Rule #1

by T. A Richards Neville

  Kimberly’s expression isn’t one of belief, and I wouldn’t believe me either. I still don’t want her here, though. I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to be grilled on it. I just want to be left alone. I think I’m hyperventilating.

  When she finally leaves, and it felt like she never would, I can’t even eat the food. I snatch the bags off my bed and stuff them in the microwave. My hunger’s evaporated, replaced instead with shame and adrenaline. I sit at my desk, switch on my lamp, and pull out a sketchbook and a pencil.

  The next morning, I leave for college early, slipping out of the apartment while it’s still quiet. I un-haul my books and my iPad and tuck myself away at the back of the on-campus library.

  Favoring my sketchbook over finishing any digital work that needs to be completed by the end of the week, I pick up a pencil from the five I’ve got fanned out on the table and start to finish where I left off last night. I could still work this into my requirements for the semester, I’m just not sure that would be appropriate.

  Someone sits in the only other chair at the small, square table between the cluttered stacks. I look up from my sketch, thrown for a moment when I see it’s the blond girl Roman’s always running away from. Jen, or Jennifer, or whatever she chooses to go by.

  “Hey.” Her smile’s summery. “You’re Roman’s friend, right?”

  “Sure,” I say, not sounding at all confident in my answer. I’ll have to do better next time. “I’m Brooke.”

  “Jen,” she says, her smile blossoming into tropical. Not sure what Roman’s complaining about. She seems nice enough to me. Sweet, even. “I’m Roman’s friend, too.”

  “Great,” I hear myself say. It sounds as silly out loud as it does in my head.

  “Have you known Roman long?”

  Okay, I’m starting to see where this is going. So much for trying to blend into the bookstacks.

  “Not that long,” I answer honestly. She nods. “How about you? Have you known him long?” I’m already bored with this conversation. It’s like I’m shoveling up the shit Roman can’t be bothered to deal with.

  “Feels like all my life, but I guess, three years? Almost. We met here freshman year.”

  I’d say that’s as far as we can take this trip down Roman Lane, but Jen’s got other ideas.

  “We dated. It’s complicated.”

  “Is it?” Now I’m just trying not to laugh. “That’s tough.”

  “He seems pretty friendly with you, though. He plays games, you know.”

  “Does he?” I’m wishing now I had his phone number, so I could warn him what I’m going to do to him when I see him. “I see.”

  Jen’s smile floats right off her face. “Are you more than friends?” She doesn’t sound like she minds one bit how personal of a question she’s asking. She might be friendly with Roman, but she knows nothing about me.

  He’s dragged me into his pantomime, though, and I made a deal I’d stick to my end of the bet. I may have lost to him, but I still have my integrity, and I’ll follow through with what I said I would. “It’s casual.”

  That draws thunder over Jen’s pleasant, green-eyed gaze. “He’ll hurt you. He doesn’t know how not to. He’ll tell you he’s into you, but he’ll be with another girl as soon as your back’s turned.”

  She’s painting Roman in an awful light, and he’s given me no reason not to believe that what she’s saying isn’t the truth. But he’s not my boyfriend. He isn’t hers either.

  “Then I’ll remember not to turn my back,” I say, lowering my eyes to my sketch. It feels wrong discussing him when he isn’t here to tell his side.

  “He’s got commitment issues you couldn’t begin to understand. He won’t change for you, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was going to cry.

  “I’m not waiting for anything, and whatever went on between you and Roman is between you and Roman.”

  Her eyes narrow in a flash reflex. “I’m just trying to help you.” More like help herself. “I’ve been there, where you are now. One minute he wants me and the next he doesn’t. Figure it out, because that pattern hasn’t broken yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, disingenuous. I rub my fingers over my temple, pushing up my eyebrow. “Does he want you now?” I ask Jen pointedly. “Is that what he’s told you?”

  Nothing. No response.

  I take her stumped silence as my exit and get back to my work, but really I just want her to leave, which she eventually does.

  I’m still buzzing off our inappropriate conversation as I’m leaving the Modern Arts building after my second class.

