Rush

by Lisa Patton

  “So skip.”

  “I … I don’t think I should.” I shake my head lightly.

  “So you miss a class. What’s the big deal? You make good grades.” The way I’m hemming and hawing gives her another opportunity to try and persuade me. “We won’t go that far away. You’ll be back by your next class.”

  I know I shouldn’t go, but there’s … something about her. Something alluring. Something enigmatic. Yet paradoxically repelling at the same time. I don’t want to go, but I think I’m afraid to tell her no. Afraid of getting on her bad side. Hesitantly I say, “I guess I could.”

  “Good. Let’s go to Southern Craft.” She hooks her arm through mine and nudges me forward, picking up the pace as we walk.

  My heart steps up, pounding louder and louder the farther away I get from my next class. I know why I’m doing this, but I’m still conflicted as hell. I know I shouldn’t be missing class, but if I piss her off do I run the risk she’ll keep probing into my past? Which is worse?

  Out of nowhere my scholarship letter flashes across my mind. Maybe I willed it there. I stop abruptly, untwine my arm from hers. “On second thought. I better not.”

  “Why? Don’t you like Southern Craft?”

  “It’s not that. It’s—” Southern Craft is not cheap. In fact, it’s pricey. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard other girls talking about it. Maybe lunch is more affordable, but that’s not the real reason. “I just remembered I promised my teacher I would meet with her after class. It’s about a job. There’s someone she wants me to tutor.” It’s only a half-lie. There really is someone my teacher wants me to help. But we don’t actually have plans to meet today.

  “What? Are you lying?” She doesn’t say it all that mean, but she still says it.

  My nostrils flare. “No, I’m not lying. It’s the truth.” So it’s a half-truth. No one will ever know that but me. Still, my pulse is racing and as much as I hate to admit it I’m sort of afraid of her.

  “Why do you have to work anyway?”

  Oh God. Here we go. This is exactly why I didn’t want to go to lunch alone with her in the first place. I blurt my answer before I have time to shut myself up. “We’re not wealthy people. My family has had to spend so much money on—” I catch myself mid-sentence. I almost told her they’ve spent all their money trying to get my mom sober.

  “On what? Your family has spent all their money on what?”

  Shit. “On … I don’t know. Blue Mountain is not a booming metropolis.”

  Annie Laurie wrinkles her nose. “Working while you’re in college must be tough. Poor you.”

  I breathe a silent sigh of relief—for dodging a big one. “It’s not like I have a choice.” After a pause I add, “Don’t worry about me, though. I actually enjoy working.” Then I glance at my phone for the time. “I better go. Hope you have a great day, Annie Laurie.”

  I turn around and haul ass to class.

  TWENTY-ONE

  MISS PEARL

  Once work is over, after walking briskly around campus for an hour—all alone, I might add—I drive through Handy Andy’s for a barbeque, a side of beans, and a nice slice of chess pie. Having that bag of sweet-smelling goodness next to me on this long drive home has nearly killed me, but I’m waiting to eat once I get in front of my television set. I’ve got my heart set on a dinner date with the man of my dreams—Usher.

  At least once a day, I daydream he’s single, makes it to Oxford for some reason, and fate brings us together. Maybe he’s on his way to Clarksdale to play at Morgan Freeman’s Ground Zero Blues Club. Maybe it’s a fender bender. Or how about we see each other over the top of a gas pump? It’s love at first sight. Then he takes me home with him—wherever home is. Lord Almighty, I’d be a willing, sinning fool if I could get just one face-to-face minute with that man.

  My apartment is on the second floor, right out front and open to the parking lot. Every time I walk up these rickety metal steps, I’m reminded that I need to check to see if there’s an opening on the ground floor.

  When I turn the key and open the door, I glance at my watch. It’s seven o’clock already. Where does the time go? Seems like I just picked up my pocketbook this morning, now I’m laying it back down in the same spot.

