The Girl I Was Before (3 page)

“Yeah, but I’d feel a lot better if you didn’t have to,” I say, distracted by the bubbles Leah is blowing in her milk. She looks up at me with a giggle and wipes away the white mustache above her lip. The smoke alarm starts blaring. Before I can get to the garage door to pull out the ladder, my mom is standing on top of the kitchen chair, poking at the screaming siren with the end of a spatula, while waving the dishtowel in her other hand to clear the smoke from the bit of sauce that spilled on one of the stove burners.

I should stay and help.

“Don’t do that. I see that look on your face. I’m fine, Houston. Now get to class; you’re paying for it,” she says, her mouth in that sideways smile that matches mine.

“Okay, I’ll be quiet when I get home,” I say, propping the garage door open to air out the kitchen while I leave. I rush to my idling car with a can of soda and a few crackers—it will have to tide me over until I get home tonight.

Thank god my mom lives only a mile away from campus. That’s half the reason I stay there. Everything in my life is orchestrated down to the second, because, well…yeah, I do too much. But not doing this much would just feel lazy. Thankfully, the single stoplight between home and campus cooperates today. I pull into the library parking lot and guzzle the rest of my soda, tossing the can in the trash by the door.

The email said the group would be studying by the reference desk, but no one is there yet. I suck at Spanish. I tried to petition the school to let me count HTML as my language credit, but that petition got about as far as the shredder. I only need a year of a language for my computer science degree. Two semesters. But I was about to fail the first one. Not a good start.

My backpack falls on the table, and I sink into one of the well-worn chairs, my body descending deep into the cushions. I run my hands along the wooden arms and the pencil-grooved marks—attempts to carve initials. I wonder how many people have touched this chair and tried to own it with their initials? What a stupid thing to claim as your kingdom.

There’s no way I’m early. I was running late when I dipped the spoon in my mom’s chili, so unless time stopped—and rewound—this tutoring session wasn’t gonna happen. I
need
this tutoring session to happen.

Leaning forward, I pull my Spanish book from my bag and prop it on my lap, the pencil still wedged in the middle, where I got lost while studying last night. My brain isn’t made for conjugating verbs, or knowing when to use feminine and masculine articles.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” I breathe, pulling the pencil out and tossing it on top of my bag on the ground.

I spend about ten minutes reading through the various words, saying them in my head. Then I close my eyes and try to quiz myself. I even fail this way—when all I have to do is crack an eyelid to cheat.

I’m tempted to quit, but I’ve blocked out two hours for studying. I need to study before I meet up with Casey. I’m pretty sure his hard drive is fried, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him over the phone. Either way, I have a feeling I’ll be at his house for the rest of the night trying to save a semester’s worth of my best friend’s economics assignments.

Shutting my eyes, I go in for one more try at the self-quiz, when I hear the sound of metal crashing onto tile.

“Mother-fucking-piece-of-shit…” She thinks she’s talking quietly, gritting the swear words through her teeth. She kicks at the giant trash can snared in her purse strap, dragging it around her in a circle near the library entrance. I should probably get up and help, but I’m so caught up in the scene she’s making—by trying not to make a scene—I somehow forget to stand. When her gaze lands right on mine, I feel like a dick. But then she sneers at me and kicks the can one more time, tearing it from her purse and dropping her backpack and other things in a pile on the floor. It makes me chuckle.

I toss my book to the side, because I’m not learning anything from it anyhow, and jog over to her at the entrance.

“Good thing it’s a Saturday and the library’s empty,” I say, reaching to help her set the can back in its place. She swats at me at first.

“Stop it! Just go back…over there. You know, to watch me for a while and do nothing.” There’s a well-deserved bite to her tone.
Yeah, I feel like a dick.

