by Rachel Rust
Sophia laughed. “It’s only one assignment, what’s the worst that could really happen?”
My jaw clenched. The worst that could happen? Was she serious? My mind loved a good old-fashioned anxiety attack and her words were a velvety invitation. Just as soon as my mouth opened, a string of neurotic syllables stumbled out. “Well, let’s see, Victor could be every bit as horrible as he seems, mess everything up, causing me to get an F, dragging down my entire GPA, to which Columbia says ‘see ya,’ and then it’ll be too late to go to a state school and in twenty years I’ll end up as an assistant manager at the Ice Cream Hut at the mall, and die a lonely, miserable person.” I hit the button to unlock my car. “Victor might as well just kill me now.”
Sophia pursed her lips and shrugged, as though her stomach said that working at the Ice Cream Hut didn’t seem like such a bad gig in that moment.
I yanked my car door open and sat down with an audible huff. She climbed into the passenger seat next to me, laughing. I glared at her.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s only a school assignment. You’ll survive.”
Chapter Two
The next day, Victor’s disheveled brown hair loomed in front of me, resting down on his crossed arms as he sat at a library table—or rather, as he slept at a library table. Mr. Kellen had granted all of us library passes to begin working on our project. I had taken time the night before to make a list of things Victor and I needed to work on and how to divide the assignment up. It was clear I was the brains of the assignment already.
Victor’s shoulder was a foot away. I considered tapping it, but decided physical contact should not be a first option. Rounding the table to the open chair across from him, I plopped my backpack down on the surface with a solid thump. It didn’t work. He was still asleep. I scooted the chair out and sat down with an audible sigh. Nothing.
My fingernails drummed the table. Nothing.
I knocked twice on the table right in front of him. Nothing.
I kicked his shin. He lifted his head and stared at me.
“We’re partners for an assignment,” I said.
“I know.” He plopped his head back down into his arms.
“Are you going to help me?”
“Sure.” His voice muffled against his arm.
“Okay, well,” I said slowly, trying to discern his level of involvement—which was exactly nil. “I think we should split the decade into halves. I can do 1980 through ‘85, and you can take ‘86 through ‘89. We can research anything interesting about politics, civil rights, elections, or whatever. Then we can each interview one person, like someone from our family. Once we’re all done, I can type it into a final paper.”
He didn’t lift his head.
“Are you listening?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Then have the decency to look at me.”
He sat up, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. His t-shirt was gray and had a Nike swoosh through a small circle over his left pec. It was wrinkled and looked in need of a good washing. He stared at me and said nothing.
“What do you think about my ideas for the paper?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Fine.”
“Do you know someone that you can interview?”
His phone buzzed. “Hey,” he answered with a weary gaze my way. He stood and grabbed his backpack. Without another word, he walked away, out of the room, phone to his ear. My mouth gaped open at the realization that he left me sitting all alone in the middle of the library. I had never met a ruder person in my life.
In every corner of the library, people from my class sat together. At the table next to me, Sophia and Kyle each read a book on the 1950s and jotted down notes. Under the table, Kyle had a bag of Cheetos. Mrs. Felix, the librarian, had little patience for food in the library. And by the orange color of Kyle’s fingers flipping through his book, I understood why.
As soon as the final bell rang, I bolted from the library, ready for fresh air and to rid myself of the presence of other human beings. I was in no mood to put up with anyone.
Kyle’s white Lexus was parked next to mine with its passenger tires on the line, so I had to squeeze sideways between his car and mine just to get to my door. But before I could curse out the douchebag rich boy, or even open my car door, my attention was redirected to a white piece of paper wedged under one of my windshield wipers. I grabbed the paper and was greeted by slanted scribbles in blue ink.
Ask Kellen for a new fucking partner
My blood pressure soared as my stomach dropped. My head whipped around, as though the author of the note was going to be standing around, watching me read their harsh words. The note had no name, but it didn’t need one. Victor Greer didn’t want to work with me. He didn’t want any part of being around me, but didn’t have the guts to say it to my face. Anger and embarrassment infiltrated every inch of me.
My fingers curled into a fist, crinkling the paper into a ragged ball. “Jerk!” I muttered, throwing the paper under Kyle’s car, not caring about the littering. I yanked open my car door, ignoring the clunk as it slammed into Kyle’s passenger side door. He could afford a dent repair.
I drove through the winding hills of southern Rapid City to our house on the outermost fringe of the city limits. It was a timber multilevel, tucked into pine trees on an acre and a half lot. My parents built it when Josh and I were in second grade; six months before our mom decided she’d had enough of our dad and moved back to her family in Salt Lake City. I guess a new house wasn’t enough to keep her happy. We weren’t enough to keep her happy.
Josh and I visited her every Thanksgiving break and for a few weeks every summer. Although now that we were eighteen, we had the freedom to visit—or not visit—whenever we wanted. I wasn’t sure of my visitation plans yet, but Josh knew his plans, and they meant extra helpings of sweet potatoes for me at the next several Thanksgivings.
