Fearless (The Story of Samantha Smith #1) (17 page)

“That’s only three classes,” Dad said. “Weren’t you taking four?” Sharp as always.
 

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Mom pressed, “what’s the other class?”

They were going to pry it out of me. May as well get it over with. I steeled myself for the worst. I was always good at holding in my emotions around them. They’d taught me how. “Life Drawing.” I hoped they’d think that was some sort of Life Science. I should’ve known better.

“Drawing?” Mom sounded like someone had shoved a cup of poop under her nose and asked her to sniff it.

“I thought we talked about this,” my dad said, clearly disappointed.
 

I bolstered my sarcasm and covered my pain with it. Good thing I didn’t have my parents on a video call. I didn’t want them to see the horrid face I was making. Plus, I mimed holding a hangman’s noose around my neck. I’d get a lecture from Mom about my attitude for sure, if she’d seen me.

“Talked about what?” I sighed. I was stalling. I knew what they meant. But it took me a few seconds to completely deaden my emotions. I stared out my living room window at the sunset. Why did I have the sinking feeling that when the sun dropped below the horizon tonight, my dreams were going to go with it forever?

My parents’ responsible, persistent prodding was dragging my dreams into oblivion.

“What happened to Micro Economics first term?” Dad asked. “So you could get it out of the way? You know you need Econ for your Accounting major.”

I sighed. “I have to take electives too. I wanted to take art.”

“But we talked about this, Sam. Leave the electives until fourth year, when your upper division classes are at their worst. That’s the smart move.”

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to do the art now. Explore a little.”

“Explore?” my mom asked, her voice ripe with concern. “We didn’t talk about exploring, did we, Dear?”

“Not that I recall,” my father answered ominously.

It was like they were telling me it was a foregone conclusion that I’d never step outside of the box they’d drawn around me years ago.

Groan. I’d fought this battle many times, and always limped away the loser. But in the past, it had always been on their turf, in their house, where they made the rules. I was in college now, in my apartment. I was tired of giving in.
 

My eyes scanned my living room, searching for assistance. They landed on my drawing pad. I kneeled in front of it and flipped to the last page. I saw Christos’ drawings next to my own. I could tell how much I’d already improved in just a few short weeks. I remembered Christos’ encouraging words. They suddenly gave me new hope and new resolve.

“Can you change Life Drawing to Econ?” my dad asked.

“It’s too late in the term, Dad!” I said with a mixture of confidence and a hint of whiny, teenaged uncertainty. “I can’t add a class now!”

“Watch your tone, young lady,” my mom cautioned.

“Yes, ma’am.”

For a moment, I wanted to plead with my parents about how important drawing class was to me. I had good reason: Christos’ and Professor Childress’ compliments. That was valid proof, wasn’t it? My parents should be as excited as I was, shouldn’t they?

But I knew full well how the conversation would go. They would pick away at my fragile hope and enthusiasm like vultures until both were gone. I shook my head and rubbed my temple with one hand. I needed an aspirin. Or a glass of cyanide.

“You’ll take Econ next term, right?” Dad prodded. “She should take Econ, don’t you agree, Linda?”

Why did I feel like a marionette, and my parents were pulling my strings, trying to make my mouth move?

“Sam? Did you hear what your father said?” Mom asked.

No. No I wouldn’t take Econ next term. Screw them. I was finally discovering that maybe I didn’t have to be boring old Sam Smith, CPA. Maybe there was an uncharted path that waited for me in life.

“Sam?” Dad asked.

“Sam, are you there?” my mom asked.

“Sam? Are you there?”

“Sam? Answer your father.”

My parents were nudging me like they always did. Like sheep dogs nipping at my heels until I got in line with the other sheep and bleated my way toward boredom and security, herding me inside the pen with all the other lost souls.

“You’ll take Econ next time, right Sam?” My dad asked.

“I guess.” I told myself it was a defensive lie to get them off my back. I hoped I could stick to my guns. But I felt myself slipping as they bored into me with their responsible logic.

