by Tori Alvarez
“Well, didn’t they teach you in Girl 101 to always let your friends know when you’re leaving—or leave together? Safety in numbers and all.” A sudden feeling of protectiveness overcomes me. Why would she chance going home alone after drinking?
“Yes. They did. But I think I can handle myself.” The lightness she just possessed is gone.
“Got your beers,” the underclassman interrupts. I grab both cans. I place one down to pop the top of the other before handing it to her.
“Cheers to strong women.” I tip my can toward her.
“That I can drink to.” The air lightens a bit again. “I’m guessing you belong to this frat?”
“You would be correct. I’m a Kappa Tau. Being a senior has its privileges.”
“Like getting you beer at request.” She bows slightly.
“Yes. I wanted to make sure I had a chance to talk to you before you left. Didn’t want you to jet while I was trekking back and forth, getting our drinks.”
“Smart. I may have.” She shrugs her shoulders.
“I’m Garrett Anders. Can I get your number?”
“Toni Martinez. And that probably won’t be a good idea.”
“Boyfriend?” I inquire.
“No. No boyfriend to speak of. I’m just really busy trying to finish my last year.”
“You’re killing me,” I joke. “I don’t think I’ve ever been shot down this quickly. Not even a fake number to keep my ego intact.”
A sweet smile emerges again before she offers, “How about a coffee sometime?”
“Tell me when and where.” I pick up the scrap she just threw my way, her disinterest challenging me.
“I have a break between morning classes on Monday. The Coffee House on Third Street. Nine thirty?”
Lucky me; I have a break then too. “I’ll see you there.”
She stands and extends her hand to me. “See you.”
I grab her hand and bring it to my lips again.
Chapter 2
It’s only coffee
Toni
Garrett caught me off guard, disarming my usual tactics to keep people at bay. He’s a handsome guy, but the most memorable thing about him was his smile that disarms you, a small dimple appearing to plead for you to smile in return.
Walking away from people has never been a problem for me. I was never here to make friends. I am here to get that damn piece of paper that will get me a good-paying, honest job I can be proud of. And if I’m telling the truth, a guy with money wouldn’t hurt, but I will never rely solely on him. I’m just not hooking up with some mooch who expects me to support him.
That is one thing I have never understood about Amelia, my best friend. Her boyfriend is a mooch. He’s always asking her for money. I tell her to cut the fucker off, but she says she loves him. What the fuck ever. If my mother has taught me anything, it’s to not trust men and their intentions. My mother has chased every guy she thought had money and could sweep her away on his white horse. They slum a bit on the wrong side of the tracks, but they always end up back in their cushy life. My mother would end up heartbroken until the next guy came around, making promises he never intended to keep.
She’s a dumbass. I don’t intend to ever become her. But I will allow myself to dream about Garrett just a bit more. I see my fair share of good-looking guys at the club, but there is something about him. He is gorgeous, but not into himself. His sandy, light-brown hair is a bit shaggy and out of control, and the lone dimple on his right cheek when he graces you with a true smile says boy next door. It makes me wonder what the boy next door is doing in a fraternity. He didn’t give off the air of importance most of the frat guys emanate.
I lie in bed and let myself drift off to that dimple.
The second week of classes has begun. I should have worked Saturday instead of going to the party. I’m exhausted from last night’s shift, and the money could have been better. I need a good night to have a little cushion. Working all summer lets me relax during the school year, pulling shifts as needed.
I walk into my first class of the day. Professor Henderson is not all bad. Tough, but fair. I’ve had him for all my accounting courses. I should talk with him regarding any possible internships he may be aware of or connections I could use.
Many familiar faces fill the room, being together for many business classes together. Henry and Amy, my usual study partners, sit on either side of me.
“Well, hello, stranger. Didn’t get much sleep?” He winks at me.
I woke up late this morning, so I skipped make-up and let my hair air dry. I roll my eyes at him. “I wish. I turned off the alarm instead of snoozing.”
My life is split in two: the way I earn my money and college girl. I don’t come from money. I come from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks, which means NO money or dirty money. My goal is to move as far away from that shithole as I can. But until then, I will make my money any way I can. I won’t apologize for it, but it doesn’t mean I want people knowing too much of my business. I always keep superficial “friends.” I won’t share much about myself, and I don’t really care to know much about them, either.
Funny thing is, people are so egotistical. It’s okay that I don’t speak about myself, because it gives them more time to ramble on about their mundane lives. I’ve never really had much trouble with keeping a distance. I only socialize with people here occasionally. Saturday’s frat party escapade was a first with Amy. I have never invited anyone to my place, because I don’t need any unexpected visits.
“Yeah, okay.” He winks at me playfully. I have never associated with him socially, so I can ignore his tease. “When do you all want to start planning study sessions?” he continues.
“Coffee after class today?” Amy jumps in.
“I can’t today. I have plans. Next class?” I had been considering standing up Cute Frat Guy, but the temptation to see that dimple was overriding my usual reaction.
