by Ginger Scott
The fatigue hit next. Again, easily summed up with too much soccer practice, which, of course, led to truly uncomfortable fights between my parents—my mom wanting me to quit completely, my father saying I just “need more conditioning.” It was because of these fights that I hid the tingling from them. That went on for months, until it was summer. Then one day, I couldn’t walk.
I could stand from my bed, get to my feet, but that was it. The second I attempted to move toward my door or drag my feet toward my closet to get dressed I wobbled and fell. I felt like the town drunk without the benefit of the booze in a paper bag. I screamed for Paige and my parents, and I knew by the look on their faces that my life as I knew it was done.
After my first steroid IV treatment, I was able to walk again—all of my symptoms gone, like the round ball the magician waves in front of your eyes until it isn’t there. Only, just like that magician who secretly tucks the ball behind his hand, my MS isn’t really gone either. It’s…hiding.
The fights continued, and my parents separated for a while. After the MS diagnosis, my mom insisted I quit soccer. I got depressed. My dad supported my wishes to play again—of course, under strict circumstances, and with limited workouts. Everything pretty much sucked for the next year.
It was a series of med trials, seeing how certain drugs affected me, then finding out what side effects I could handle. I also got really good at giving myself a shot—three times a week, for three years, until they came out with the pill version last year. I didn’t mind the shots, though. What I minded were the constant questions and lectures from my parents: “How are you feeling? Are you fatigued? You should rest; stop working so hard.”
Paige never lectured. Through it all, she just stayed the same. True, she’s terribly self-absorbed—there were moments that she resented the attention I got because of my disease—but it was more about the attention and the fact that it wasn’t on her. And I liked that.
We made a deal with my parents, coming here as a package. We fought for it for months—my mom really wanted to keep me at home. But that’s the thing about MS. It never goes away; it’s always with me. The shots, drug trials, therapies—they can’t cure the disease; they can only slow it down. Like the front line of the Pittsburgh Steelers—except nowhere near as effective. Maybe more like the front line of the Miami Dolphins. So in the end, I got my way. Now that I’m here, I’m not going to let MS be a part of any conversation. I’m just Cass Owens, and my story ends there.
“Hungry. Now,” Paige says, snapping her fingers at me. I smile out the window, not offended in the least. I’m free.
“Let’s go eat greasy fried crap,” I say, grabbing my purse. Blowing right past her, I ignore her eye-roll protest and impending whine about needing a salad with low-cal dressing. Freedom!
Ty
I’m two beers ahead of Nate by the time he walks into Sally’s, and I can already see the lecture building with every step, the closer he comes. He’s doing that thing, where he cracks his neck on one side and looks down, shaking his head at me in shame.
“Save it, bro,” I say, picking up my glass and finishing off the last of my second beer while he sits down and admires both empty mugs.
“You called Kelly, didn’t you?” It’s not really a question, so I don’t answer. “I don’t know why you torture yourself. It’s not like you can’t meet other women. Damn, Ty—that’s like your best skill. You meet women every five minutes, and they’re in love with you after ten minutes.”
“Yeah, but I don’t love them. No one is Kelly,” I say, feeling every bit of my self-loathing settle over my body.
“No, but maybe…just maybe, someone could be better, you know, like different better. If you’d just give it a damned chance,” Nate says, stretching his legs out from the booth, and pulling a menu out from the rack on the wall. I can’t help but watch his muscles stretch, and I hate him—just for the smallest second—for being whole. I don’t really hate him, but sometimes it’s hard to be so damned positive all of the time. “Order me a cheeseburger and chili fries. I’m hitting the head,” he says, pushing out from the booth, and walking to the restrooms in the back.
Our mom always says that Nate’s the romantic one. Me, I’m all numbers and practicality and logic. But I don’t know, I think my romantic-side is alive and breathing—it’s just tortured. It’s this sliver of my soul that feels certain that there’s only one girl out there who could ever love me, and her love wasn’t meant to last forever.
