by Shen, L. J.
This new play was no different. I wanted to take part. I truly did. But physically, I couldn’t.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t good at acting. I was the star of every school play up until the fateful night that changed everything. The stage recharged and electrified me. But getting back up there after what happened seemed like accepting my new face and introducing it to the world, and I wasn’t there yet. I didn’t think I ever would be. Not that it mattered. I didn’t want to become an actress anymore. That dream had been tossed into the trash along with a chunk of my face the night they brought me into the hospital. I wanted to work in theater, doing something that allowed me to hide in the shadows.
Director, producer, stage designer. Hell, I’d be happy working the concession booth if it meant being near the stage every day.
“Professor McGraw, please.” I took in a ragged breath but still couldn’t seem to fill up my lungs. “It’s not just my face. I have other things goin’ on.”
Grams was having a bad couple weeks, but I didn’t want to throw her into the mixed bag of excuses for why I hadn’t signed up for the play. I was too busy trying to make sure Grams was alive and well to focus on school.
“Like what?” Professor McGraw leaned forward, knotting her fingers together.
“It’s … personal.”
“Life is personal.” She smiled. “You want another extension on your practical grade, I’m going to need to know why.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about Grams. About her being paranoid, and forgetful, and needing constant care. Admitting Grams had a problem would force me to hear unsolicited advice, and I didn’t want to put her in a home. Besides, portraying the woman who raised me as an obstacle didn’t sit right with me.
I shook my head, stuffing my fists into my hoodie’s pockets.
“Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry.” I stood up, the chair scraping behind me with a screeching sound that clawed at my neck. “I understand you might have to fail me this semester, Professor McGraw. Obviously, I will respect your verdict regardless, but I’m hopin’ I’ll get an extension and take part in the next play, junior year. Would you let me know?”
She stared up at me, pity swimming in her eyes. I could tell she was disappointed in me. That she wanted this conversation to shake me into action.
“Will do. Is it really that bad?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
You have no idea.
I shook my head, closing my eyes. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, turning around to leave.
“And, Grace?”
I stopped, my back still to Professor McGraw.
“Whatever your journey is, be certain you have someone to lean on when things get tough. Because they always do. Someone who is not your grandmother. Someone chosen, not a built-in family member. Someone who’d walk through fire for you.”
I smiled bitterly. I only knew one person who would do something like that.
Me.
West arrived at the food truck five minutes early.
It surprised me that he showed up at all. I still thought it was some kind of trap.
I refused to accept this arrangement was real. That he didn’t have an ulterior motive.
Standing closer to him than I had on Friday, when it was dark, I noticed he wasn’t completely unscathed. He had a cut lip, a shiner on the verge of turning from purple to green, and a nasty nick running down his neck. He looked like he hadn’t slept in years. I almost laughed at how different we were.
I would give up the world to have my unsullied face back, while he fought on a weekly basis, and rode a motorcycle, daring fate to take away his good looks.
Since I had Grams and Professor McGraw to stew over, I hadn’t had time to properly freak out about working with St. Claire this evening. I’d even forgotten about the stupid ballet shoes. The minute West’s face popped between the open doors of the truck, I rolled my hoodie’s sleeve up my right elbow and jerked my chin to a stack of boxes waiting outside while cutting bell peppers into thin strips.
“Mind carryin’ and unpackin’ ’em inside?” I didn’t bother to look at him.
Rather than commenting on my poor manners, or taking the high road and introducing himself properly, West lifted the heavy boxes that were stacked on top of each other like they contained air and not fifty pounds of guacamole, lemons, and fish. He arranged everything in the fridge under the window.
We prepped the food in silence, with him following my clipped instructions.
After food prep was done, West flicked on the grill and started roasting fish and bell peppers like he’d been doing this his entire life. His movements were relaxed and lazy, like a panther’s. He was comfortable in this small food truck despite his size. I tried to be as invisible as I possibly could, sticking to my corner of the truck. I realized I hadn’t been alone with an attractive guy in the same confined space since age sixteen, and that I’d missed the sweet, sticky current that hung in the air when it happened.
West was a space-hogger. He was everywhere, even when he was on the other side of the trailer.
Judging by the food prep, it didn’t look like he was planning to put me through the nine circles of Dante’s Hell, or if he did, he was doing a pretty crappy job of it.
We opened shop and served the customers trickling in, mainly high school and college students coming back from afternoon classes and practice, and a few working moms who opted out of making dinner. We didn’t exchange one word, other than me asking him to do things and him asking me where certain ingredients were, both of us adopting our driest, least friendly tones.
West worked hard, never complained, and aside from missing Karlie and her nineties this or that questions, working alongside him was marginally pain-free.
“Is death by sweat a thing?” West drawled after hours of radio silence. He grabbed the hem of his shirt, using it to wipe his forehead. My whole body jolted at his voice, like he’d struck me. I was so used to wearing my oversized pink hoodie in this climate, the temperature didn’t register anymore.
“It can be.” I considered his question. “Dehydration comes to mind.”
“No A/C?” He flipped a row of fish over on the grill, keeping them perfectly whole and bronzed.
