Regardless of the sleep I did or didn’t get, I’m still scheduled to take the GRE. I drag myself into the shower and got dressed. Then I start my test taking routine. Part of the reason I didn’t want B.D. to sleep over as usual was that I didn’t want her to make fun of my big test routine. First, I always wear sweats, my special, lucky super-soft T-shirt—it’s got a few small holes, but I have to wear it—and my Texans hoodie. I usually wear my Nikes, but footwear for this outfit is variable depending on what I have that’s comfortable. I look like crap, but test taking is the one time that looks really don’t make a difference. The test doesn’t care what you look like. I take two number two pencils that I’ve carefully sharpened to the perfect point. I still need the pencils even if I’m taking the test on a computer like today. And finally I take my big, pink, seal novelty eraser. I keep them in a special pencil box in my desk drawer. I also take a big bottle of chilled Dasani water and a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum. It’s got to be Wrigley’s--no Extra or Orbit or Trident. Then I head out for breakfast, but I don’t eat at the dorm cafeteria. Before big tests, I like to eat at IHOP. Perhaps not the most healthful, pre-test breakfast, but it’s what I’m used to and now is not the time to rock the boat. First I get a cup of coffee. I’m not much of a coffee drinker, so to choke it down, I load it up with cream and sugar. To eat, I get a combination plate: a giant stack of pancakes that I smother in my proprietary blend of maple and blueberry syrup, two sausage patties, two slices of bacon, and two eggs. I get mine over easy with a side of toast. All the fat, protein, and carbs really gets my synapses firing on all cylinders, although I know I’ll crash like a lead balloon in the afternoon. It’s fine. I planned this weekend to spend the rest of it sleeping. For some reason, test taking is every kind of exhausting—mentally, emotionally, and even physically. I’m not sure why, but after years of acing standardized tests, I know I’ll be exhausted after this one like all the others.
After the test, the crash fortunately doesn’t hit me until I’m walking back to my room from the parking lot. Driving home, I was still amped on adrenaline and contemplating my performance. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t a slam dunk either. I got in the 97% in quantitative i.e. math. It seems high, but in physics, you really should be in the 99%. I did pretty well on the verbal i.e. English. I got in the 88%. Physics departments don’t care that much about the verbal score, but they want people who can communicate effectively. I haven’t gotten the writing/analytical score back yet, because an actual human has to grade that. Once again, physics departments don’t care that much about that score, but they still want someone who can write graduate level papers and think logically. I really need to get at least a 4 on that and a 5 would be great. A 6 would be wonderful, but probably a waste. My GRE scores shouldn’t keep me from getting into a good school, but they probably aren’t going to help me much either. The drive home gave me time to process everything, and I just managed to get to my room, fall into bed, kick off my shoes, and crawl under the covers before oblivion took me.
Just after 4pm, a soft knock wakes me up. I scheduled B.D. at the tutoring lab from noon to 4pm like I usually do to help her out, but also so I would get a bit of down time after the GRE. I shake the cobwebs from my brain. “B.D.?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s me. Did I wake you?”
“I took a little nap, but I was just waking up.” I manage to untangle the sheets and open the door, and I’m greeted with B.D.’s smiling face. She’s wearing a green cashmere sweater that my mom sent her unexpectedly and black skinny jeans. The green makes her eyes a deep, green forest. She’s got her hair pulled back in a sexy, messy bun.
She looks me up and down as she walks into the room. “What are you wearing?” she asks looking me up and down.
“Huh? Oh, this is just something I pulled on to sleep in. It’s a bit cold in here.” I rub my hands up and down my arms to make my case.
She looks at me suspiciously. “Okay, how did the GRE go?” she asks.
“Fine. I’m a little disappointed in my score. I only got in the 97th percentile on the quantitative.”
She looks at me skeptically. “97th percentile is still great. I’d be thrilled with the 97th percentile,” she says encouragingly.