“Plans, huh? Do these plans involve the cute guy I saw you talking with Saturday night?” A smirk spreads across her face.
Not one to share my life, I shrug instead. They have no need to know who I will be meeting or what my plans are. Keeping my cards close to the chest has been a necessity to succeed.
My first glance into escaping the shithole, poverty-stricken life had been in eighth grade.
I hate getting called into the damn counselor’s office. I can’t think of what I could have possibly done this time. She begins, “Antonia (pronounced in Spanish), I don’t know if we are going to be able to promote you to high school if we do not see improvement.” I roll my eyes. This fuckin’ lecture again. I slide a little lower in my seat. I get it at least once a year. My grades have taken a hit this year, and I probably miss more days than I should. My grandmother has her hands full, still working full time to support me and my cousins who live with her.
“Do you want to attend college?” she asks, like she really cares.
“What do you think? Do I look like your typical college-goer?” I roll my eyes at her idiotic question. She needs to head back to her part of town and leave me alone. My mom and her brother didn’t even graduate from high school. My older cousins are in high school, but they aren’t doing well.
“I don’t know what the typical college-goer looks like, but it would be a shame if you didn’t,” she continued. “You have the brains. It surprises me to see such high standardized test scores with your lack of attendance and low grades. You are scoring this high on your own. I would love to see what you could do if you actually applied yourself.”
Someone is seeing through my façade. I do the bare minimum to pass the classes but know I could do so much more. This book stuff is easy for me. I sit stunned, not speaking for a minute before I respond.
“The test is just easy,” I answer, still unsure about her motives.
“It’s not easy for everyone. Some students don’t pass. They get retained because they can’t pass this test. And you
are scoring higher than the majority of this eighth grade class. I would really like to help you figure out what you want to do. What you would like to become.”
That conversation stayed with me. It began to motivate me. I was born to a teen mom and raised by my grandmother. My mom’s desperation to be rich clouded her good judgment—if she even had any. She hated this life, too, but went about it the wrong way. She was always the dirty secret “respectable” men came to for a good time.
Somehow, she never saw it, or if she did, she didn’t care. I don’t feel sorry for her. She was old enough to choose her life. I do, however, mourn my lost innocence. I was exposed to real world adult issues before I hit double digits. I knew what it was like to dwindle grocery items down at the check out lane because there wasn’t enough money, shower quickly because the electricity had been shut off, rinse off in gas station bathrooms when the water was turned off, and visit the food bank when times got really bad.
I never shared any of this with my friends growing up. What could they have done? They lived in the same shithole part of town I did. It was just the way of life.
Class ends quickly, my mind still reeling from all the information he presented. These are the classes that actually challenge me.
Having to assimilate to a new culture, I quickly learned to people watch. Blending in was my ultimate goal, never wanting people to assume I wasn’t one of them. Coffee shops, charging their insane amount for a damn cup of coffee, became my home to study how people interacted with each other. I fell victim to their yummy lattes my freshman year and had to cut back when I realized my money was dwindling faster than I expected.
If I tried to tell my hood friends about these people, they wouldn’t believe me. It is odd how different things are in the same city when you venture outside the invisible walls. Everything we need is conveniently located in the bubble I grew up in. It makes you wonder if that’s the point.
As I scan the crowd and eavesdrop on conversations, Garrett walks in, spotting me immediately.
“You ordered already, darlin’,” he states the obvious as he sees the cup in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?” His eyebrows pull in.
“I’m good. Thank you.” I don’t want to feel obligated to stay longer if things go awry.
He orders at the counter and returns, sitting in the empty chair across from me. “How was your morning class? What class did you have?”
“As good as it gets for an accounting class.”
“Yikes, that is a class I would never pass. Math has never been my friend. Is that your major?” These simple statements are part of the usual conversations between every college-going student looking to hook up, but somehow, he seems so much more interested.
“I guess you can say math is my best friend. It’s always come easy for me. This past spring semester was the first time I encountered an accounting class that challenged me. And I can tell this one will too. It’s actually kind of weird for me. I skated through the classes without much effort. I’m now working harder.”
We both look up when we hear his name called. “Excuse me,” he tells me as he stands. That’s another first. I’ve never had anyone tell me ‘excuse me’ just to pick up their coffee. He returns with a cup and two plates. He places them on the table and walks to the self-serve counter, picking up a few things.
“Not sure what you liked, so I got a sweet and a savory.” And with this simple statement, he graces me with the dimple. “Which would you like, or do you want to share?” He lifts a knife in his hand.
“Let’s share,” I offer, touched by the thoughtful gesture.
He starts cutting the butter croissant and scone in half. “Are you a math genius?”
“Huh?”
“You said math was your best friend and it was easy. So I’m guessing math genius.”
He’s brought the conversation back to me. He has not tried to overrun the conversation about himself. He was listening and picked up where we had left off. Wow. “I don’t think I’m a math genius. Those guys are in the math department inventing new math. I just find this stuff pretty easy.”