“Hahahaha! You are sooooo not the sexy one,” a chick’s voice squeals from behind me so loudly that I’m compelled to turn around. That, and she said the word sex, pretty much an automatic for me. I glance over my shoulder, and at first all I can see are two blondes. I can’t quite make out their features, but if pushed, I’d say they were both probably pretty damned sexy. When they pass me, I breathe in and the air smells like the ocean. One of them is taller than the other—lean, but built, clearly a runner. The other one is curvy; she’s wearing a sundress that, if I had to guess, was hiding no bra, and probably a pretty sexy pair of panties.
“You’re, like, predictable sexy,” the tall one says, and I hear a bubble snap from her gum. “I’m like ninja sexy.”
I can’t help but smirk at what she says. This chick’s funny. And I’d have to say, that might just give her the edge on sexy. I keep my gaze forward, pretending to look at something on my phone screen on the table, but I notice the pair of them slide into a booth across the room.
“What’ll you have today, Ty?” Cal says, pulling the pencil from behind his ear to write down our order. I don’t know why he bothers asking. Four weeks we’ve been coming here, and I’m pretty sure we’ve ordered the same thing every time.
“Cheeseburgers,” I say, nodding to Nate, who’s now standing behind Cal and waiting to slide back to his seat.
“Oh, hey Nate,” Cal says, writing down our order, and putting the pen back in its spot somewhere within his disheveled of hair and the mesh Budweiser hat he wears every single day.
“I’m starved, man. Today’s practice was brutal. It’s just…so damned hot,” Nate says, pulling his own phone out and looking at the screen. I’m glad he’s only half paying attention to me, because my focus is dedicated to the booth about twenty feet away.
“Do you have any low-fat dressings? Like, at all?” the curvy blonde says, a strand of her hair wrapped around her finger when she asks.
“We have Italian,” says the older woman taking their order.
“Yeah, but is it just oil? That doesn’t mean low-fat. Is it fat-free or low-fat?” This chick is high-maintenance.
“It’s…Italian,” the waitress says. A small chuckle escapes my lips, and the other girl, the ninja, looks my way briefly. I don’t know why, but my heart kicks a little at getting caught.
“She’ll have the Italian. Just put it on the side,” the ninja princess says, and the waitress walks away.
“Good thinking. It’s low-fat if you put it on the side,” the diva says. My ninja princess just stares at her, watching her pull out a mirror and check her lipstick; then she flips her gaze to me. This time, I don’t panic; instead, I just lift the right side of my lip in a tiny grin to let her know I’m with her—hell, I’m so with her. She shakes her head at me in disbelief, and then returns her gaze back to her friend.
“Putting the dressing in a different bowl doesn’t change its chemistry, Paige,” she says, and I smirk again.
“What’s so funny, dude?” Nate interrupts, but I shake my head and hold my hand up against the table.
“Hang on, I have to hear this out,” I whisper; he bunches his brow before turning to look at the two girls behind him who have me completely rapt.
“Then why the hell did you make me get it on the side, Cass?” she asks, and I commit that name to memory the second it leaves her lips.
“So you could use less,” Cass huffs back.
“That’s stupid,” Paige says.
“Yes, I see
that now,” Cass says, stepping out from their booth to head to the restroom area. She gives me one last smile before she leaves, and I hold up my empty beer glass to toast her—the sexy ninja princess, with the patience of gold, and the next girl I want to get to know in Oklahoma.
Chapter 2
Cass
“Is it bad that I’m excited? I shouldn’t be so excited. I should play it cool. Right, cool…phew…deep breath, and ready. Okay, I’m being cool. How’s this?” Paige only rolls her eyes and picks up her stride. “What? Not cool? It’s the shoes, isn’t it? Or my shorts? I should have worn a dress, or something cuter. I’m so bad at this.”
“Jesus Christ, Cass! You look fine. You’re cute. Boys are going to think you’re cute. Just like they did back home. If you’re going to get like this every time we go to a party, I’m going to start going without you,” Paige fires back her short fuse with me, and my nerves kick in quickly.
