Just Roll With It: a Just Us novel

by Niki Hager

  I would never have picked a crack-ass of dawn class, but for some forsaken reason, the morning class was the only painting class available. I don't know a single person, let alone artist, who would want to paint so early in the morning. Unless they were specifically painting a sunrise and trying to catch the morning colors and shadows, but we are not.

  I usually paint in the evenings when I'm winding down and with a glass of wine. I sound pretentious, and I'm lying. I sip on a Jack and Coke or a gin a tonic. Wine gives me headaches.

  Enzo is still asleep, the lucky bastard. He scheduled all of his classes for two days a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays. He is gone all day long on those days, but home all day Mondays and Wednesdays. I wish my schedule would have worked out like his.

  I drink my second cup while I take a shower. I have to set the mug on the toilet lid, so I don't water down the roast. I've practiced this. Only when the time comes to brush my teeth do I take a break from my coffee. Normal people take coffee breaks; I take breaks from coffee. My doctor said caffeine is not conducive to my condition. I don't care; coffee is one thing I need and its non-negotiable.

  After I'm dressed, I throw my hair up into a high messy bun, and I head out the door. On art days, I don't particularly take time to do hair and makeup. There's no reason—once I start painting, I get in my zone and nothing else matters. The world falls away. I shouldn't see Roman, even in passing by the parking lot. Nope, no reason at all for primping today.

  Nate's in class with me. We usually set up our easels by each other. I like having him there for when I take my breaks; I can talk to him when I step back and evaluate my work. He usually talks about his ex-girlfriend. I don't mind, I like to listen. Plus, listening to him carry on about another girl reassures me his feelings mimic mine about our relationship. No strings. Easy and convenient.

  "So, Ren Fest Saturday. I'm looking forward to eating a crap-ton of meat on a stick."

  "Eeew, so gross. You would want something like stick shaped meat, wouldn't you?" I heckle him.

  "Well, yeah. What else is the Ren Fest is for. What do you go there for?" he asks.

  "I happen to like their soup bread bowls, and I watch the jousting."

  "Ahh, you're killing me." He throws his head back in exasperation. "Go to Panera Bread then."

  "You know it's not the same. Plus, they don't have good hard cider on tap, or jousting," I joke.

  "Yeah, but you can't even buy alcohol yet," he points out.

  "I will be able to, in a couple of weeks," I remind him.

  "Too bad we're going this Saturday then." He pokes me with the end of his paint brush.

  "Good thing you are old enough to buy one for me then. Isn't that what guys like to do, buy girls drinks?"

  "Girls, they want us to like buying them the drinks just as much as we like to buy the drinks for them." He winks at me and turns back to his painting.

  Class wraps up quickly, and I feel the time went too fast. The class is so early that it's still only ten o'clock. I have a design class in the afternoon. Nate and I usually hang out in his grandma's basement, where he currently resides, and grab lunch to kill time. I don't want to hang out today—it doesn't feel right anymore. I can't stop thinking about Roman.

  I find myself counting down the hours until I'm in Government. Which is ridiculous because he barely acknowledged me. It's a dilemma. I can't decide if I should let it go, or if I should just go for it. I'll admire him from afar, for now, until I decide my next step.

  "Ready to go?" Nate asks.

  "Nah, I think I'm going to head home during break today."

  He's taken back by my answer, shrugging in defeated acceptance.

  "All right, see you later then," he grumbles.

  "Yep, see ya." I wave goodbye, and then I walk to my car instead of his.

  My next class goes much slower than my painting class did. The history of graphic design is not required for my degree, but the class fills a design credit and a history credit I need. I figured I could suck it up and kill two birds. Nate's not in my class, but he does take a typography class down the hall.

  We are watching a documentary about the first printing press and the effects printing had on the Protestant Reformation. I enjoy history and would usually be more interested, but today I'm distracted.

  My mind is all over the place, and I'm really not feeling very well. I'm sweating so bad my shirt has the classic dark pits from being drenched under the arms. The light and movement from the projection on the wall is making my head spin.