“First, if you don’t get in the 99th percentile we’ll know that there’s something wrong with the test. Two, I’ve always gotten in the 99th percentile on the math parts of any test. I guess things get just a bit harder the higher you get. Three, we know all the top STEM programs really want the 99th percentile, but we can’t all be in the 99th percentile, so they’ll settle for the 97th percentile for a few candidates if the other parts of their application package are strong. I just need to make sure mine are. I think they are.”
“I’m sure you’ll get in wherever you apply. You’re really qualified. Your grades are good. You’ll have good references, and I’ll help you with your essay. How’s the essay coming along anyway?”
“I’ve got a rough draft and plan on completing it this weekend, so that I can start sending out applications in a couple of weeks. I’ve already got references lined up. And I’ll request transcripts this week—mother.”
“Just keeping you on track.” She chuckled softly. “Where did you decide to apply?”
“MIT, Stanford, UC-Berkeley, and Cornell. And UT as a back-up. They all have people that do research in what I’m most interested in.”
“Good, good for you. I’m sure you’ll get in,” she reassured me. “Wanna catch an early dinner? I didn’t get lunch, and I’m starving.”
“Where were you thinking?”
“In honor of your outstanding performance on the GRE, let’s go to Threadgill’s. I could really go for some chicken livers.”
I rolled my eyes. “You and your chicken livers. Why can’t you go gaga over the chicken fried steak like everyone else?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just a chicken liver kind of girl.”
“Guess that explains why you like me. Let me get changed and we’ll go.”
“Can I watch?” she asked while wiggling her eyebrows in a lascivious manner.
“Only if you’re good.”
“I’m always good,” she answered suggestively.
I chuckled then turned around and bent over as I pulled my sweats down to my ankles. I wiggled my butt. She graced me with a wolf whistle.
“What sexy boxers you have sir!”
“You should see what they’re packing.” I turned back around and slowly slid my T-shirt up my abs. She hummed a rendition of the Stripper. I pulled my T-shirt over my head, but held it in front of my pecs and gave B.D. a coquettish grin. “I’m shy,” I whispered.
“Show me what you got!” B.D. slapped her knee and clapped.
“If you insist!” I yelled, threw my lucky T-shirt aside, and spread my arms wide. B.D. swooped in and wrapped her arms around my waist, squeezed my left butt cheek, and licked my nipple. Goose flesh broke out all over my arms.
I gave B.D. a playful shove. “You are entirely too forward! I could never trust you with my virtue.” I huffed and batted my eyelashes.
“You have no virtue,” replied B.D. while she slapped my butt. “Now get dressed. I’m starved.”
I saluted B.D. “Yes, m’am.” Then I picked up my dirty clothes, tucked my lucky shirt away in a drawer, and put on skinny jeans and a blue sweater to match B.D.
*
“The dinner that’s really two dinners,” B.D. crowed as she packed more than half of her chicken livers, some gravy, and the left-over half of her second helping of mashed potatoes into a to-go box.
“That’s a heart attack on a plate. You even managed to make the salad unhealthy with blue cheese dressing,” I complained.
“It was so good. Threadgill’s makes the best blue cheese dressing. How can I say no?” She popped the leftover rolls and jalapeno cornbread along with two tiny packages of butter into the box as well. She gave the box a satisfied pat.
“I feed you ple
nty. You don’t have to order with leftovers in mind,” I admonished.
She looked over at my side of the table pointedly.
“Where’s your to-go box? Have any pecan-encrusted chicken to contribute to tomorrow night’s feast?” she asked pointedly.
“No, I ate all of mine like a good little boy. And I refuse to order seconds at a restaurant. They give us enough food to feed an army. I’m stuffed. The seconds on vegetables is just some marketing ploy to reinforce the down-home feel. It’s like the blue-checked table clothes or the oak chairs. They don’t really expect you to ask for seconds.”
“The waiter asked us twice if we wanted seconds on vegetables. He clearly wanted us to get seconds. I was just being accommodating.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure. That’s you. Miss Accommodating.”
“I am,” she answered primly. The waiter returned with the bill and my credit card.
B.D. reached for her purse. “At least let me get the tip.”
