Nerdy Little Secret

by Aarons, Carrie

  “No, it just helps me clear my head.” Because it does.

  I don’t have time to join a sports team in college, with all my time being designated for my studies. And even if I did, I don’t feel like getting competitive. I did it in high school because it looked good on college applications, before I realized I’d be going to community, and the jealousy and positioning for spots was always way too dramatic for me. I swim now because it helps me to get out of my own mind about all the worries and stress in my life.

  “Got it, makes sense. I wish I could swim as well as you, it’s really something to watch. I remember those relays this summer, you smoked everyone.” She chuckles to herself.

  The memory has me biting back a smile, because I remember how terrible of a swimmer she is. “And you all but doggy-paddled and drowned.”

  Jolie surprises me when she cracks up. “God, I’m a shit swimmer, it’s true. Apparently, I didn’t get the Phelps skills that you did.”

  We’re interrupted by the waitress as she sets down plastic baskets full of fried catfish and hand-cut salt and vinegar potato chips. They smell divine, and I swear, my mouth begins to water.

  “Did you know that catfish is my favorite dish?” I ask out of curiosity.

  Jolie picks up her cutlery without looking at me. “You mentioned it one night this summer, and I remembered.”

  I honestly don’t even remember mentioning that and am surprised she pulled that out of nowhere to coerce me into eating with her.

  “Were you just holding that one up your sleeve until you really needed it?” I smirk at her.

  Jolie reads me right, that I’m only half being serious, and grins. “Perhaps.”

  We dig in, and holy hell, she’s right. This is the best catfish ever.

  “I know.” Jolie sighs, seeming to read my thoughts.

  “How did you find this place?” I ask, because it really isn’t on the beaten path.

  The beach located near Salem Walsh has a boardwalk attached to it, with bars and seaside eateries and even a small amusement park. But Jolie didn’t bring us there. This little shack is miles down, in a residential part of town.

  She shrugs. “I like looking for unique restaurants and found this on a Yelp board when I was looking up something else near campus one day. It’s my little secret, so don’t go sharing it with just anyone. I don’t need this place overrun by students.”

  I hold up three fingers, as if to show her on scout’s honor that I won’t reveal it to everyone I know.

  As we eat, we keep catching each other’s eyes. The quiet, the smell of the ocean, the easy ambiance … it kind of reminds me of our summer together. Maybe we just do better this way, away from reality, in a pretty location, where who we are doesn’t matter. It’s when we’re out in the real world that stuff gets complicated.

  When she sets down her napkin, patting her stomach, she finally looks at me straight on.

  “I really am sorry, Mick. I’ve lived in my own selfish world for a long time. When I came to college, it wizened me up a bit, but camp showed me a whole new side of the world. Of being responsible for something other than yourself. And when you look at me, I feel like I can be something better than I am. I’ve been doing well, I swear, but I just backslid that night. And then apparently decided to slide some more, right down that banister.”

  She gives a sheepish grin, because she gave a serious apology but tossed in some humor.

  I chew over that information in my mind, because I don’t want to say anything rash. “I appreciate that—”

  “And if it makes a difference, I’d love for you to come over to my house to meet my friends. I think they’d really like you. Even if it’s just to introduce you as my friend. They kind of know what I did this summer, but we could tell them all about it.” Her voice is rushed, as if she’s making up for how poorly she’s treated me already.

  Right there, Jolie is making it known that she would still want to be … something. I can’t help but wonder if, because her friends ogled me at the pool, I’m now suddenly acceptable to bring home. The thorn of being the nice guy, the nerdy guy, needles at my side, a constant pain for me.

  “I was going to say that I really appreciate it, and I’m happy you’re trying to be better. But there is a lot you don’t know about me, Jolie. A lot of things that complicate my life, and I just don’t have room for anything else in it. I had a lot of fun this summer, and it’s been a nice surprise seeing you. Sometimes.” I chuckle, because we both know some of the other times haven’t been pleasant. “But right now, I just have to focus on my studies. I don’t mind tutoring you again, because I’d love to see you succeed, but as for anything more than that, I just don’t have the time. I don’t mean that in an offensive way, I just need to focus on my goals right now.”

  Jolie looks down at her plate, smiling and shaking her head. “Only you can reject a girl and make it sound like the nicest, most sincere thing ever.”

  “I do mean it. I’m glad I agreed to come here tonight, I think we had some things to hash out. I’m never one to really hold a grudge, life is short. But that shortness also means I have places I want to go, and so I have to see those through.”

  Jolie nods, her eyes pensive as she looks out to the ocean. “I can understand that. But I’m still going to consider us friends. And if you ever need a friend to listen about those complications, I’m here.”

  That statement hits me like a ton of bricks. Jolie can’t know what she just offered because no one has ever offered that to me before. Maybe because I’ve never given anyone the chance to. I don’t let anyone in on the pain, the heartache of my life.

  Could I ever do that? Probably not.

  But now I know if I need to, there is a girl, that in any other circumstance or lifetime I’d give my right leg to be with, offering her shoulder to lean on.

  14

  Mick

  I may be a great student, an ardent studier and a general rule follower.