“I’m sorry. You sort of stunned me—what with all the kicking and clanging and sailor-mouthing,” I say through a soft laugh. She’s different right now. It’s still the same girl who orders sandwiches and party trays from me at the deli, but there’s also something different. “I’m Houston, by the way,” I say, brushing my hand off along my pants and reaching it forward to her. She looks at it for a few seconds, like she’s making sure it isn’t dirty. I’m almost offended, but I’ve sort of learned that Paige is just
offensive
. It’s her thing. She finally shakes my hand, but doesn’t hide the fact that she wipes her palm along her jeans afterward, which makes me chuckle.

“I know your name,” she says. Bothered. Indignant. “You wear it on your shirt.”

I look down and realize she’s right; I do still have my nametag on.

“Oh, shit!” I say, pulling the pin off and stuffing it in my front pocket.

“Who’s the sailor now?” she asks, her lip twisting up, her eyes almost giving me a wink. She tugs her bag back over her shoulder and picks her keys up from the floor before waving goodbye with her fingers. I watch her for a few seconds, noting the way her ass sways in the opposite direction of her hair. She’s like this perfect blonde bombshell, but damn can she be mean.

I was going to apologize for what I said earlier—not the words so much as the way I said it. I could tell it offended her, and I could tell she was embarrassed that her boyfriend is such a prick. But I wasn’t judging her. She
can
do better; I meant it. I spoke up because I can’t stand watching assholes bully women. My grandpa used to bully my grandmother, always putting her down and making her feel stupid and small in front of people. He never hit her, and I guess that’s why he thought it was okay.

She never looks back over her shoulder as she walks to the study lounge on the other side of the room. I give up and turn to get back to the miserable reason I came here in the first place.

For the next thirty minutes, I write down every word I need to know, with my own version of how I
think
it’s supposed to be pronounced. The help desk is closed—
I mean who studies on a Saturday night?
After a good five minutes of peering over the desk for scissors, I eventually give up and tear my small quarter-pieces of paper into flashcards.

Only three or four of the tears come out straight, the rest veering offline, leaving me with shreds of notebook-paper triangles with my scribble on both sides. I can’t even get this part of studying right. I’m pushing my sad little study cards together into a pile when I sense her legs step closer to my table.

“Have you ever been in a library before?” The way she asks the question, it sounds so sincere, almost…sweet. She must be looking for something, like the vending machines or computers.

“I’m here a lot. Whatcha need?” I ask, pressing my stack of words together between my thumb and forefinger, already overwhelmed by the thickness of the stack I have to memorize.

“I don’t need anything. I just figured you must not ever have been in a library before. I mean, why
else
would you come in here and think you could throw a noisy craft party that’s so loud I can hear it through the glass walls of the study lab?” Her hip juts out to the side as she points at me with her pen, clicking it open and closed while she waits for my response.

She’s pissed about earlier.

“Do you know Spanish?” I ask, figuring really…what do I have to lose?

“Fuck off,” she spits back, kind of quickly, and I wonder if she actually heard me because her reaction seems like it was prepared for something else. She’s walking away when I keep talking.

“Because that’s why I made these flashcards. I’m studying for my Spanish final. And I suck at this language, and the study group never showed,” I mumble, spreading the word papers out in front of me like a dealer in Vegas. I pull one out, and read the back, holding it up for her to see. “
Caw-meeee-day.”

I’m not even close; I know that much. I’m exaggerating my poor pronunciation, though not by much. Her shoulders hunch up when I speak, and she flips around, taking quick steps back to me, and ripping the small paper from my fingers.

I watch her lips as she reads my writing, pronouncing the Spanish word for
food
, and I’m pretty sure she’s getting the full picture of how pathetic I am.

“Let me see these,” she says, not really waiting for me, grabbing them all in her hands and flipping through a few, letting others fall loosely to the ground. I reach to pick them up, but give up quickly. Who am I kidding?

“When’s your test?” she asks with a sigh.

“Monday. Early,” I say, holding her gaze. Goddamn does she have nice eyes. They’re blue. Ocean blue. I notice them every time she comes into the store.