  My gaze lands on the group of big, tall bodies scattered around one of the picnic benches, and I slow my steps, glancing around me for an alternative route to the Miriam Edgell building. I’d have to go all the way around, though, backtracking on myself, and it’s so close. Cold, too. It’s not worth it.

  I train my gaze on absolutely nothing ahead of me, the wind nipping at the exposed skin on my face, blowing my hair around my shoulders.

  “That’s how you’re gonna play us?” The voice lanced with a smile I knew to expect calls out.

  I give the group a sidelong look, and then my feet are carrying me over there. I like West too much to start ignoring his existence now.

  I hold out the fingers attached to the strap of my backpack in a lame wave. “Hey.”

  “Don’t fucking ‘hey’ me.” West’s leaning his forearms on his knees, sitting on the varnished table with his feet on the bench seat. “Acting like you don’t see us over here.”

  “I did see you,” I say around a smile. “Why do you think I carried on walking?”

  Roman’s sitting beside West on the table, and he lifts his eyes from the screen of his phone, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile. A smile I’m seconds from wiping off his pretty face.

  “I don’t know what you’ve done to Jen, but that girl is scarred. She found me in the library and warned me away from you. Are you going to break my heart, Roman? A girl needs to be aware of that kind of info upfront.”

  The other two guys—teammates from how they’re all dressed in the same black tracksuit—laugh at Roman’s expense.

  “She’s sullying the royal name, King,” one of them says. “Let’s behead the bitch.”

  “She said that?” Roman asks, his smile vanished, just as I predicted.

  “She also grilled me on how I knew you. Should I be on the lookout for her? She isn’t going to start following me for daily updates on you, is she? Because that was not in our agreement.”

  “King’s the one who should be scared of her,” West says. “What agreement have you two got going on? I knew you first, Brooke. And now you’re keeping shit from me?” He hooks a thumb at Roman. “With this scumbag? That’s not cool.”

  “See you fools at the rink.” Roman slips his phone into his jacket pocket and steps down from the table. With a slight tip of his head, I fall into stride with him, looking over my shoulder to wave bye to West. He throws up a peace sign.

  “Seriously, Roman. I was not expecting a confrontation in the library. I was working on an assignment, and she took up, like, fifteen minutes of my time talking crap about you. Personal crap that has nothing to do with me.”

  “I’ll talk to her.” His eyes are on the path ahead.

  “And say what? If I thought you could handle talking to her, then what the hell am I here for?”

  In profile, Roman’s lips quirk into something he doesn’t fully commit to. “She’s harassing you and not me.” He glances down at me, his feeble smile bleeding into a full one at the sight of my frown. “Sorry, B. But you lost a bet. Suck it up or get your wallet out. But don’t complain. She’ll get bored with you the more she sees us out together.”

  “Will she, though?” I’m starting to think Roman says anything to get whatever he wants, depending on lies to silence people.

  He scratches his cheek. “
It’s Skate with the Warriors Day tomorrow. Why don’t you come? Jen never misses those community events. She’s usually the first one there.”

  “Won’t you be held up by your adoring fans?” It’s a joke, but I’m guessing there’s a ring of truth to it.

  Roman eases me an assessing, squirm-worthy look. “I’ve got time for you, B. All you need to do is show up. Let me take care of the rest.”

  We pause at the intersecting pathway weaving through the campus gardens. A gust of wind blows me against Roman, and I correct the breach immediately, stepping back from him and swiping hair from my face. “Is that meant to reassure me? Because it doesn’t.”

  Roman’s smile’s slow—toe-curling—and he steps closer, towering over me. Obviously not playing fair.

  I cross my arms over my chest in self-preservation, protecting myself from him. He puts his hands on my arms and tears down my walls, leaving me wide open. I’m suddenly nervous. Or is that vulnerability coursing through me? How is he making me feel this way? I need to get it together. Quick.

  I nearly swallow my tongue when his big hands settle on my waist, over my thin jacket, and he’s looking at me like I’m holding the meaning of life in my plain brown eyes. “No doing this tomorrow.”

