Текст книги "The Girl Of Tokens and Tears"

Автор книги: Susan Ward

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

“How Berkeley politically correct of you. I’d feel better if I believed you.” I watch as he fixes his focus back on his work. “I’ve seen the newspapers,” he continues, not bothering even to look at me. “Your father is a great man. He stands for something. What a disappointment you must be to him.”

I can’t believe he just said that. I can no longer prevent the shaking from being visible on my body.  Even if I could think of a suitable comeback, I could never have gotten the words out of me. My throat is clogged with tears.

I head toward the door.

“Prove me wrong, Miss Parker. Figure out why you’re here, and then make the most of it,” Professor Lambert calls out and I continue out of the classroom.

I let the heavy wood door slam behind me. Running down the hall I crash into a janitor, who steadies me with quick hands, and sets me safely back onto my feet again. Without a word to him, I race out of the building.

I find vacant my favorite spot with a view of the Berkeley Campanelli: the giant concrete slabs with the sculpture of bears atop them in a grassy and shaded area of the campus.  I sink down, curl into a ball hugging my knees, and fight to stop the tears.

I can’t believe I chose this over marrying Alan…

“Here, you look like you could use this,” says a quiet, male voice above me.

I look up only far enough to see the carry-size pack of tissue held out to me in long, tan fingers. I take one and anxiously dab at my tears. On the concrete walkway below there’s a pair of some kind of work shoe and dark blue pant legs that look like they belong to a jump suit or something. Oh God, it’s the janitor I barreled into. How humiliating is this? To be the girl alone on a concrete slab, crying, and being consoled by the janitor.

I don’t look up, praying he’ll go away.

“Can I sit on your bench?” he asks politely.

“It’s not my bench and it’s a free country.”

I cringe. That sounded childish and snooty. No wonder I haven’t made a single friend here.

“I’m sorry,” I add.

“No problem. You’re upset. I get it. I just want to eat my lunch. No harm. No foul.”

He makes a small laugh over his own comments. I avoid looking straight at him, inhale another sniffle, and touch my nose with the tissue.

“Thank you. You’ve been very nice,” I whisper.

He settles near me, copying my posture; feet on bench, his legs bent, and facing me.

“You know, Lambert will only bully you if you let him,” he advises kindly. “And he only bullies the students he thinks have potential.”

How would you know? You’re the janitor, I say to myself, and then, “Thanks. I’ll try to remember that. He doesn’t hate me. I have potential.”

He laughs and, from a pack on the ground, he takes a brown lunch bag and sets it beside him. So he really did just come out here to eat his lunch. The janitor suddenly popping up here has nothing to do with the sorry sight I must have been running out of Lambert’s classroom. A small measure of calm returns to me.

“Rough year?” He’s carefully unwrapping some kind of minimart precooked burrito thing.

Jeez, is he going to eat that cold?

He holds it out to me. “Do you want a bite? It isn’t as terrible as it looks.”

I start to laugh, even though I really don’t want to. “Thanks, but no thanks!”

“Come on. What’s not to love? Week old beans. Week old rice and I’m not even sure what the sauce is. Be bold. Be brave. Eat a minimart burrito from yesterday.”

OK, that was funny. I look at him then, locking onto his green eyes. There’s a really sweet, teasing glint in them. His eyes are large, brightly colored, and filled with a smile. Shoulder length blond-streaked brown hair peeks out from beneath an army green bandana and the face of the janitor is tanned, really good looking…and really familiar.

Why does it feel like I know him?

“Are you homesick? Is that why you mope around campus all day?”

I lift my chin. “I don’t mope. And how would you know what I do all day?”

He takes the keys hanging from his belt and shakes them. “There’s not much to do when you push a broom in the music department except listen and watch everything.” He takes a bite of his burrito. “You have Lambert’s class from 10 until 11. You sit on this bench until noon. You have a practice room from 1 until 2. You sit on this bench until 3. You have your lab with Jared the TA—who’s hot for you, would really like to date you, and is afraid to ask—that’s at 3:30. And then sometimes you do another hour in a practice room, but most of the time you disappear from campus. You’re back at 7 for symphony. That’s your Tuesday/Thursday schedule.”