  Many things that make me a perfectionist, or some kind of accurately programmed robot. No, seriously, some of the kids in high school called me a robot. And I’m okay with all of that, I just wish it came with one thing.

  A better affinity for being a morning person. It seems oxymoronic that I’m geeky, love education and schooling, barely have a social media presence, and possess all the other traits for acting like a middle-aged father when I’m only twenty-one, yet cannot drag myself from bed before seven thirty a.m. And even then, it’s with a scowl and a desire for an entire pot of coffee.

  My mom always joked that you couldn’t safely talk to me until at least nine a.m., and I’m pretty sure my homeroom teacher in high school used to rib me and say that instead of getting the worm like the early bird, I ate it.

  It’s a personality trait I just can’t change, no matter how hard I try. I’ve gotten up at six a.m. to go swim, tried the whole journaling thing, even did meditation for a month or two. Nothing helps. I’m just not a morning person, and I have to face it.

  But right now, I’m fighting through the annoyance that I’m not still in bed, because the early bird might not get the worm in my book, but he could score an internship.

  I got it on good advice, from a professor I’d particularly bonded with, that Dr. Richards likes to go into his laboratory early on Wednesday mornings to research, theorize, and come up with experimental possibilities. So here I am, at six a.m., armed with the notebook I’ve been scribbling ideas in since my dad got sick, at the auxiliary medical campus for Salem Walsh University.

  The hospital that borders campus on its right side is a state-of-the-art facility. I’ve read many research papers and journals, not all of them on ALS, that have come out of the operating rooms and laboratories in that building. Most guys worships sports heroes, but I worship scientists. My quarterbacks and MVPs are right through those doors, and as I push past them, I’m met with a feeling of reverence.

  The hospital is quiet this time of morning, and I enter from the clin
ician side, so there are no patient visitors milling about. My professor with insider knowledge spelled out to me how to get to the laboratory, and told me that if Dr. Richards gets pissed that I crashed his quiet time, not to mention his name.

  Making my way through the halls and snaking past rows of rooms, all dark and quiet, I finally make it to a door that’s light shines through the small window in it. When I peek through, I see someone sitting at the bank of sleek computers, a microscope sitting next to him, as well as several other high-tech looking machines.

  I push through the door, and his head flies up, turning to watch as I enter.

  “Dr. Richards, good morning.”

  The man looks up, his gray stubble and shock of white hair blending in with his lab coat. “How did you get in here? This laboratory is closed at this time of morning.”

  I hold up the hand that isn’t clutching my notebook. “I know that, sir, and I apologize. I just wanted to come talk to you. I’ve been following your research for a very long time.”

  I think I might be scaring the guy, because his stool scrapes across the floor. “What is this?”

  A nervous laugh pops out of my mouth, and I feel like a complete fanboy. Is this what people feel like when they meet a rock star?

  “No, no. I … jeez, I’m really screwing this up, huh? Okay, let me start over. My name is Mick Barrett, and I’m a junior biology student here at Salem Walsh. I have been following your ALS trials and research for years, and I wanted to personally come meet you.”

  Dr. Richards looks a little startled, but moves to me and reaches out a hand. “Well, good to meet you, then.”

  I shake it, and plunge forward, knowing that I’m going to be abrasive but not caring. “Very good to meet you. I was also wondering if there was any possibility of interning on your trials. In any capacity. I’ll grab your coffee, clean the lab—”

  Now he gives me a stern look, because people must try to do this kind of thing often. “Young man, there is a full application and vetting process for the interns who work in this lab, and they’re usually second-year medical students. I appreciate your initiative, but please contact the intern coordinator for the hospital if and when you’re accepted into the medical program.”

  It’s dismissive, and I understand why, but I’ve taken no for an answer approximately zero times in my life. I’m always the type of person to keep pushing, to keep fighting for what I want.

  “I appreciate all of that, Doctor, but I’m not going to wait. My father was diagnosed with ALS six years ago. In that time, I’ve been his full-time caregiver, that is until I came here at least. And I came here to help find a cure, that’s my ultimate goal.”

  I hold out the notebook, my most precious possession. All of my musings, thoughts, theories and everything else is written on these pages.

  “You don’t owe me anything. No one does. Believe me, I’ve learned that lesson tenfold. But if you could just take this, read through it, I think you’ll see that I could bring something to this laboratory. You may say I’m too close to the whole thing, that my personal ties will affect my work. I call bullshit. If anything, it only makes me work harder. Please, just read through it. If … if you think it’s worth anything, my name, phone number, and email address are inside the front cover. Again, I’d do anything to be an intern here, even memorizing your Starbucks order.”

  Dr. Richards just nods, but I understand it’s my time to go. I walk out with my head held high, counting this as a victory. He could have thrown the notebook back at me, scoffed in my face as a junior with absolutely no medical degree.

  As I exit the hospital doors, the morning sun glints in my face and the air smells fresh. Maybe those morning birds are onto something, because this time of day is pretty nice, I guess.

  I’m halfway to the Pub, to grab myself a coffee or seven, when my phone rings.

  “Mom?” I don’t even bother saying hello.

  There is no reason a parent should call their college student at seven a.m. unless they completely forgot time etiquette, or something was wrong.