I waved her off. “I’m still rolling in gaming money.” And I hadn’t told B.D. yet, but I had a meeting with the gaming company next week undoubtedly to discuss another freelance gig. I might actually graduate with a savings account. I got up and reached over to help her out of her chair. She threw her purse over her shoulder then gently lifted the to-go box and held it in front of her like a crown on a pillow. She walked all the way to the car at a stately pace carrying the leftovers like they were precious jewels.
In the car she sat with the leftovers on her lap. “They’re just animal organs. Not even desirable meat,” I stated flatly.
“Undesirable meat rendered crispy and delicious by the magic of flour and oil,” she replied.
“Won’t they be all soggy and gross tomorrow?”
“No, they’ll be fine. I’m not sure what Threadgill’s does, but they’ll be just as crispy tomorrow as they are today. I’ll nuke the gravy and mashed potatoes, and it’ll be like Sunday dinner at the southern mother’s house I always wanted.” B.D. stared off into the distance wistfully.
“Isn’t your mother from Indiana?” I asked.
“Yes, she is. And she couldn’t make these if her life depended on it. Isn’t your mother from Texas? Can she make fried chicken livers?”
I shook my head. “Neither she nor my grandmother ever served me fried chicken livers. My mother is still always sort of dieting even though she’s still a size eight, so even if she knew how to make something fried, I doubt she would. And my grandmother did make pate with chicken livers a few times, but never fried.”
“Aren’t we special? Pate,” she teased.
“My grandmother is from a long line of Alsatian immigrants. It’s a family recipe,” I explained peevishly.
“I tell you what, later this evening when you’re hungry again, I’ll let you try the chicken livers.”
“You’ll LET ME. I can’t wait.” I replied sarcastically.
“You’ll see,” she insisted.
*
As I rummaged through my backpack looking for my thermodynamics folder, I asked B.D. “You want to go to gaming night later?”
“We could swing by, if you want, but I’m not up for a Risk marathon as much as I love it. It’s probably the last one of the semester though, so I wouldn’t mind putting in an appearance.”
“Despite sleeping the afternoon away, I’m still a little tired, so a brief appearance sounds good to me too. Let’s try to get some work done, then head over,” I suggested.
“Sounds like a plan,” replied B.D. as she snuggled into my armchair with yet another history book. Now that the weather had turned a bit chilly, she seemed to snuggle all the time. For a brief moment I considered dragging her to bed, but my heart wasn’t in it.
Twenty minutes later as I struggled to make sense of a problem that should have been a cake walk, I heard a thud behind me. I turned and saw B.D. snatching her book off the floor looking embarrassed.
“I can’t seem to wrap my head around these problems either. It’s like my brain knows it’s Saturday night and therefore, unwilling to do any kind of homework. Let’s watch a movie until time to head over.” It would give me an excuse to cuddle on the bed.
“I’m up for a movie. Better than sleeping in a chair like an old woman.”
“Great.” I logged onto Netflix, pulled up my cue of recommended movies, and turned my laptop toward the bed, so we could both watch. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Well, considering I o.d.ed on action yesterday, perhaps we should go for one of those art house films you’re always trying to push.”
“B.D. not up for action. Should I watch out for the flying pigs?” She threw a pillow at me which I caught laughing. “How about The Painted Veil? It got good reviews and stars Ed Norton and Naomi Watts. It’s set in mid-century China.”
“Whatever you recommend.”
“Good.” I started the movie, turned out the lights, and arranged the pillows to prop us up while we watched. I snuggled into the pillow nest I had created and spread my arms so that B.D. could snuggle into me. She rested her head on my chest so that I breathed in her smell of citrus and pencil lead and B.D. I relaxed, sighed, and watched Naomi Watts and Ed Norton trade dialog. And then I was waking up. The movie was long over and B.D. was soundly asleep on my chest. I was tempted to just watch her sleep, but my bladder had other plans. I nudged B.D. She looked around in the daze of the just awakened. A line of drool ran down the side of her mouth. She was adorable.
“What?” she murmured.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to hit the head. Could you let me up?