  I thought once I moved out on my own I wouldn't get these spells anymore. Seems like there's no getting away from them. I need to go home and take my meds, maybe paint for a bit, and I will feel better. There are things that work, I just wish they didn't happen in the first place.

  I walk through my apartment door, right past Enzo, and into my room. He won’t take offense to the elusive behavior; he's used to me. I turn on some music, pull out my supplies, and the world falls away. For a little while, my mind is at peace.

  Today's Thursday and I'm nervous. An excited nervous, not the other kind. I even took extra care getting ready today: I straightened my hair and threw on a little mascara, blush, and lip gloss.

  I am sitting in my seat waiting for Roman to show up so I can get another look to store in my memory, but he's not as early today. Actually, class is minutes from beginning, and he still hasn't shown. Disappointment begins burning through my body, and my stomach mimics a sinking anchor. Did he drop? As conceited as it sounds, I can't help but wonder if it has something to do with me?

  I look up one last time and see him slide in right as Weiss pulled the door closed. I'm instantly in a better mood. I was starting to think he really did drop. I'm always thinking straight to worst case scenario. I blatantly stare while he moves fluidly toward the seat he sat in Tuesday. Most people sat in the same seats, but a few decided to switch, so I'm glad he chose to stay put.

  He ambles in, not caring who looks at him, composed and sure of himself. Quite the opposite of how he looked after reading aloud from the text. That must've been an isolated incident. He is the perfect enigma. I'm sure he didn't mean for the nervous textbook incident to happen, but I'm glad I got even a small glimpse past his bad boy facade. He continues to look straight ahead until he's seated, and opens up his book. Not recognizing my existence in the least.

  Papers are passed back through the rows again. And again, I peek over when I get the chance as I grab my stack. Roman was looking at me. A jolt of electricity runs under my skin, but the moment is short lived when he looks back down. I jerk my eyes over at the heavier-set guy I'm passing the stack to, pretending I wasn't checking to see what Roman was doing.

  He appeared entirely unembarrassed at being caught, but he didn't look interested, either. He looked upset almost, like he was mad at me. I imagine that would be the sort of focused glare a mobster would give to the guy who cheated him, right before he buries the body in the desert.

  Throughout the rest of class, I see him continue to survey me. He casually moves his eyes only, not tilting his head in any way. He doesn't think I can see. I need to know what he's thinking. I keep peering back, and he's always studying me.

  He catches me catch him at some point during class, so I thought he would stop. He didn't. Now I'm getting paranoid. He wouldn't acknowledge I existed two days and two hours ago, but now this? I keep jerking my head back to the front of the room after checking for him, and I try my best to pay attention.

  This is a hard class, and I need to pass in order to graduate on time. He has to be wondering what I'm wondering. Is he fucking with me?

  I look back once more. Yep, still fixedly glaring. I made sure to wear a belt today, so I don't think something like my underwear or ass crack is showing. Got to be a plus, right?

  I rush out of the classroom as soon as we are dismissed.

  Meat on a stick

  Strange Love- Halsey

  Rigbee

  I see Na
te pull into the parking lot, so I head downstairs to meet him at the car.

  "Ready to go?" he asks as he opens my door for me.

  "Yep, let’s do this."

  He jogs around to his side of the car and we head off.

  "So, hard ciders and soup bowls for you, right?"

  "You remembered, how sweet," I say, almost sarcastically.

  For some strange reason, he sounded too sincere.

  A muscle in his jaw tightens. "You look really nice today, I really dig your outfit. You have the whole Bohemian thing going on."

  I look down at my light-brown, loose-knit sweater. The top is only partially buttoned, so you can see my band tee underneath, and I haphazardly threw on a pair of jeans. I didn't really consider the look Bohemian. I don't think about things like clothes too much. Maybe my colorful and handmade cross-body purse Grandpa Joe brought me back from his cruise to Jamaica contributed to his observation. I don't think Nate has ever commented on my clothes before. Weird.

  "Thanks, I wasn't trying to go for any specific look. I kind of throw clothes together I think might match," I explain.