My eyes round and I tense. Jeez, maybe he’s not just the janitor. Maybe he’s a stalker or something.

“How do you know all that?” I ask anxiously.

“I push a broom, remember?” he replies casually.

I start to gather my things.

“Hey,” he says, putting his hand on my arm. “You don’t have to run for security, Chrissie. I would never hurt a hometown girl. The rest of the girls I stalk are in big trouble, but you’re pretty much safe from me. We’ve got that whole SB thing going on. We’re hometown bonded.”

His boyish eyes start to twinkle above an endearing smile. I stare at him. Chrissie: he knows my name. SB thing? He’s from Santa Barbara too. I study him more closely and I just can’t place the face. I know the face, but I’m not connecting the dots, and I’m not tapping into that instinct thing telling me if I used to like him or if I should run.

He frowns. “Now I’m hurt.”

Crap, he can see I’m not remembering him.

He tosses his unfinished burrito into the bag. “Do you forget every really, really cool guy who does you a really, really big favor?”

I feel my heart drop to my knees. Really, really cool guy….Oh crap! This day just keeps getting worse. Neil Stanton. Yep, I definitely remember him. The jerk from that night Rene and I went clubbing at Peppers before leaving for spring break in Manhattan. The guy who thought he needed to give me life advice after making a fool out of me. In my memory I can hear him say Didn’t Daddy teach you anything about how the world works?

I do my best imitation Rene rich-girl-put-down face. “Sorry! It’s just that Daddy taught me not to speak to the janitor.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “And here I was just trying to be nice to you. Why is it girls only remember the parts of everything you don’t want them to? Never the nice parts. Just the parts you want them to forget.”

He crunches up his lunch bag and sinks it into the trashcan five feet away. “And I’m not a janitor. I’m a facilities technician one.”

OK, the way he said that was kind of cute and our evening at Peppers was fun… well, right up to the point of his parting lecture. He’s incredibly good looking. I struggle not to let down my guard just yet. I’m not sure why he’s here or why he would want to meet up with me again.

I arch a brow. “Do you push a broom? Do you mop floors? Do you empty trashcans?”

“Yep.”

“Then you’re a janitor,” I counter, but I can feel myself smiling against my will.

He shrugs. “That’s what my dad calls me, too. Hey, do you want to go grab something to eat? That burrito just didn’t do it for me. Or did Daddy teach you not to have coffee with the janitor?”

Have I really just been asked out by Neil Stanton, former musician turned janitor? Does this count as being asked out? I stare at him, not really sure what this is.

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. You can miss your practice room one time and you don’t have your lab with Jared until 3:30.”

Well, he’s right about that. Missing my practice time won’t hurt me. I don’t really practice in the rooms and I never study. I book the practice rooms just for someplace to go, someplace easier to be all alone on campus.

I gather my things and fall in beside him. We walk in silence toward the food court area. Staring at the ground, I try to figure out why I’ve decided to join him.

Neil shoves his hands into his loose pockets. “So, what’s he like? It must have been incredible hanging out with him.”

Him? I tense.  I don’t need the ‘him’ explained to me. I hate being reminded of all the junk that was in the press last spring.

I shrug. “Alan Manzone is a nice guy.”

Neil frowns. “That’s it. You spent three weeks with the greatest guitarist of our generation, a musical genius, and that’s the best you can do? Nice guy?”

I feel my temper flash. “Listen, there are two things I never talk about. Alan Manzone and my father. If you can’t get that, then we are done being friends.”

He pauses mid-step and gives me a quizzical stare. “Crap, you do presume a lot, don’t you?”

I flush. “Meaning?”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure I want to be your friend.” He continues to walk.

I stare after him. God, Neil is still as irritating and unpredictable as he was the first night I met him. I shake my head in frustration. Why am I following him?  I do double time steps to catch up to him.

“So, what are you doing here, working as a janitor?” I ask, struggling to keep pace with him. “Last April you were living in Seattle, had a band, and were just taking off on a six month tour.”

He looks at me and smiles. “So, it’s OK for you to ask about my personal shit, but I ask you one question and you fly off the handle.”