I shook my head. “The ancient air-con that came with the truck costs thousands to repair, and Mrs. Contreras says it ain’t worth it because the window’s always open, so the cold gets out. She’d rather pay us above minimum wage.”
“Well, I’d rather not die. Let’s take the cut.”
Was he for real? He’d been here for all of half a second, and he was already trying to make changes?
“There’s a sayin’ in Texas, St. Claire. Never miss a good chance to shut up. I suggest you make use of it now.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to dump it in the trash on my way out. And you’re wearing a hoodie.” He turned to face me for the first time during the shift. “Are you deranged?”
“I ain’t hot.”
“A liar on top of being prickly. You’re the entire package, aren’t you?”
Was anything coming out of his mouth not outrageous? I had a feeling if I asked, he’d say something shocking on principle.
“Okay. Fine. I’m a little hot, but I’ve been wearin’ hoodies for years and it hasn’t affected my work here one bit. Ain’t my fault I’m good at things,” I huffed.
“I’m good at things.” He quirked an eyebrow, sticking a candy apple stick he produced out of nowhere into the side of his mouth, smirking. “They’re just not resume-appropriate.”
He handed me another stick from his back pocket. I shook my head, which, by the way, was painfully close to detonating from the sexual innuendo thrown my way.
He was riling me up on purpose, making fun of Toastie by acting like she stood a chance. Talk to the fire victim about being hot … that should be fun. I could practically hear him and De La Salle plotting it together like two mega villains in a sleek spaceship, stro
king look-alike black cats.
“Get used to the heat. Things get progressively worse. By June, we dab our faces with ice packs. July and August are a blur of heatwave headaches and suicidal thoughts. I suggest you get the heck outta here by summer break.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m sticking around for the summer. Better stock up on ice and find the local suicide hotline.”
He sounded businesslike, dry, and tough as hell. But he did not sound like he wanted to murder me, which was good news, I guessed.
“That’s a shame.”
“Not for me.” He rolled the candy stick in his mouth, dragging a rag across his station. I noticed he kept his space squeaky clean. “Home sucks.”
“Where’s home?” I slurped my slushie.
“Maine.”
“How come you’re not goin’?”
“Not many jobs available in Bumfuck Creek.”
“Please tell me that’s your town’s real name.”
“Wish it was.” He scrubbed his jaw with his knuckles, dumping the rag on the counter. “That’d be the only good thing about it.”
I looked away again, feeling crappy for assuming he made enough at the fighting arena when he’d first asked for the job. Who was I to make assumptions about his financial situation? I took his privileged asshole reputation and ran with it, even though it enraged me when people judged me based on rumors.
We hit a slow hour. The sleepy pocket between dinnertime to post-frat party munchies. Mrs. Contreras’ policy was that we couldn’t use our phones, unless it was an emergency call, so ignoring one another was pretty hard, seeing as we were each other’s sole source of entertainment.
A few minutes later, West piped up again, “Mind if I lose the shirt?”
“Hmm, what?” I whirled around, glaring at him.
“I’m about to turn into a fucking puddle. Doubt I’d be much help liquefied.”
“Uh …” My eyes roamed the truck. “I’m not sure strippin’ is the best course of action. For one thing, it’s highly unhygienic.”
“I’m not going to hold the tongs with my nipples,” he said wryly. “Unless it’ll get us more tips. In which case, I’m open to trying.”
I let out a stunned, hysterical laugh. I didn’t want to see his nipples, or any other part of him. In fact, I didn’t want to acknowledge he had more of that bronze, muscular body underneath his clothes. It was bad enough the flawlessness of him was right in front of my eyes all shift.
“I was referrin’ to your chest hair.”
Stop talking about his chest. Stop speaking at all, Grace.
“Ain’t got none,” he said in a fake Texan accent I’d find insulting if it wasn’t so accurate. He held the hem of his faded tee, raising it up to his brown nipples. His body was smooth, tan, and hairless. His six-pack was something out of an Armani underwear commercial. I wanted to trace the ridges between his abs with my index finger, which was extremely unexpected and laughable altogether.
I didn’t crush on people.
Not anymore, anyway.
“Final verdict?” He dropped the shirt, waiting for an answer.
I felt myself turning crimson. I didn’t want to look like a nerd and a prude.
“No.”
“Let me amend: I was being polite. I’m taking off the fucking shirt, and, if I am being honest, you should do the same.”
A second later, West’s shirt was gone, and his six-pack was accompanied by defined pecs, Adonis belt veins, and the kind of back you wanted to marry. He turned to the grill and resumed his work. He had a faded purple-yellow welt on his lower back.
“Lookie here, Virgin Mary is still alive.” He smirked when he caught me glaring.
I cleared my throat and looked away.
He moved past me, clapping my shoulder casually.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. For you to get knocked up, we’d have to at least hold hands. You’re safe with me.”
West St. Claire had touched me. Willingly.
My throat clogged up unexpectedly, the normalcy in his action making me feel like my old self for a fraction of a second. Not that I was bullied for having a scar. Not per se.