  "Well, whatever you do, you look good," he comments.

  "Thanks, I appreciate the compliment." I give him a half smile.

  I've always thought I sucked at fashion.

  "No problem, I should tell you more often," he adds.

  "Not necessary, really," I insist.

  I'm trying to cut the conversation off fast. It's beginning to make me uncomfortable.

  "So, are any of your friends meeting us there?" I wonder.

  "Nah, I thought it could be just you and me today." He shrugs his shoulders and gives no more thought to it.

  A part of me was hoping there would be more people. I don't know what, but something about Nate is off. Every few seconds he takes his eyes off the road to glance at me. He doesn't say anything, but the crease in his forehead makes me believe something is on his mind.

  "Wow, the parking lot is packed," he exclaims as we pull up to a makeshift lot far into the meadow. "I think we're going have quite a long walk to the entrance. I hope that’s okay."

  "Yeah, fine with me. No worries, I need the work out anyways," I joke.

  The walk is longer than I anticipated. As we walk, I actually start to have a hard time breathing. I even end up wheezing. The entire pathway is up hill. I am clearly out of shape.

  "Are you doing okay over there?" Nate nudges my shoulder and taunts.

  "Yeah … I. … will … be … fine," I manage to get each breathy word out.

  "We're almost there, and the first thing I'll do is get you that cider I promised, okay?"

  "Sounds … good," I pant.

  He plasters a smile on his face and we meander our way toward the entrance.

  As we approach the gate, a girl in an authentic, era-appropriate costume takes our tickets.

  "Ah, thank goodness," I boast, "I don't think I could have walked much further."

  Once we're inside, I sit down at one of the picnic tables by the Ye Old Bar to catch my breath. Meanwhile, Nate rushes off to get drinks.

  While I sit there waiting, I feel a sharp stinging pain in my right arm. "Ahh, shit-son-of-a-mother-fricker-frick!"

  I forgot the one thing I hated about the festival—the friggen bees. Early October in Michigan is the worst when it comes to bees, and a cardboard village in the middle of a meadow with people eating and drinking is a magnet for them.

  I'm rubbing my muscle in the spot the bee stung when Nate sets my drink in front of me. He sits beside me, incognizant and unconcerned. He doesn't notice I'm hurting at the moment. I don't know why he's so distracted.

  Also weird, is how he sat right next to me on the bench instead of across from me, maybe so we can hear each other talk over the awful, old-fashioned, band?

  "So, you've mentioned your brother plays?"

  "Huh? Plays … what?" My lips purse unintentionally, and I raise a brow in query.

  "You know, guitar," he prompts.

  "Oh, yeah. He's surprisingly good, for being self-taught."

  "I would play with him, you know," he offers. "I'm always up for a jam session."

  Nate has never been around my family. I'm not ready for something so official.

  "What a nice offer, I'll let him know." I force a smile.

  I down my first cider relatively fast, because I need to use it as a pain reliever for the sting. Before I know it, I have another drink sitting in front of me. Nate's on the ball. I didn't even notice him go to get another round.

  After my second drink, we start talking and laughing about something else, I don't even remember what, and I am starting to feel pretty good. Three drinks in, I'm relaxed and ready to go enjoy the rest of the festival. We stop at any booths interesting looking. I like the one with the homemade candles. They smell yummy. Yep, I am definitely buzzed.

  I wander all around and enjoy the energy. The Renaissance Festival emulates my favorite historical period of time, and I'm in love with the ambience. These places are specifically designed for social odd balls like me.

  Especially if you get into the hidden innuendos underneath of the surface. With the alcohol, night time theatrics, and of course, the women wearing period appropriate clothing with the exception of boob spillage, this family friendly fair is all rather erotic.

  We pass a few pirates and a princess. I find myself focusing an unusual amount of energy dissecting their costumes. I am fascinated with the detail.

  The next booth we come to looks like a metal worker. Nate stops abruptly in front of me. Not paying attention to my surroundings, I run right into the back of him.

  "Ugh." I rub at my nose that's been smashed by a shoulder blade.