The flush moves down my face and covers my neck. “I didn’t fly off the handle. I was just making clear the boundaries.”

“Ah, boundaries.” Neil shakes his head. “Why do girls always think it’s necessary to establish boundaries? We’re just having coffee. We’re just talking here. I don’t know if we’ll do it again. I don’t know if I even like you, but you’ve jumped into setting boundaries.”

The way he says that makes me sound ridiculous. And yet, there’s something kind of sweet and good-natured in how he says that which keeps me from being totally pissed off.

“Maybe we find it necessary because guys get everything wrong all the time,” I counter, shaking my head in frustration.

Neil stops walking again. “So, I’ve already failed and we’re just having conversation.”

“Something like that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Remind me never to ask you on a date.”

The burn on my face has just turned up to surface-heat-of-the-sun level. “Trust me, that is never going to happen.”

His smile is pleasant this time. “Good. We’re on the same page. Détente. Can we get coffee now, please?”

He pulls back the door to a small, independent coffee shop. It’s dark, with a hippie-style feel to it, and only sells vegan drinks and snacks.

“Why isn’t there a McDonald’s in the food court? What’s with the weird 60s vibe and vegetarian shit?” Neil asks.

I study the muffins in the cooler case. “Really? You’re asking me that? You work here and you don’t know the answer to that?”

The counter girl stops in front of him. Neil points at an apple muffin and orders a large coffee black. “Do you know what you want yet?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Do you want coffee?”

I nod. He orders my coffee. I point at the vegan chocolate cookie in the case. “I think I’ll have that.”

We stand side by side at the cash registering waiting for our order. Why is it taking so long? All we ordered were two coffees, a muffin and a cookie. I rummage through my pack for my wallet.

“No, Chrissie, I can pay for a cookie and a coffee,” he says clearly irritated with me.

I lift my brows. “I didn’t want you to think this is a date or anything.”

He rolls his eyes. “No chance of that.”

We settle at one of the tables in front of the shop.

After adding vegan creamer and raw sugar to my coffee, I look up at him. “Really, how did you end up here?”

He leans back in his chair. “Got tired of the Seattle thing. Got tired of the road. Four months out, broke and it just wasn’t happening. My uncle got me this job and I figured, why not? Just get away from it all, clear my head, get straight on what I want to do again. Shit was getting crazy on the road. We were forgetting why we were out there. I wanted to get back to writing music again.” He lifts his keys from his belt and rattles them. “And they’ve got everything here I need. Recording studios, rehearsal rooms, talent. And I’ve got the keys to everything.”

I break off a small piece of my cookie. “So, you’re going to push a broom and wait for musical inspiration to flow through you? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Pretty much.”

“Good luck with that.” I take a sip of my coffee.

He points at me and shakes his head. “You know you don’t have to be so negative. That’s half your problem. Haven’t you noticed that everyone is freakishly happy here?”

I laugh. “No, I haven’t noticed that one.”

“Well, they are. Even worse than in Santa Barbara. I used to think it was something they put in the water at home, but they are just like that here. But Berkeley is OK. It’s a good place to chill, Chrissie. A good place to get it together.”

I fix my eyes on the last bite of my cookie. Get it together. God, is it so obvious that I’m not together? Somehow I don’t think that I’ll ever get it together.

Neil picks up our trash from the table and tosses it into the can. “I can tell you one thing, after pushing a broom behind people, you never leave a mess anywhere.”

I laugh and grab my pack. We walk back towards the music department and neither of us talks. Neil lumbers beside me, hands in pocket, a kind of cute half-smile on his face.

He stays with me all the way to the door of my lab.

“I’d give you my number,” he says unexpectedly, “but I don’t have a phone. Don’t want to commit to anything since I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

He says that in a way that tells me he remembers me offering him my number last April, and that he blew by it, without taking it. It was a very well done brush-off.

I lift my chin, smiling. “I’d give you my number, but it won’t do you any good since you don’t have a phone.”

He pulls open the door. “I’ve got an idea. You need to reach me on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just step into the hall and shout ‘Neil.’ I promise I’ll answer if I’m here.”