“You can take more electives senior year,” Mom said. “You can even take art. But please take your father’s advice. Focus on the economics and accounting classes now. You’ll thank us later when you’re taking all those upper division classes. I remember how hard my major was.”

My mom had been an office manager since the day she went back to work when I was six months old. She hated her job, but said we needed the money. I wanted to ask her if I would thank her if I ended up stuck in a job I hated when I was her age.

“I guess,” I mumbled.

When had my parents become my jailers? I felt like I had been suffering from Stockholm Syndrome ever since serious talk of college had started two years ago. I hadn’t agreed with many of their decisions along the way, but somehow I’d let them make most of them for me, simply to avoid further incessant pestering.

The only reason they’d even allowed me to go to faraway SDU was because the business school was so highly ranked for undergraduates. If I had told them about all the drama I’d endured during junior and senior years—

Bitch. Slut. Whore. Suicide Watch.

Tease.

Taylor.

—they probably would’ve forced me into therapy and a college close to home. I’d be stuck in their cocoon of conservative choices for the rest of my life.

“…so your mother and I told Fred and Donna that they would have to take the downstairs bedroom at the condo this winter,” my dad droned.

How long had my parents been talking about who gave a shit what? I didn’t know.
 

I let them bend my ear until they told me they had to go to bed, what with the three hour time difference.

“Good night, Sam,” my dad said.

“Take care, Sam,” my mom said.

There was a pregnant pause while they awaited my response. It widened into an infinite gap. The distance between their world view and mine. They were on the far side of a giant chasm, trying to tell me what to do. The only problem was I felt like they were encouraging me to jump into this huge, hellish chasm that was my future. Carved into the rocks at the bottom were the words:
 

“Here Lies Sam Smith, CPA.

She was responsible.

R.I.P.”

I wasn’t ready to take that plunge. I couldn’t let myself. I knew the fall would entail a long, slow, miserable death.

The pregnant pause had stretched into genuine discomfort. I again thanked my luck that we weren’t on video.

“Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Dad.”
 

As always, not enough love, and not enough money. Right in the middle of the road. Nausea bubbled up the back of my throat. I swallowed it down and hung up.

Fuck this shit.

I didn’t have time to call Madison after getting off the phone with my parents. I’d have to lecture her at the party. Besides, my good mood and desire to share had been vampired out by Mom and Dad.

I shifted my focus to getting ready for tonight. I had only a couple of hours.
 

My apartment was sloppy and needed a once-over. And I had no costume. What the hell was I going to wear? I could go as a beach bum. I had that costume down pat.
 

I did have some of my old clothes from D.C., but I didn’t want to fall back on something ambiguously gothy. In San Diego, it might have worked as an actual costume, but it was my last resort.

I’m sure if I’d owned a pair of bunny ears or angel’s wings, I could’ve gone in my underwear. What was with slutty near-nakedness being the official costume for most women on Halloween? I didn’t think I had the body to pull it off anyway, so scratch that.

I brainstormed while I cleaned. I could cut some eye holes in a bed sheet. But who outside of grammar school went as a ghost? As I scrubbed my toilet, just in case Christos had to use it, I considered going as a maid. Could I dress up as
Mrs.
Clean? I had a hoop earring and a white t-shirt, but I didn’t want to shave my head.

As the clock ticked down, my brain ran out of storm. I showered and jumped into jeans and threw on a metallic print V-neck blouse. A touch of eyeliner and mascara and I was good to go. Nobody would fault me for looking nice, would they?

As I slid my sandals on, I heard rumbling outside. Why did I assume it was Christos? I opened my front door, I saw a muscle car pull into the parking lot. It was navy blue and had two white racing stripes running over its length.

Christos saw me and waved.

I grabbed my purse and glanced at my somewhat clean apartment. All that trouble and he wasn’t going to see it. Maybe later? When he walked me to my door? Not bloody likely! I locked my door and trotted down the stairs.

Christos held the passenger door open like a valet. He wore a white t-shirt, dark skinny jeans, and boots. “Your chariot awaits, madam.”

I blushed. No one ever held so many doors for me like Christos did. I slid into the seat. “Where’s your costume?”