  "Wait here. One of my buddies is up there, he works with metal. I'm going to go say hi."

  He bolts before I get a chance to respond.

  "Okie doke, don't mind me. I'll just be over heeere," I say to no one and point my finger around to nowhere specific. "Looking at the guy with the old, weird, instrument thingy," I babble on to myself. I mosey over toward a fast gathering crowd on the pathway for ye old troubadour.

  A few seconds—or minutes, because at this point I have no concept of time—goes by when I quiver at the sound of a breathy voice behind me. He's too close, and I feel his warm breath on my ear when he whispers, "I got you something." It's Nate, and he seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

  He hands me a rose made of metal. The piece is beautiful, and I can tell a lot of work went into making it. I don't know what to say to the unexpected gesture.

  "Um, I don't know what to say." Way to be eloquent. "Thank you, but you really didn't have to."

  "Sure I did, a beautiful rose for a beautiful girl. It's only right."

  I'm sure I'm flushed, from a combination of the alcohol and the compliment.

  "I think I have had too much to drink, I should eat something. How about those meat sticks you wanted? We could go get one of each kind!" I exclaim, trying to redirect where this is going.

  "Sure, but first I want to show you something."

  He grabs my hand and all but drags me in a direction off the pathway. We come to a long wall of porta potties which, non-surprisingly, have long lines.

  "Um … Nate, I don't have to pee, but thanks for assuming after my drinks and all I would. That was considerate."

  I look at our connected hands as he continues to fiercely drag me in their direction.

  "Yeah, I guess that would have been smart, huh? But no, that's not what I was getting at."

  "Then where are we—" Before I can finish the question, I am being pushed through an open doorway.

  I look around to get my bearings. We're in some shack the festival is using for a handicap/family bathroom. What a good idea, actually. I can't picture the porta potties are good for either of those situations.

  No one seems to notice the shack is a restroom and available. We should let a few families waiting by the portas know; it wouldn't be fair if I took it
and I really didn't need to go..

  My mind has to do a double take when Nate walks in behind me and shuts the door.

  "Nate, what are—"

  "Shhhh."

  Realization dawns on me when I see the heated expression on his face.

  "No. What? Nate, this is not what I had—" My words are cut short as I get pushed against the sink. I feel his hands grab my waist before my shirt is yanked up.

  "Ouch. Nate, that hurt. Seriously stop."

  "Come on, Bee, you know we both need each other right now. I knew if I got you to loosen up a bit." He starts to kiss me brash and hard.

  I push him back, but my weak force doesn't do much against his weight. He doesn't notice my reluctance, and my movements are getting him even more worked up. We've kissed before, kissing isn't new, but his staunch aggressiveness is.

  He picks me up and sets me on the cheap plastic sink. I don't even want to know how dirty the surface is. This one-step-up from a porta potty is abominable.

  "Put me—" I get interrupted when he lands on my mouth again.

  "Put … me … down …" I'm striving to get each word out.

  "It's okay, what we're doing is okay," he tries to assure me.

  My buzz immediately wears off. No, he has flat out killed it, and I'm starting to get pissed. This is not what today was supposed to be about.

  I feel the drag of his hand pull on my pants button; the sound of my zipper tearing open sends me into full on panic-mode. I can't let my first time happen against my will and in a porta potty. I start trying harder to fight his hands off, in an attempt to do my pants back up, but it's dark, and I can't see what I'm doing. I break my face free from his mouth's assault long enough to quickly look down and find my button. I'm trying to fix my pants when I take note of his boner sticking right out the top of his waist band.

  Nate knows me enough to know I'm a virgin, and I will probably stay that way until I get my shit together. What the fuck is he thinking?

  His determination is merciless as he makes no effort to slowdown, despite my struggling. As his disregard for my protests continue, I start to truly feel scared. For the first time I really let myself think about the reality of becoming a college statistic. The terror of such a thought overcomes me, and I bite his lip as hard as I can. The taste of his blood violates my tongue, and with much more force than before, I give him one last shove.