  First thing I do is hunt for my remote, which I find stuck behind the couch cushion, then I flip on the box and scroll through my saved shows till I find The Voice. Once I hit play, Usher’s fine face is the first thing on the screen. “Here I am, baby,” I holler at the TV. “Come on to Oxford. You are looking sharp tonight.” Then I set up my TV tray. Mrs. McKinney gave the set to Mama when it didn’t sell in her carport sale. When Mama died, I took it home with me. Use one every night.

  As soon as the first commercial comes on I head into the kitchen, pop my sandwich and beans in the microwave. But only for a few seconds, there is nothing worse than hot cold slaw. Then I take it out and put it on a plate. I grab a roll of paper towels—barbeque is messy business—and head on back out to the den to wait on my man to return to the screen.

  Just as I’m raising the sandwich to my mouth—sauce oozing out the sides—here comes a rap on the door. Lord have mercy, it’s that fool James Hardy down the way. He’s the sole reason I can’t let light into this room. I haven’t opened my blinds since I met him, the day after I moved in. He can keep on knocking because I’m not answering.

  I take my first bite, feel it melting on my tongue—the bread, meat, slaw, and sweet sauce mixed together lets me know what heaven tastes like—and here comes the knock again. Only this time it’s louder. Seems like I hear a faint voice, too, and it’s not from a male. I reach over for the remote, turn town the volume. “Pearl, baby, are you home?”

  Fee? What’s she doing here? She’s usually wiped out and home by this hour. Once her feet slide into her bedroom slippers she never leaves the couch. I put Usher’s pretty face on pause, scoot around the tray, and unlock the door. Still in her uniform, Aunt Fee’s standing there with her pocketbook hanging from her shoulder.

  “What are you doing all the way out here this late? I almost ignored your knock.” Fee lives in town, on the east side, near a smattering of other low-income folks.

  “I need to talk with you. Mind if I come in?”

  “I was just sitting down to watch The Voice. Come on in.”

  Now she knows I love The Voice and she really knows I love Usher. But she pushes on past me. “These old knees,” she says, straining to sit, “keep lettin’ me down.” Her behind is big like Mama’s was, and I notice the sofa cushion curl up underneath her. “Fetch me a glass of water, baby, if you don’t mind. My mouth is dry as toast.”

  “All right,” I say, and head into the kitchen. “What’s on your mind? The suspense is killing me.”

  “I’ll wait till you get back. I’m in no hurry,” she hollers.

  “Maybe not, but I sure am,” I mutter under my breath.

  I bring her a Co-Cola with ice, because I know that’s what she’s after, and sit back down next to her. I pick up my sandwich, hold it out her way, but she shakes her head.

  “All right then, tell me what’s on your mind. You drove a long way. Must be important.”

  “It is important.” She gulps half of her Coke down without a breath, then finishes with a loud, “Ahhhh.”

  Before I take a bite I ask, “Is this about me finding a husband again?” Then I dig my teeth in.

  She never answers that question, just slides onto something else, and puts a serious tone in her voice. “I promised your mama on her death bed I would look after you. Like I’ve done since you were a baby.”

  I hurry up and swallow. “You’ve told me this before.”

  She raises a palm. “Let me finish, please.” Lord knows what’s coming. I may as well forget Usher. “I think she asked me that, not because anything is wrong with you, but because of your heart.” Now the tone in her voice changes. The sweet Aunt Fee shows up. “She knew you’d be taking care of everybody else but you. She
knew you wouldn’t be thinking about yourself—” I try to object but she holds her hand up again. “And she knew somebody needed to point it out to you.” Then she just looks at me.

  “I think about myself a-plenty.”

  “No you don’t. I know you love our girls, but you’re selling yourself short. You are smart, Pearl May, and you know it.” She raises her finger. “You’ve been working at Alpha Delt since you were nineteen years old. That’s almost twenty-five years. And what do you have to show for it?”

  “What do you have to show for thirty-two?”

  “Not a damn thing. And that’s my point. No retirement. No health insurance. Granted, we get paid time off at Christmas, spring break, and Thanksgivin’, too. But look what happens in the summer. Nobody can live on unemployment.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “They’re talkin’ all about Obama’s care. We can’t even afford that. Then get penalized for not having it. Shoot. I can’t give up one more penny of my check. And neither can you. Your check less than mine.”