“Oh! Of course.” She leaped off the bed.
While I was relieving myself, I heard B.D. rummaging around in the room. “I guess we missed game night. It’s almost midnight.”
“Looks like.” I zipped up and washed my hands.
“Good thing we have these to tide us over until the morning,” B.D. smugly waved in direction of the microwave. She had already cleared the tiny table next to my chair and had laid out a package of plastic cutlery. The rolls and butter balanced on the chair arm. She perched on the pouf I used as footstool next to table. When the microwave dinged, she pulled out the to-go container full of chicken livers, mashed potatoes, and gravy.
“Voila,” she opened the container and waved her hands like Vanna White. “Our feast.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fine. I’ll try the heart attack in waiting.”
She reached into the tiny fridge under the microwave and pulled out a Dr. Pepper. “We’ll have to share this. It’s the only one,” she explained.
“I’m not a big fan of soda. I’ll have a water.”
“Trust me. You’ll want soda to cut through the fat,” she insisted.
I gave her my best skeptical, one-eye-brow-raised look.
“Don’t judge until you’ve tried, “ she rebutted. Then she dunked a chicken liver into the gravy. She bit off the gravy-covered half, closed her eyes, and moaned. “So good.”
“Whatever.” I broke open the cutlery, retrieved the knife, and slathered one of the cornbread muffins with butter. “These are surprisingly good considering they’re cold,” I managed to get out through a mouthful of muffin.
I choked it down and B.D. took the rest of the muffin from my hand and implored, “Try this,” while cramming a gravy-dipped chicken liver in my hand.
I knew she wouldn’t let it go, so I relented. “Fine,” I huffed while I poked half the chicken liver in my mouth and realized that B.D. was right. The chicken livers were good in a fried, earthy kind of way. The crust was crunchy and peppery. The inside was smooth but oddly chalky. It tasted slightly metallic, but rich. I cocked my head and took another bite without gravy. You could taste the garlic they had marinated the livers with juxtaposed with the pepper and salt of the batter. They were undoubtedly rustic fare, but tasty because of their execution. I grabbed another liver.
“Hey, don’t bogart them all.”
“This is just my second
liver.” I pointed it at her. “You’ve had at least a dozen.”
She grinned at me. “So you like them?”
Begrudgingly I admitted, “They have a certain appeal.”
“Ha, I told you. Never doubt me again,” she shouted waving her arms and another chicken liver in the air.
I laughed and settled down to eat. After we took turns using the bathroom to get ready for bed. B.D. wore a nightshirt with a kitten hanging on to a clothesline that said “Hang in there!” We got in our narrow bed. I bent my knees behind hers and wrapped my arms around her middle. I drew in the smell of her hair and relaxed. For a fleeting moment, it occurred to me that this was the first day since we had started having sex that we had gone an entire day without it. And, surprisingly, it was a good day.
Chapter Sixteen
B.D.
I dodged other students while texting David and jogging back to my room. Everyone was in a mad dash to get home for Thanksgiving; campus had a frenzied feeling. Classes were canceled Wednesday, so we were trying to get out of town before the real traffic started on Wednesday, but I suspected traffic was just as bad today. Last year, because of my waitressing job, I hadn’t left until Wednesday and the normal three hour drive had taken six. I would be happy if we could get to Houston in four.
*
“Are we going to stop at Hruska’s again?” B.D. asked as we approached the exit.
“I thought we’d skip it since it’s getting a little late, but we can stop on Saturday,” David replied. We were coming back on Saturday so that we could staff the tutoring center on Sunday. Since finals started ten days after we got back, we expected the tutoring center to be packed.
“Great. I love that place. I can’t believe I’ve been driving by it all this time.” I paused to gin up my courage. “David,” I asked. “My mother wants to know if you want to have dinner with us tonight. She’s not much of a cook, but she remembers you from the swim team—even though I don’t—and would like to “catch up”—her words not mine. Like ya’ll have so much to catch up on,” I giggled nervously while acting nonchalant.
Waves and Light: Opposites Attract Series Page 16
