking thing. Pick a stance and stick to it!”
Heather pushes through the crowd, coming at me. “Get down or—”
I point two inches from Heather’s face. “Step back, bitch! Some fucking resident adviser you are.”
“I. Said. Get. Down. Now.”
“Eat a dick, Heather!” I hop down on the opposite side of the table, because bitch has crazy eyes, and I don’t trust people with crazy eyes. “Choke on it, and then go fuck yourself!” I throw my middle finger over my shoulder as I head toward the stairs.
“I don’t have to go fuck myself, Unstoppable; people actually want to fuck me.”
Please, like that’s the worst thing these bitches have ever said, I think as I start to climb the stairs.
Then I hear Chloe say, “Heather, shut up!”
When I walk out of the bathroom, Chloe’s pacing. “She’s such a cunt!”
I say not a thing. I, at the very least, agreed to two days of no communication, and I’m due that.
I open the closet door to find something cozy to wear, because it dropped like twenty—
“I freaking love you, Savvy! I love that you know who you are, that you don’t put up with shit, and that you know who you are!”
I throw a hoodie over my body, drop my towel, grab a pair of undies out of my drawer, and step into them as she sputters and paces behind me.
“I know you don’t believe me, but I’ll prove it. I’m gonna quit. I don’t even care if I have to go back to public school where everyone knows my business. I’ll just walk in there with a Savvy Sutton attitude and tell them all to eat a dick!”
She starts laughing as I walk over and push the comforter over my bed that wasn’t made when I left and hop up on it.
“God, it’s freeing, you know.” She walks over and plops on my bed. “I love you.” She
stares at me, smiling, her eyes a bit crazy, but not like Heather crazy, which is all the damn time; but crazy like she’s momentarily thought her epiphany should somehow wash away all the bullshit. Like I’m supposed to forgive her for the year and a half of lies and start making fucking friendship bracelets or something.
Fuck her.
And then she grabs my face and says, “I love you, Savvy.”
And she kisses me.
Chapter 9
"I always wanted to be a femme fatale. Even when I was a young girl, I never really wanted to be a girl. I wanted to be a woman."
~ Diane von Furstenburg
Savvy
Exhausted, because I slept with one fucking eye open after Chloe lost her fucking mind, I sit in homeroom, trying to pretend not to hear the whispers about the newest video Patrick Steel posted on IG. I also try not to watch over one of the groups of girls in front of me, watching on repeat, yet fail. And then it starts all over again.
Patrick, smiling, winks at the camera before saying, “Tonight, the Steel men are going to do a live lasagna cook-off, and you are all going to judge which father/son duo gets bragging rights. Wait until the very end then cast your vote based on presentation, creativity, commentary, and style.” He all but pops the collar of his shirt before introducing all the men in the Steel family; all big, all inked, all look like alpha assholes, except a slight change in the stereotype—they’re in the kitchen, and they’re cooking … with their sons.
I have to say, at the very least, they’re amusing and seem to be very close, which I surmised by the experiences at The Bean with all but three of them.
They don’t even act like they’re doing this in front of probably a million followers; they’re all extremely relaxed. You can hear the females in the background, poking fun at them, and see the way they look at them with fondness.
Whoever’s taping is also male, and his commentary is a bit amusing, too.