  “At least I get a tip every now and then.”

  Fee’s lips press into a straight line and she gawks at me with eagle eyes. My tongue has slipped into muddy waters. “You better hope Uncle Sam never find out about that.” An arthritic finger wags my way. “And that’s another thing. You get all kinds of tips and fine, pretty things. But they don’t come for free.” She picks up one of the throw pillows on my couch. Then gives me the hard stare. “You’re workin’ overtime for every one of these. Have you thought about that?”

  I don’t say anything. But I know she’s right.

  My lips part to ask what she thinks I’m supposed to do about it, when her tone softens. “You’re workin’ too many hours, baby. And you don’t take time for yourself. I want more for you than all this. Your mama would, too.”

  After laying my sandwich back down on the plate and wiping my hands with a paper towel, I pat her on the knee. “Thank you for loving me like you do. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  She smiles, puts her arm around me. “Your mama knew you were a rare treasure the day you were born.” With her other hand she touches the pearl dangling from my neck. “I remember the day she had your pearl made into this necklace. She carried me along with her to the jeweler. It was your sixteenth birthday. Ain’t that right?”

  I nod. “Seems like yesterday.”

  “That jeweler said Mississippi pearls are extremely rare and very valuable. Just like you. You make sure you hold on to it, you hear?”

  I give it a feel. “Don’t you worry. I’ll never let this go.”

  My great grandmama and her people liked to go “musseling.” They’d wade out in the Mississippi River feeling for freshwater mussels with their toes. In all her years of exploring she only found one pearl. Now it’s mine—baroque with a pink cast. Due to the mother-of-pearl button craze back in the thirties, Mississippi River pearls have all but vanished from the riverbeds. All the freshwater mussels and clam beds were depleted and never replenished. No wonder they’re so valuable.

  I figure now’s as good a time as any to drop the bomb on her. “Mama Carla asked me to fill in for her this weekend.”

  With a gasp, she rears back. “Say what?”

  “Said she’d give me a hundred fifty dollars extra.”

  I watch a cautious smile sneak onto her lips. “You may as well have told me I have the power to fly.”

  “You and me both.” My mind’s been battling ever since Mama Carla asked me. One minute I’m imagining myself at the front door of the Alpha Delt House as the full-time housemother, the next I’m in the middle of a swarm of angry bees with their stingers pointed straight at me, daring me to disturb their hive.

  “That Mama Carla is a nice lady. She knows a good thing when she see it.”

  I smile back at her. Mama Carla drips with honey. She’s not one of the bees I’m worried about.

  “But what’s that new House Corp President gone say? What’s her name? Lilith Whitless?”

  I laugh so hard I snort. “Mama Carla acted like it was her decision, not Miss Whitless’s.”

  “Maybe so.” She raises her finger. “But you be careful. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “I know what you’re saying.”

  She shudders, then recoils back into the sofa. “There ain’t no tellin’ how that snake might strike when she finds out. She slithers into my kitchen, poking her pointy head into our business like she’s Queen of the House and we’re her subjects.”

  “She thinks she is, anyway. But I’m not afraid of her.”

  “And neither am I.” Her eyes turn into half-dollars. “You fill in for Mama Carla this time. Then you think about findin’ something else. You hear?”

  “It’s not as easy as you think, Aunt Fee. Where would I go? Have you thought about that?”

  “The University pays benefits—all kinds of jobs over there. They’ll be tickled to have you.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” She takes ahold of my hand, stares at it for a while, then massages my ring finger. “This hand would look a whole lot nicer with somethin’ shiny on top.” She squeezes one eye shut, tilts her head to the side. “I thought of someone else. What about James Pearson?”

  After I let my mouth fall open in surprise, like she’s just presented my shining prince on a silver platter, I hold up my left hand and stare at the empty space on my finger. “Fee, that’s such a coincidence. I thought of someone else, too.”

  Her eyes sparkle and dance like two kaleidoscopes. “Who’s that?”