“You’re right,” I say, blowing out a huge breath into the few strands of my hair that have found their way in front of my face. “I wish Rowe would have come with us.” Rowe’s our roommate. We have one of the big rooms at the end of the hall, which means there are three of us in a room, and Rowe seemed pretty cool. I liked her music, and she seemed like she was hungry for friends outside of her tiny circle—just like me.
“Ugh. I don’t. I don’t know about that chick. She’s…quiet,” my sister says, punctuating that last word like there’s something wrong with being quiet. I’m quiet. Or at least, I was. But I left that all behind in high school. Here, no one knew my history. No one knew about my bad choices for boyfriends—and the reputation that only took months to create and a thousand miles to run away from. Here, I was going to be loud, and confident, and important, and someone’s girlfriend. And I would settle for nothing less.
“You’re just being a bitch. She’s nice,” I say, feeling defensive of my barely eight-hour-old friend.
“Probably. But I still don’t like her,” Paige says, making those annoying last touches on her hair she always makes before she knows we’re about to enter a room full of strangers. I should probably do the same thing, tuck hair behind an ear, or make sure my lips are pink or shiny or kissable or, I don’t know. Paige did my makeup. That’s her thing—hair, fashion…exteriors. Me, I’m more of the crack-open-the-beer, chug-faster-than-the-guys, and then kick-their-asses-in-something kinda girl. I brush my fingers through my hair anyway though, because change is good.
The second we open the door, we’re weaving through a crowd of people. We’re at some old apartment complex, right off campus. One of the fraternities took it over for housing. The living room is filled with smoke, which makes everyone look just a little dirtier.
College parties aren’t like they seem in the movies. They’re not even close. There isn’t some band playing in a corner, or some DJ spinning records. It’s just an iPod plugged into a nice set of speakers, playing the same rap album over and over again. The girls here aren’t all wearing major label designer clothes. Most of the guys are wearing hats, and they sport newly minted beards that haven’t been groomed properly—and way too much cologne. It’s just an apartment overcrowded with people, most of whom are gathered around a Goodwill sofa in the living room or the giant table pushed against a wall in the dining area.
“I’ll get us beer,” I say to Paige, doing my best to push through the group of girls who are gathered around the kitchen island. My experience has me waiting for them to say something to me—or spill their drinks on me on purpose—but instead, I slip through unnoticed, their conversation continuing without pause as I move through them.
I grab two cups and a marker, writing PAIGE on one. I’m about to write my name on the other when my hand suddenly writes out the name ADRIANNA. I put the pen cap back on and can’t help but smile at the idea of being a mystery woman, just for the night. Once I’ve filled each cup from the keg, I slip back through the crowd to find my sister.
“Adrianna?” she asks, taking a sip from her cup and pointing to my persona scribed on mine.
“Yep, tonight I’m Adrianna,” I say, taking a big gulp, and challenging her stare with my mouth pressed in a hard line—just like Adrianna would.
“You’re weird,” she says with a slight eye-roll, turning her focus to the rowdy crowd of guys piled on the couch in the living room. Nudging me to follow, she leads us closer.
“Oh shit!” one of them yells, leaning to the side with his controller in hand, as if his body movement actually had an effect on what his character was doing on the screen. They’re playing Battle Wound. I recognize it immediately.
“Dude, you suck at this, Cash! Give your turn to Preeter; he’ll save your ass,” one of the other guys playing yells.
“Fuck no, man! I can save this shit. Just move out of my way…” Cash starts, and then we all watch as his guy on the screen flies through space and gets absolutely ass-hammered with alien bullets.
“Shit,” his friend says, tossing his controller on the table. “I’m out. Cash, you suck!”
“I don’t suck. I just need the right partner,” he fires back at his friend, who just flips him off while he leaves to get another beer.