“I’m wearing it.”

“Me too.”

“What are you going as?”

“Can’t you tell? I’m the cool guy who gets run out of town by the cops at the end of the movie because of my rebellious ways. What are you?”

“The girl that goes with him, seeking adventure?”

He nodded approvingly. “If the cops catch us, I’m going down with guns blazing.” He closed the door.

“Do you have a gun for me?”

“In my pocket.” He smirked.

“Okay, way too much innuendo for me. I didn’t wear my rubber gloves, so I’m not touching it.”

“It?” he asked suggestively.

“Your comment, perv! Get in the car!” I giggled.

 
He climbed in the driver’s side while I admired the interior. It was in perfect condition, but it was obviously a classic car. “Wow, Christos. Nice car. What is it?”

“Sixty-eight Camaro.”

“Is it fast?”

“Not as fast as my bike. But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh, that wasn’t a request!”

He backed the car onto the street and revved the engine. “Hold on.” He winked.

“No, wait!”

Tires squealed and I was pushed into the bucket seat. “Jesus Christ!” I’d never been in a car this fast.
 

He braked for a stop sign. He was chuckling.

“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked. “I don’t know where Jake lives.”

“I do.” He floored the car again.
 

I never knew a car could pop a wheelie. Leave it to Christos to expose me to new things!

I’m pretty sure at some point all four wheels were off the ground during our drive. But I couldn’t say for certain because most of the time I had both eyes closed.

Terror can do that to you.

Christos explained that Jake lived in a huge house near the beach with four of his surfing buddies, and two of their girlfriends. Parked cars filled the street out front.

Inside it was crowded. I was relieved that almost no one wore a costume. I loved how casual San Diego was every time I peeled back another layer.

Christos seemed to know half of the people on a first name basis. Everyone fist-bumped him and patted him on the back. I felt like I was with a world-famous rockstar.

We found Jake and Madison standing together. Madison was up on her tip-toes, whispering into Jake’s ear. Neither of them wore a costume.

When they saw us, Jake turned to Christos. “What up, bro!” They clasped hands and did some sort of complex elbow bumping routine. There were so many fluid movements, I’m sure they studied it at Julliard.

Madison and I hugged, with no excess choreography necessary.

“You brought Adonis!” Madison said, sipping from her red plastic cup. “Lucky girl,” she winked.

Jake and Christos were busy talking to a group of guys.

 
I smiled broadly and smacked Madison’s arm. “You are such a traitor, Mads!”

“What?!”

“How could you not tell me about Jake’s party?!”

She laughed. “Down, girl! I just found out today. Jake told me about it this morning when we were surfing. He said it was a last minute thing. I was going to tell you when I called you this afternoon. Didn’t you check your phone?”

“Oh, uh, no. My parents called to—” eye roll “—lecture me. Then I had to clean my place before the party.”

“Clean your place? It’s not like the party’s at your apartment.”

“In case you-know-who came inside.” I nodded toward Christos.

“You’ve got it bad, girlfriend.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nobody cleans for a boy unless it’s love.”

“I’m not in love with him! He’s my mentor!”

“Yet.”

“What?”

“In love. Yet.”

“You are mentally ill, Mads.”

“Never mind that.” I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Adonis totally told me Jake talks about you all the time.”

“OMG! He does?”

“Who’s in love now?” I tilted my head back and leveled my best superior-than-thou smile at her. “Get that bouquet ready. And I’m not wearing some stupid tangerine or fuchsia colored bridesmaid dress. Pick a real color.”

“How about pastel! I love pastels!”

“Okay, girl. Leash it. You’re not at the altar yet.”

“Vegas is only a five hour drive. Don’t tempt me, Sam!” She beamed the joy of being in love. I so envied her.

Christos and Jake’s ears must’ve been burning because the two of them turned back to face me and Madison.

“You guys need brews?” Jake asked.

Christos looked at me. “Samantha? What are you drinking?”

“Nothing with Rufis in it,” Madison warned.

“I don’t need Rufis, Mads,” Christos said confidently. “Girls faint when they see me two blocks away.”