  “Hi honey, I don’t want you to worry …”

  If you ever call someone and tell them not to worry in the first sentence of the conversation, expect them to go into a full-blown panic.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice reaching a note it hasn’t since my thirteenth birthday.

  Mom pauses, and I can hear her talking to someone else. “Dad had a fall today. We’re at the hospital, but he’s doing fine, sweetheart. Really. I just wanted to call and tell you, before you called the house and began worrying when we didn’t pick up. I know how you get … diligent.”

  She’s saying this because if she or the aides don’t pick up within one or two phone calls, I will start ringing them off the hook. It took a lot for me to go away to college, even if it’s just three hours in easy traffic away from home. As the primary caregiver for my dad for the last couple of years, it’s beyond difficult to give up control of his treatment. To be out of the loop, out of the picture, for a lot of things. Not only does his diagnosis interest me, but it consumes me. The science and the love I have for him are completely intertwined, and I have a hard time letting go of that anxiety.

  He’s my father, I wish like hell I didn’t have to be talking about this. I wish like hell that he wasn’t sick, that I could be like every other normal college student and worry only about when the next party was and if I was making it to class on time.

  “He fell? Where? How? What the hell happened?”

  “Calm down, honey, he’s all right.” Mom’s voice is meant to infuse calm, but my pulse ratchets higher and higher. “He was at the gym with a new trainer, since Bethenny is on vacation. The temporary trainer is versed in helping strength train those with illnesses or disabilities, but he turned his back for a second and Dad was poised the wrong way on a piece of equipment. He fell and couldn’t catch himself, obviously. Internally, there is nothing wrong. Just a gash on his nose which they had to stitch up, and then some minor scrapes and bruises on his hands and arms. He’s fine, sweetheart.”

  My heart is beating so rapidly, it’s a wonder it’s not breaking free of my ribcage. I feel like one of my lungs has collapsed, that’s how hard it is to breathe.

  “I’ll drive home, I could be there by noon. I’ll tell my professors what happened—”

  “Mick James Barrett, stop it. You are not coming home. Dad will be fine. I can have him FaceTime you later, as he’s sleeping peacefully right now after the events of the morning.”

  “But he’ll know I’m not there, and I have to talk to his trainer—”

  “Mick. Please.” Mom is begging me, I can hear it in her voice. “What your father and I want for you right now is to be a normal college kid. To stop worrying about such adult problems. We’re so proud of what you’re doing there, and you’ve spent way too much of your life stressing about things that Dad and I should be able to handle. Be a kid, Mick. Be a little reckless. Don’t study all the time. We’re so proud of you, but you deserve some fun.”

  She says that, but we both know I won’t follow through on it. My window for fun passed long ago, and the summer was the only time I gave myself permission to let the control slip a little bit. Now it was back to the straight and narrow.

  “Okay, Mom. Call me when he wakes up, okay?” I ignore her request for me to be a normal kid.

  “Okay, bud. I love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I say, before hanging up.

  Why does this always happen to me? It feels like I have one small victory, and then the universe slaps me back down again. Do I not deserve just one day, even one hour, of feeling happy? Of not worrying about all of the crap that is typically rained down upon me?

  I skip my morning coffee, instead deciding to head back to the dorms. I’m never one for a nap, but I don’t have a class until ten and I’m freaking exhausted to my bones.

  My theory has proven correct; I knew getting up before the crack of dawn can lead to no
thing but trouble.

  15

  Jolie

  A week goes by and I have my first no-tension, friendly tutoring session with Mick.

  We meet in the library, this time at a public table on the second floor, and go over cohesion and adhesion. Yet again, Mick explains the subject matter in a language I can understand, and I actually end up getting a ninety on the next quiz.

  And even though I want to, I don’t ask Mick anything personal or suggest we do anything other than study together. It pains me the entire time, since he looks edible in those fuck-me glasses and jeans that fit his ass in a way I’ve never seen on him before. The whole time, he seems preoccupied by something else, though he’s as pleasant and nice as ever.

  You know those people that other people always refer to as the nicest human they’ve ever met? That’s Mick Barrett. He’s just … good. In a way that a lot of other people aren’t, and never will be. He’s the type of person that makes me want to be a better person.

  I wonder every day about those complications he wouldn’t tell me about. What’s he got going on in his life that when he looks at me, I can tell those vibrant green eyes are in a completely different place?

  That’s what I’m pondering as the girls and I eat lunch, one I was late to again because of traffic between this campus and the community college one.

  “Didn’t you say you were in that Theories of Sexuality course?” Christine asks, focusing more on her roast beef sandwich than me.

  I cough, focusing my eyes on my spicy tuna roll. “Uh yeah, it’s super interesting.”

  “That’s weird, because I mentioned to that girl Becky, who is in my major, that my best friend was taking the class. You remember meeting her a couple times? She said she didn’t see you in there.”

  My heart ices over with sheer panic. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, the one where the other shoe drops. I can keep lying, or I can own up to the truth. I don’t know why I’m hiding it from them; I think my friends would be supportive. If anything, they’d probably feel bad since they too ran from the fountains that night.