I don’t even hesitate, grabbing the open controller off the coffee table and flopping myself onto the old couch cushions between two very large guys. “You’re right, Cash,” I say, giving him a wink. “Your partner bailed on your ass. Let’s go again. I got your back. Who wants a piece?” I ask, instantly realizing the sexual innuendo I just threw out there. A few of the guys seem to have picked up on it, and they chuckle. Back home, that would have mortified me. But I let it roll off of me now, especially tonight, because I’m Adrianna!
“You’re on, princess,” one of the bigger guys next to me says, pulling his body forward and leaning his elbows on his knees. Paige has found a spot near me along the sofa arm, and she’s already surveying the room for some guy to hit on. There are a few here that are typical Paige targets—I’m pretty sure the two I’m stuffed between are football players.
“Okay, watch my tail,” Cash says, biting his lip and leaning, just like he did last time; we run our guys through the dark corridor of the space ship. He has no idea what he’s doing, and I would venture to guess he hasn’t played this game before. That’s okay, though, because I’m about to make him look like a bona fide video-game nerd. I’ve played every version of Battle Wound at least a hundred times, and I know all of the surprises. I’m shooting milliseconds before the bad guys attack, leaving in our wake a digital hallway full of carnage as our soldiers run through the various scenes on the screen.
“Cover me!” I yell, surprising Cash, who almost fumbles his controller out of his hands.
“Oh, uh…okay,” he says, looking from me to the screen, not really sure what to do. It doesn’t matter. I know where the explosives are hidden in this level. It’s one of those secret weapons only people who read Gamer magazine know about—one of those tiny tips printed in the margins of a recent issue. My fingers work the controller, pushing my guy into a roll with his weapons drawn. I barely miss the bullets flying at me—Cash is clearly no use as a backup—and fire away at the barrels stashed along one of the walls.
“You’re so dead, peaches,” big guy on my right says. Peaches, I like peaches. Not sure I like the nickname, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to love kicking this guy’s ass. But I don’t really have anything against the fruit. Just three more seconds. Two. One.
The explosion is the best part. They really upped the graphics on version eight, and the way it melts everyone when the pod explodes is cool as hell. I know Cash is going to be pissed, because he thinks we’re dead, too. But he’ll know soon enough.
“Shit, Cash! She’s worse than you,” my peaches friend says.
“You are so taking that back in about ten seconds, Marcus,” says a voice from the other side of the room. It’s the guy I saw at Sally’s yesterday—the one who laughed at my conversation with Paige. He’s still in a w
heelchair, and I’m not sure what that means. I didn’t mention him to Paige yesterday, because I’m not sure how she’ll react. She isn’t what I would call…well…nice. He’s really cute, and I can tell he must work out like crazy, because his shoulders actually have that cool dent that runs along the entire length. He smirks at me now, just like he did at the restaurant, and I can feel my blood pump just a little faster from his stare.
“I don’t think so, Ty. Chick just nuked us all,” Marcus peaches says, and while he’s talking, I watch the screen, where Cash’s character, and mine, are rescued by a cloaked starship that suddenly appears and saves our bodies before they melt. Since tonight I’m Adrianna, I stand up with both of my hands in the air, turning to face my opponents, pumping one fist a little higher than the other in victory.
“You’re so dead…pumpkin,” I grin, tossing my control back over to Cash, and backing away, serenaded by a few whistles and the sound of Marcus’s ego being absolutely torn to shreds by every other guy in the room.
“Uhm, do I need to teach you how to flirt?” Paige asks, hooking her arm through mine, while we head out the back door to the large patio where everyone else seems to be gathered.
“What? You think that’s going to turn guys off?” I shrug at her, lifting myself up to straddle the block wall around the patio.
“Cass, how do I put this? That? It doesn’t really make a guy think about taking your clothes off. You pretty much made that entire room of men feel inferior,” she says, her attention split between me and some tall jock who just sat on the other end of the wall.
“Maybe,” I say, swirling the last remnants of beer in my cup before chugging the last sip. “But there was one I don’t think minded all that much.”