  “Doing what?” My voice scrapes from my throat like my body’s crying out for a reintroduction to fluids.

  “Going all stiff when I touch you.”

  “Are you going to… touch me?” I can expect more of this? Really? Hasn’t Roman ever been told before he’s intense? He should come with a safety warning for all women he comes into first-hand contact with.

  The motion’s subtle, but Roman draws me in by my hips, bringing us closer, like there isn’t a ton of people milling around us. “I’m going to touch you, B. I’m going find as much time on the ice with you as I can.”

  In my head, I’d envisioned getting Brooke alone playing out a lot smoother than it’s actually going. Since stepping on the ice, I’ve had someone at my side, chatting my ear off. Kids showing off their skating technique, adults with twenty-four/seven hockey fever, pumped for the upcoming games this weekend.

  The women’s hockey team’s on the ice with us, our cheerleaders completing the disco event. It’s hectic and loud in the arena, but everyone who picked up a ticket for it seems to be having a good time, even if most of our roster would rather be somewhere else on an afternoon off from practice.

  West’s had his eye on one of the cheerleaders, and he skates up beside her, the first opening he’s found this afternoon. It’s a little more difficult for me to slip away, and the two girls blundering along beside me, mostly skating into each other, have long overstayed their welcome.

  “Oh my god,” the brunette shrieks in laughter. “Could you teach her how to use those skates before she takes someone down?”

  For the sake of everyone else here, I do just that. Means I’ve done something helpful, freeing me up to look for Brooke. Jen’s skated past me twice that I’ve noticed, the eager look on her face signaling trouble. The second time we lapped each other, she reached for my wrist, her fingertips grazing the cuff of my jersey over my tracksuit.

  This girl’s so uncoordinated on her feet, I lead her over to the boards. At least this way, if shit gets really sketchy, she can grab onto them instead of me. People have been touching me all day. People I’ve never met before. And it’s one of the drawbacks that goes hand in hand with these organized team/community events I despise the most. The kids aren’t a problem. It’s the parents who get too handsy. Kempy’s been invited to one recently divorced mom’s house for Friday night dinner, and the bushbag RSVP’d with bells on.

  “Like this?” The girl bends her knees, risking a small forward stride. She’s not as planked, so it’s an improvement. I’m running out of time, though, so she needs to get better faster.

  I look up to the rafters when the lights shut off, teal and white strobes bouncing over the ice and the stands. The DJ fires up some cheesy pop song, and people start squealing in excitement, those who were idling behind the glass plowing through the doors and onto the ice.

  The girl I’ve lost all hope for grabs onto my biceps with both hands before she faceplants the ice.

  “There’s too much drag,” I tell her. “Lift your skates.” I let her hang off me as we skate slow round the boards. There’s less for her to cling to now we’re away from the half boards, skating past the crease, and she doesn’t even attempt it.

  “What’s your name?” I ask her. Her friend’s a couple feet behind us, doing fine on her own.

  “Lucy. I come to your games. I’m a big hockey fan,” she shouts over the terrible music.

  “Sweet,” I say.

  “You’re my favorite player. Preseason you signed my jersey at the meet and greet.”

  “You go to Northvale?” I hope she isn’t expecting me to recognize her or remember that. I sign a lot of stuff at those things, and I see a lot of people.

  “Yeah,” she says, “I’m a junior, like you.” She’s quiet for a while, intent on using the blades of her skates correctly. “Are you dating anyone?” she boldly asks. “My friends were wondering, and… we don’t see you with anyone, and your Facebook page says you’re single, but you don’t keep that updated.”

  “Why? Are you interested?” I’ve already checked out of this obligatory discussion, and I miss whatever her answer is. Under a pocket of white strobe light, sleek mint hair catches in my periphery, and I double back on myself, turning to bag a clearer, longer look.

  I reach down and grab Lucy’s hand in mine when her blade gets stuck in an ice groove masked by loose snow, and I pull her up. If I don’t bail out now, I’ll never get away. It’s nothing personal.