In some ways, people’s reactions were far worse. Girls were nice to me in a fake, superficial, we’re-cool-but-don’t-get-too-close way. It was obvious I wasn’t a competition to them anymore. Guys ignored me altogether. I confused them. I still had the same cheerleader body and long blonde hair, but I also had the scars, and they knew that whatever was wrong with the left side of my face bled underneath the clothes, to the rest of my torso.
At first, after the fire, I’d actually had the audacity to try to pretend everything was normal. To hatch the phoenix from its egg with a hammer. I went to the same parties, hung out with the same people. My peers set the record straight at supersonic speed. Through whispers, giggles, gasps, and rumors. My then-boyfriend, Tucker, whom I’d lost my virginity to, cemented the fact I was no longer my old self by quickly replacing me with Rachelle Muir, a fellow flyer. Everyone evaporated from my life like the sweat under my hoodie. The only people who stayed were Karlie and Grandma Savvy.
“Hellooooo?” a feminine voice drawled from outside the window. “Anybody in there?”
Yeah, me and my deranged, teenybopper thoughts.
I turned to the window. There were four high school girls in cut-off jeans, cowboy boots, and matching hats. They were giggling and elbowing each other, clutching their phones to their chests. One of them ordered a margarita slushie, while the others peeked behind my back, extending their necks.
“Is he there?” one whispered as I poured the drink.
“Yeah, I see him. Oh my God. Ohmigod, Kelly. He’s like, freakin’ gorgeous.”
I handed Slushie Girl her change and drink, but the teenagers didn’t budge.
“He’s shirtless,” the prettiest one, Kelly, who had long, honey-brown hair and a nipple piercing outlined through her cropped white tee, gulped.
“Yup.”
“Ask him.”
“No, you ask him.”
“Are you kiddin’ me? You go.”
“We had a bet.”
“Shut up, you said you’re not scared!”
My gaze ping-ponged between them. The rumor West St. Claire worked here had spread like wildfire. I was expecting this to be the norm from now on. Piles upon piles of fangirls knocking on our window, doing the whole Oh, this? That’s just me in my tiny bikini purchasing a taco after getting my hair professionally done, no big deal spiel.
I didn’t like the extra traffic to the truck, but there was little I could do about it, and it wasn’t technically West’s fault.
“Can I help y’all?” I grabbed my rag, wiping my station clean. They pushed one another, like cubs learning how to play. One of them finally snapped into action.
“Can we speak to West, please?”
“Sure thing. West?” I turned around, waving for him to come to the window. He frowned but complied. An unjust sense of possessiveness washed over me as he rested his elbows over the sill, leaning forward, and I got another glance at his body and that A tattoo on his inner arm. I wondered how Tess found the strength to leave his bed.
I wondered what sex felt like with West St. Claire, in general.
And that angered me to no end, because I couldn’t possibly find West St. Claire attractive. He was everything I resented. Popular, handsome, and with a bright future. Just because he was strapped for cash didn’t mean we had anything in common. He was going to soar and burst like a supernova once he was out of this small Texas town, and I was going to remain the ashes he left behind—the stardust that slowly descended the earth in his wake.
“Hiiiii, West.” Kelly popped her bubblegum, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. My guess was she was a junior in high school. Total jailbait. I slinked into the depths of the food truck, something heavy pressing against my sternum. West may have proven to be a reasonable person to work with, but I still knew he was a jerk.
He flashed her a bored look, waiting for the punch line.
“My sister told me you work here. Anything you recommend from the menu?” She tapped her hot pink fingernail over the list of foods.
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Read it.”
Her friends burst into giggles. She blushed, her lips flattening as she tried to take the humiliation in stride. West ran a hand through his damp hair. Every slight movement made his muscles flex.
“Ouch. Are you fighting tonight?”
He stared at her like she just grew a second hand and a pair of shiny, multi-colored wings.
“Just kidding. It’s not Friday!” She pouted, nibbling on her lower lip. “Max says you’re going pro next year. That true?”
He didn’t answer. I knew he wouldn’t. He wasn’t big on words. West grabbed my slushie, spat his candy out, and sucked on the straw like it belonged to him, starting to retreat back to the grill.
“I … uh …” The pretty girl ran a hand through her tight curls. The pressure on my sternum grew. Trying and failing was the essence of soul shattering. It was exactly why I didn’t want to take part in A Streetcar Named Desire. And she was experiencing it right now. “My friends and I had a bet. I said I could get you to give me a ride on your Ducati,” she blurted out, flinching, bracing herself for rejection. West froze, turning around slowly.
“Why, that’s a dumb thing to bet on.” He smirked. Suddenly, his tone took a different, predatory lilt. Like she’d finally made a faux pas and it was time he set her straight. He was going to enjoy every minute of it, too.
“I was just thinking … I mean, hoping, maybe …”
Her friends began to cackle.
“He’d love to do it!” I jumped in, smiling at her brightly. I couldn’t see her going through this. I hoped to hell she learned her lesson and wouldn’t put herself in this position again, but I didn’t want to see her walking away from here with her tail between her legs.
West’s head twisted in my direction, his face turning from bored to thunderous in a heartbeat.