Our mom had been our dad’s second marriage. His first was to his high school sweetheart. They divorced two years into college. He met our mom while in medical school at Columbia. They were married for eleven years. He was then married for three years to Delilah. She was a piece of work—flaming red hair, red fingernails, too much makeup, and short dresses. I knew why my dad liked her. It was the same reason the boys at school liked watching cheerleaders like Jenna DeBoer and her boobs walk down the hallway. My dad married Delilah for only one reason, and that reason made me squirm with ickiness. I was just thankful no little Delilahs ever sprang to life from all their…interactions.
I poured myself a glass of orange juice and sat down at the kitchen table with a book about the Iran-Contra affair, which was something that went down in the 80s. Weapons for hostages, rebels in Nicaragua. Or maybe the hostages were in Nicaragua and the rebels were in Iran. I had no clue. I didn’t care and I couldn’t focus. My mind was consumed with thoughts of Victor Greer walking out of the library. Ignoring me. Thinking he was superior in some way, as if his time wasn’t worth sitting across from me and giving me the respect of actual conversation. Instead the idiot just left that damn note.
Jackass.
My dad came home from work as the sun peeked low into the trees. I didn’t realize how dark it had gotten in the kitchen until he flipped on the light overhead.
“You’ll hurt your eyes reading in the dark,” he said.
I ignored him. He wasn’t an ophthalmologist, he was an orthopedic surgeon. What did he know about eyes? He was only good for wrapping a sprained ankle. He had to do that for Josh earlier in the year, although he had been naïve to believe Josh’s story of spraining his ankle in gym class when he had really sprained it jumping out of Kayla Thompson’s bedroom window after her dad came home early from work that day.
Josh and I weren’t just different academically. I had never had to jump out of a boy’s window. Not because I was chaste, but because I was smarter than that. A planner. I never put myself in sticky situations that required unique exit strategies.
I shrugged, open to anything that didn’t leave a huge pile of pots and pans to be scrubbed. Three of us lived in the house, but I was apparently the only one not allergic to dish soap.
We decided on pizza. Half pepperoni, half mushroom and black olives.
“Do you remember the Iran-Contra affair?” I asked with a mouthful of dough, cheese, and pepperoni.
My dad moved his head somewhere between a nod and shake. “Yeah, I think I was in college when that was going on. Why do you ask?”
“I have to do a research paper on the 1980s. Can I interview you for it one of these days?”
“Sure, sounds interesting.”
“Not really.”
“Why not? Something wrong?”
I sighed, putting my slice down, debating on how much to complain. My dad didn’t like whining. He liked to tell Josh and me things like, “If you complain then you’re not ready for the challenge.”
“It’s just that I have to work with a partner,” I said. “This guy named Victor and he isn’t taking the assignment seriously. It’s frustrating is all.”
My dad wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Well, Nat, a large part of being successful isn’t just what you know. It’s how you deal with obstacles. Other people and external situations over which you have no control.”
I nodded, having had this lecture before.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “After all, Columbia isn’t going to be any easier than high school, to say the least.”
I stifled an eye roll. As if I hadn’t realized that.
“Ready to commit to a major yet?” he asked.
I stared at a small piece of pepperoni clinging to the side of my plate, one vibration from plummeting to the table top. My next words were well-rehearsed. “I’ll go into pre-med.”
My dad gave an agreeable nod. “Anything but pre-law,” he said with a laugh.
My mother was an attorney. As was her father, and grandfather. My dad always said his dislike for lawyers didn’t have anything to do with my mom or her family. I let him think I believed that.
“Anything but pre-law,” I parroted. I then put my remaining few bites of pizza in the trash can, no longer hungry.
Chapter Three
Victor Greer didn’t return to school for five days. Five freaking days. During those five days, I thought maybe he had died. Or he had joined his brother in prison. Or maybe he and his tattoo had gone back to Planet 22 where he was King of the Rude People.
Graduation was now only four days away and the deadline for our government assignment was in twenty-four hours. I told Mr. Kellen I couldn’t do the paper with a partner if my partner wasn’t around. He told me to “figure it out.” A big help he was.
It was too late for me to join another group. Besides, most of our paper had already been written. For the past five days, I had spent countless hours studying all the highs and lows of the 80s. I had organized a bibliography of my sources. I had interviewed my dad about his experience volunteering for the 1988 presidential campaign. He had laughed, telling me, “That election was as an early lesson in major disappointment.” Mr. Kellen loved direct quotes, so that one was definitely going in the paper.
I had everything ready—except Victor’s interview. Surely he knew someone who was alive in the 80s. If only I could find him and shake it—beat it—out of him.
With only one day to go, I finally got my chance to chew him out when I spotted his messy brown hair outside of Mr. Kellen’s classroom. He was on his phone and I walked right up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
“I gotta go,” he said, then ended the call.
“Where have you been?” I asked. “Our assignment is due tomorrow.”
He didn’t answer.
“And I got your note on my car, by the way,” I said. His eyebrows wrinkled down for a moment, but I continued, not wanting to give him the chance to even try to explain his jackass communication skills. “No way am I letting you get out of the assignment that easily. Although I wrote most of the paper already, so you’re welcome.”