After a few long seconds, she wads my papers up in her hands and marches to the trashcan a few feet away, tossing my
craft project
away. She drags an extra chair over to the opposite side of the coffee table from me, then pauses, looking at me again while she chews at the inside of her lip. I can actually see her tongue pushing on the inside of her mouth like she’s working really hard to avoid calling me something. Her eyes flutter in this annoyed blink-like movement, and to most people, it’s probably irritating, but it makes me smirk. Her mannerisms are familiar somehow.

She holds up a finger before walking quickly back to the study room she was sitting in. When she comes back, she’s carrying all of her belongings—her bag not fully zipped, like she probably just tossed everything in quickly. She drops everything next to the chair, then sits in it and slides forward until her knees touch the table. She folds her legs up in her chair, then leans forward to grab my book, flipping it around so she can look at it. Her shirt is navy blue—I know that much—but I can’t tell you if it has a pattern on it, a scoop-neck or whatever else comes on a chick’s shirt. I can tell you that it’s loose enough to drape forward when she leans down, and I can tell you that I now love pink bras.

I’m too slow to pull my eyes back, and she catches me staring. Even though her eyes look angry, her mouth curls the tiniest bit on one side, and I know she’s not angry at all that she caught me looking. If she were angry, she’d have pulled her shirt up and quit leaning over; Paige did neither.

“Is it a verbal or a written exam?” she asks, and I shake my head to pay attention just like Bugs Bunny does when Lola Bunny shows up and makes him all jelly-brained.

“Both,” I say, and catch her wince a little. She’s heard my verbal.

“How long do you have tonight?” she asks.

“How long do you need?” I’m already prepping myself for the text I’m about to send Casey that I’m not coming. This isn’t about the pink bra. Well, okay, maybe it’s
a little
about the pink bra. But honestly, if Paige can help me pass my Spanish final, I’ll forgo eating and sleeping for twenty-four hours if I have to.

“Judging from the way you just butchered
comida
? I’d say we’re going to be here for a while.” I get caught up in her lips for a few seconds when the word literally falls from them, sounding like I’m sure it’s supposed to. It’s both the hottest and most amazing thing I’ve witnessed in a while—that, or I’m desperate—for tutoring
and
a woman.

“Give me a second,” I say, pulling my phone out and firing off the text to Casey that I won’t be able to make it.

He types back.

Casey sends me one final text, an icon of a middle finger. I toss my phone down to my backpack, smirking, and lean forward, my elbows on my knees, ready for Paige to work a miracle.

“I’m all yours,” I say, and she looks at me the same way she did when I stared at her boobs—eyes hazed, but mouth curled. This girl is an enigma.

I
feel a little guilty
. I’ve checked Paige out; I even look forward to her coming in to pick up orders, pulling the tickets before Sheila has a chance to go through them, just to make sure hers are in my pile. I do it because I think she’s cute. But—and I’m an asshole for assuming—I never thought she was
smart
. I’ve been sitting on the floor for the last two hours, my legs stretched out under the coffee table while she grills me on Spanish vocabulary, forcing the words into my head, and somehow pulling them from my mouth correctly. I’m going to pass my Spanish final, and Paige is a genius.

I can tell she’s sleepy. She keeps standing and stretching, yawning with her arms over her head. We’ve got a few empty energy drink cans on the table between us, and I feel wired enough to run home. I kind of don’t think Paige would make it past the fountain out in front of the library before curling up and dreaming.

“You’re tired. I think I’ve got this now. Let’s call it a night,” I say, moving to close the book and gather my notes.

“No, it’s okay. I’m not that tired, and we still need to go over your verbs again.” She’s shuffling through papers in front of me, searching for the one she wrote the verbs on. I list off the verbs in order, my pronunciation as close to perfect as
I’m
going to get.

“See, I think I’m good,” I say. Paige lets out a big breath, her eyes grazing over the pile of papers in front of her before flicking them up to meet mine. There’s the blue.

“You’re…sure?” She twists one corner of her lip up, scrunching her right eye.

“Honestly, if I would have been here alone all night, no…I wouldn’t have been sure. But you are like a Jedi master,” I say, and she rolls her eyes, standing to pack her things, pulling a thick sweatshirt out from her bag.