  I skate Lucy to the boards where she can rely on the wall to do the rest of the work. “Just keep doing what you’re doing,” I tell her with a phony smile. “I’ll catch up with you later.” That’s my biggest lie of the day.

  “Okay.” Her smile brings all kinds of guilt, but it’s now or never.

  “Cool. Look after her,” I say to Lucy’s friend, who catches up to us after a lagging delay.

  I skate through center ice, weaving through bodies, appreciating the non-existent lighting. Not so much the music, but I can’t have it all. When I reach Brooke, Kimberly, and Maddie, I slow down and stop, conscious not to spray and soak them in ice.

  I give Kimberly a second look, thrown by the straight hair spilling down the sides of her face. She looks five years older. Her stomach’s on display, her jeans low on her hips. “You don’t have a coat or a jacket?” I ask her.

  “I’m not cold,” she shouts back. She’s got her white figure skates on, and she’s spent enough time on the ice with me growing up, she doesn’t need help from anyone.

  “This is a family event,” I tell her. “Why are you dressed like it’s singles night and you haven’t had a boyfriend in over a century?”

  “Fuck off, Roman,” she hurls back at me. “Don’t look if you don’t like it.”

  Brooke skates away from Kimberly and Maddie and over to me. “She’s okay,” she says, in a reassuring tone that does nothing to settle me down. She puts her hand above my elbow and pushes me away. “You’re embarrassing her.”

  “I’m embarrassing her?”

  “Yes, you are. She looks nice. Stop making her think she doesn’t.” Brooke embeds her fingers between mine. “Cut her some slack, Roman. She needs you to be her brother and that’s it. That’s where your role starts and ends.”

  “I am being her brother.”

  “You’re being controlling, and a whole lot judgmental.”

  “Because I don’t want her leaving this rink with some sleazebag whose eyes are in the head of his dick.”

  The passing light illuminates Brooke’s wince. “She wouldn’t do that.”

  I change the subject because I don’t have the same unwavering confidence in Kimberly as Brooke does.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Brooke
flashes me a soft smile. “We got here late, and the ice was so crowded we hung out in the stands for most of the first hour. I didn’t miss Jen trailing after you. I would have come over if it got out of hand.”

  Three boys, all around the ages of ten or eleven, wearing Warriors jerseys, skate a beeline to us. The one in front holds out his fist, and I bump it with mine, doing the same with the other two.

  The one with the blond mullet haircut grins. “That your girlfriend?” he questions around unusually deep, throaty laughter.

  One of them snickers, the other one sucker punches Mullet in the arm.

  “You can’t fucking ask him that.”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “You know what one of those is?” We’ve stopped along the empty benches, and the boy with the ’80s haircut, looking like an underpaid extra out of Slapshot, bows his head with a timid grin he wasn’t sporting a few seconds ago.

  “Callahan’s sister says she’d blow you with all your hockey gear on. Even your helmet.” That’s the one who snickered.

  Brooke spits out a noise that sounds like she’s popped the valve on a pressure can. “Who’s Callahan?” The boy points to Mullet. He seems to be the main cause for concern here. “How old’s your sister?” Brooke asks.

  Callahan shrugs, his expression glazing over in boredom. “Eighteen.”

  “She’s a big slut,” the one who I wrongly presumed is the least rabid casually contributes. “She blows everybody. And not even for money.”

  “Just for funsies, huh?” I exchange glances with Brooke. “Sounds like a top girl. Tell her I said hey.” I pat Callahan on the shoulder and skate off, pushing Brooke along with me.

  “That was insane,” she says. “Do kids actually talk like that?”

  “Kids like those three do.”

  “How often are you receiving blowjob offers?”

  That’s a legitimate question.

  I muster up the bare bones of a grin. “Perks of being a hockey player. Comes with the territory.”

  “So, if you were unattractive, or didn’t play well? Then what? Does that logic still apply?” Brooke’s veneer’s calm, but her redirected gazes makes me wonder if her interest in my blowjob offers runs anywhere close to jealousy.