“And?”
And? Who the hell did he think he was? I wanted more than anything to shove him to the ground and kick him in the head. He didn’t strike me as dumb, just a dumbass.
“We were supposed to work on it together,” I said, gritting my teeth. “And you still need to do your interview. Everything is due tomorrow and we still have to get the stuff that I did and put it together with an interview that you do and—”
His phone buzzed and he answered it. “Yeah?”
“Victor,” I said.
He glanced sideways at me as he listened to the other end of his phone conversation.
I glared back. “Hang up on them and listen to me.”
“Hold on a sec,” he said into the phone. He fished a pen from his pocket, then grabbed my hand with a forceful grip. Before I could object, he wrote something on my palm.
1007 S Plum Rd
“What’s that?”
“My address. You wanna bug me about the damn paper, come over tonight and I’ll give you whatever you want, but I can’t talk right now.”
1007 South Plum Road. I had no idea where that was and I wasn’t about to go to his place with the rumors I had heard about him. “No,” I said. “Give me your phone number and I’ll call you later.”
He stared right at me, his dark eyes narrowing. “No.”
My face twisted in confusion. I wasn’t sure what kind of person felt more comfortable giving a stranger their address as opposed to their phone number. It was one thing to be harassed through a phone, but a completely different beast to be harassed face-to-face on your own turf. “Why can’t I have your number?” I asked.
He paused. “You don’t wanna call my phone.” He put his phone back up to his ear and began talking in a soft voice. Then he left again. But he didn’t go into the classroom. He walked down the hall and disappeared into the throng of students.
I really hated him. Him and his stupid hair and moody attitude.
“Hey, Natalie,” a familiar voice said behind me. It was a wonderful low voice that I didn’t hate at all.
It belonged to Brody.
I turned to face him. “Hi.”
“Everything okay?” His eyes peered down the hallway in the direction Victor had disappeared.
“Fine,” I said with a wave of my hand. “That Victor guy’s just a jerk.”
The clock overhead showed that the bell to start class would ring in less than a minute, but instead of entering the classroom, Brody stayed standing right in front of me. He peered down at his brown leather shoes and combed a hand through his thick sandy hair. Every strand fell back into its messy-sexy place.
“So, um,” he said, then took a deep breath. “What’re you, I mean, tonight, what’re you doing? I was kind of thinking we could go get some coffee or something.”
“I like coffee.” The words blurted out. Too fast, too eager. I mentally punched myself in the face.
Brody smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “We could go to The Platter—or we could go to Starbucks, or whatever you like. Or we could get real food if you’d prefer that.”
A huge smile crossed my face. I nearly said yes to all of it while playfully twirling my hair the way Sophia always did when she flirted. But in my mind, Victor Greer’s smug dark eyes stared back at me, reminding me of other plans.
But screw those plans, I wasn’t going to hang out with Victor when Brody Zane wanted to have coffee with me. Brody and his hot hair and good coffee and flirting and talking and kissing. My God, hopefully there’d be kissing.
Forget Victor.
Except I knew it wasn’t just Victor. It was Columbia and my dad. I had to make sure Victor finished that damn interview and showed up tomorrow to help me present it. Son of a bitch. Brody was finally asking me out only to be bumped out of the way by a chain-smoking asshole.
“I’m really sorry,�
� I said as Brody’s smile faded. “I can’t tonight, I have to work on my paper. It’s still not done, thanks to Victor.”
Brody smiled again and the bell rang. “It’s okay,” he said just before slipping into the classroom. “Some other time then.”
Disappointment and heartache infiltrated every cell in my body. My fists clenched and I decided I would go to 1007 South Plum Street after all—to kill Victor Greer.
****
I dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt, and Converse to go to Victor’s that evening, unsure what proper dress attire was for visiting a drug dealer’s house. I found Plum Road easily. It wasn’t far from the mall—an area of town I knew too well. But it was weird that Victor lived by the mall because that meant he lived outside the boundaries for Kennedy High School. He lived in the Truman High area. School rivalries ran deep in Rapid City and not many people cross-enrolled, unless they were forced to. Maybe Victor had been kicked out of Truman for drugs. Or truancy. Or just for being a dick.
His neighborhood consisted of small, cookie-cutter houses with permanent siding. Some had garages, some only had a parking pad next to the house. 1007 Plum Road had a single-car garage. In the driveway sat his black Trans Am.
I nearly hit the gas and drove away, uneasy about ringing the doorbell and confronting Victor on his home turf. But I didn’t need to ring the doorbell or knock because as I pulled up along the curb in front, Victor came out of the house.
He wasn’t alone.
Right behind him, a woman of about forty or fifty years old walked out. His mom, presumably. She was yelling at him. He tried to ignore her, but every time he’d pivot to face another direction, she’d shuffle around to face him again. Over and over again they danced like that, spinning in circles while she yelled and he smoked, saying nothing in return to her.
I put my car in park, but kept the engine running, leaving open the possibility of a quick getaway. I rolled down my window a few inches. The woman’s voice was loud, but much of what she was saying was carried away by the wind.