“So accounting is your major?” I nod in confirmation. “And this is your last year?” He picks up the scone and takes a bite, waiting for me to continue.
I’m now a little worried he will continue to ask questions about me and my life. Things I don’t want to answer. Things I don’t share. Things I need to stay in my past. I don’t need people judging or pitying me because of where I came from.
“It is. And you? If math isn’t your thing, what is?” I move the conversation away from me.
“Ag business. Animals are my friends.” He takes a sip from his cup before continuing. “But I guess the animals—cows in particular—wouldn’t think of me as a friend.” His smile is huge as he winks at me.
“Why wouldn’t they think of you as a friend? Ag. That’s agriculture, right? Sounds animal-friendly to me.” My brows pull together in question.
The laugh that escapes his lips is deep and full. I would never question its authenticity. “The cows would probably think I am betraying them since I raise them for slaughter.” His lips pull down on one side. “My goal is to work at a beef producer ranch. Hope you’re not a vegetarian.” His tone is a bit more serious, wondering if he just offended me.
“I am.” I drop my head.
“I’m sorry. I should have been more PC when speaking of my major. I never know if I will be offending someone.” His tone is reserved.
I’ve just turned the tables on him. I begin laughing. “I’m not a vegetarian, but it was fun to see you stumble.”
He lets out a long breath. “Ha. Ha. You got me. I forget not everyone wants to know where their food comes from. I usually leave out where I want to work. I hate it when protests erupt.”
“Protests?”
“Yes. Sometimes, student organizations that are ‘animal friendly’”—he air quotes with his fingers—“will gather around the ag buildings or the university land where we keep the livestock and protest. So, I have learned to keep my future line of work hidden.”
Mr. Frat Boy keeps things hidden. Interesting.
Our conversation continues to flow easily, sharing tales of our classes and interests. It is nice and easy. Nothing forced. Time passes quickly, and we have to rush out to not be late to our next class.
I scurry into class, which has already started, and sit in the back. This is not my usual area, feeling more comfortable in the middle. The students in the middle get to hide. This was something I had learned in middle school. Since I had the reputation, I was able to camouflage myself in this area. The front was filled with the ‘good’ students, and the back was designated for the ‘bad’ ones. Since I was already ‘bad,’ I decided I didn’t need any more attention drawn to me.
I take out my notebook and pen as quietly as possible. I finally settle in, and it dawns on me: we didn’t exchange numbers. This shouldn’t bother me, but there is a nagging feeling of hurt. I don’t typically date. I get my needs met when necessary without distraction or intrusion. Maybe I wasn’t his type. Please, I can be any guy’s type. I’ve become the master at morphing into whatever the situation calls for. How do you think I can still party in the hood and walk around college with no one the wiser? I let it go. No use in crying over spilled milk, especially when the milk was never mine. And I wouldn’t want it to be.
Garrett
I can’t believe I let her leave before asking for her number or at least giving her mine. When we had realized the time, we both jumped and rushed in separate directions. I had enjoyed her company. She didn’t know who I was. I didn’t have to downplay my family’s wealth for a possible vulture. That’s the trouble with fraternities and sororities. Your family’s name and influence is broadcasted for all. I learned early on that these girls are in it for a wealthy husband so they can be the next “Housewife.” Not my type.
I walk into the frat house since it’s my week to supervise study times for
the underclassman and anyone close to probation. I sit on the couch, waiting for everyone to arrive, and begin to scroll my phone.
“Study duty, huh?” Kevin asks as he sits on the couch across from me.
“Yep. They have about 15 more minutes before they are late. I saw a couple already at the table. They are expecting brownie points, I guess.” Should I ask Kevin if he has Toni’s number? As heated as they were, he would have to have her number.
“I can stay and help you out. Who else is here?”
“Not sure. I didn’t pay attention. I just looked at my duties.” Should I?
“The party was good. There wasn’t too much cleanup.” He continues with small talk as I’m still pondering.
“It was.”
“I saw you talking to some brunette outside. Hook up?”
“Nah. But I would like to see her again.” I leave out our meeting today. “Do you know Toni?”
“Toni?” He’s stalling.
“Yes. Toni Martinez,” I push gently, not wanting to expose my knowledge. While I am curious about their history, I really don’t need the visual.
“Toni. Oh, yeah, I do.” He looks nervous. I’ll cut to the chase and let him leave with his secrets. “Do you happen to have her number? I would like to give her a call.”
“You didn’t get her number?” His brows pinch inward.
“No. She left before I could ask.” I hide our rushed departure today.
“Uh. I think so.” He begins scrolling through his phone. I can’t see what he is doing, but he is typing something. Then, my phone pings with an incoming message. I look at it, and a text from Kevin has a contact attachment. “I completely forgot I have to meet a study group. I need to go. I can’t stay and help, after all.”