  I lift the remote from the couch and push play. “Usher.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  CALI

  Bump-bump-bump, the bass pounds through the wall, right next to my bed. My lungs feel like they might explode from the reverb.

  “Make it stop,” I say out loud, covering my head with my pillow.

  “God, oh God, God, oh God.” Even with the pillow smashed up against my ears I can still hear Big Sean, Annie Laurie’s favorite rapper, like he’s in the room with me. It’s too early for music. Tossing and turning, I fling my pillow around, desperately trying to block the noise.

  We pregamed in Ellie and Annie Laurie’s room—it’s become the official pregaming room due to its size—till three thirty in the morning. And now they’re at it again. It’s our first game-day morning in Oxford, and I may as well face it. Sleep is over.

  My phone is next to me on the bed. I check the time. God, it’s ten o’clock already. I turn over and Jasmine’s not there. She had spent the previous Friday night with Carl, but when I drifted off to sleep a few hours ago she was in the bed next to mine. My phone rings while it’s still in my hand. The music blasts even louder as I say, “Hello.”

  “Hey,” Ellie says, all bright and cheery. “Where are you? We’re pregaming over here.”

  “I can tell. Uhhh, I feel like I just fell asleep,” I say with a frog in my throat. A flash of nausea rushes through my stomach. “And I don’t feel all that great.”

  “Me, either. And we didn’t even drink all that much.”

  “I think it’s all the crap we ate. Too many Cheez-Its gets me every time.” Maybe I’m fooling myself. It could have been the bourbon. Either way, I’m swearing off both for the next month. Well, the next week. “When are we meeting your parents?”

  “In three hours. Still wanna borrow my dress?”

  I sit straight up. “Yes, is that still okay?”

  “Of course. Come get it.”

  “Sweet. Be there in five.”

  As soon as Ellie mentioned borrowing her dress, a burst of energy collided with the queasiness in my gut, and now I’m raring to go. Last July, before school started, I had driven to Tupelo, forty-five minutes away, and bought two cute dresses at Reed’s. But I really want to save them for Rush.

  I jump out of bed and head for the bathroom. Every single shower is running and each sink is occupied with girls brushing
their teeth or washing their faces. As I wait for a toilet, I daydream about the day ahead. I knew I’d be excited about our first home football game, but never dreamed I’d actually get to go. Ellie’s parents had two extra tickets and she invited me to come along. I asked her why she didn’t invite Annie Laurie instead, and she said the Whitmores had tons of season tickets so Annie Laurie would be sitting with them.

  When I push open the door to their room, Annie Laurie’s in front of her makeup mirror. Her hair is already perfect, flat-ironed straight and hanging down her back, about six inches from her butt. She’s wearing the cutest romper I’ve ever laid my eyes on—a pale blue V-neck, with eyelets and sleeves that brush the tops of her elbows. That pretty white-gold jewelry, that Yurman she always wears, matches perfectly with a blue gemstone dangling from her neck. Honestly, she looks stunning, with the exception of her dark eye shadow, thick black eyeliner, and heavy base. I don’t get that, guess I never will.

  Ellie’s still in her pajamas with her hair in a messy bun on top of her head, texting. As soon as she sees me, she puts down her phone, leaps over to her closet, and pulls out the cutest red sundress ever, with a high halter neckline and a keyhole back. She holds it up to my front, still on the hanger. “Ole Miss red,” she says, extra loud so I can hear her over the music. “It’s gonna fit you perfect. But try it on real quick and see.”

  “Here?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  I strip off my T-shirt and boxer shorts and slip into Ellie’s dress. By now, my modesty is waning. As soon as her dress touches my skin I already know it’s perfect. I can feel myself smiling. And the excitement about today bubbling up inside.

  “Turn around. I’ll tie it for you,” she yells over the music.

  I do as she asks, holding up my hair. Catching my reflection in her vanity mirror verifies my feelings. I love this dress. It’s short, but not too short—six inches above my knees.

  “It looks adorable on you,” Ellie says. “What do you think, Annie Laurie?”