I laugh. “OK. It’s a deal. I don’t have to tell you how to reach me. You seem to know my schedule pretty well.”

“Yep.” His expression turns from smiling into something serious. “It’s Thursday. You have rehearsal until 9 p.m. I’m going to meet you at nine and walk you home from symphony practice. You shouldn’t walk this campus alone at night. Don’t you read the security bulletins? You need to take the alerts seriously. Pushing a broom I hear lots of things. Make some friends, Chrissie. Talk to people. Don’t expect me to walk you home every Tuesday and Thursday.”

I flush and nod. That was a really sweet thing to say, but then, Neil was kind of sweet at times that night at Peppers. And it is so embarrassing that he’s noticed I don’t have any friends.

“See ya at nine, homegirl,” he says laughingly.

“See ya at nine, homeboy.”

~~~

At nine, I find Neil waiting on the steps of the symphony rehearsal building smoking a cigarette. He stomps it out and crosses to me, taking the cello case from my hand.

So he did show up to walk me home. I’m surprised, and a little confused, that he did. Why is he suddenly acting like my big brother?

“You’ve got to tell me which way you live,” he says.

I smile at him, more friendly this time, since it is nice having him waiting here. “So, I guess you’re not a stalker since you don’t know where I live.”

He lifts his brows. “Maybe I’m a stalker and I just want to find out where you live.”

I shake my head and sink my chilled hands into my pockets.

“Cello?” he asks.

“Yep. Why do you say it that way? Cello. Like it’s strange.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you’d be like your old man. Guitar. Or piano. Isn’t that what girls like you play? Piano?”

I arch a brow. “Girls like me?”

“God, I didn’t mean anything bad. Rich. Fancy. Pretty. Cello doesn’t seem like a pretty-girl thing.”

Leave it to Neil to combine an insult and a compliment. God, he’s a strange guy. Strange, and yet really likeable simultaneously somehow.

“I like the cello,” I say.

“Well, you don’t have to get defensive about it. I like the cello, too.”

I’m angry again because for some reason, this conversation reminds me that Alan said my talent would never make me more than third chair in a third rate orchestra.

“I’m second chair in a first rate orchestra,” I announce.

He frowns and his eyes narrow. “OK. Did I suggest that you weren’t good? I said the cello surprised me.”

My face covers in a burn. “Can we not talk about the cello please?”

I turn off onto a dark path that cuts through campus.

He stares at me. “Easy for you to say. You’re not lugging it. Are we turning?”

“Yes. It’s shorter. We’re going to cut through here.”

“You do this at night, alone?” He sounds surprised. A touch concerned.

I frown. “Of course. How do you think I get home?”

Neil shakes his head. “God, you have no common sense at all, do you?”

“Obviously not. I’m with you.”

I make a face at him and he tosses me a heavily exasperated look.

It’s a long walk back to the condo. I live off-campus, on a hill in an upscale, high-rise condo complex. I have a car in Berkeley, but I rarely take it since, even with my overpriced parking permit, the traffic is awful and it’s a hassle to find a vacant space in any of the campus lots. It’s faster just to walk everywhere.

It takes thirty minutes to get from the rehearsal building to my front door. Neil hands me my cello.

He stands there on the steps, silent, staring at me as if he’s waiting for something.

“Do you want to come up?” I ask.

Neil shakes his head. “No, that’s OK. I better cut out. I left my car on campus. I would have taken it if I’d known it was so far.”

He takes a step back from me.

I smile. “Thanks, Neil. You’ve been a really OK guy today.”

He shrugs. “You’re the only person here I know from home.” He smiles. “Remember, Berkeley is only as bad as we make it.”

I laugh. I sense that Neil feels the same way about Berkeley as I do. “It is kind of different here, isn’t it?”

“It’s what you make it. That’s Berkeley.”

I start to laugh. Neil’s stares at me and I can see that he doesn’t understand why I find that one so funny.

He frowns. “Am I missing the joke here?”

I shake my head and try to stop my laughter. “It’s just, you’ve got to know my dad. I swear to God, he said the exact same thing to me. ‘It’s what you make it. That’s Berkeley.’”

Neil starts to laugh. “See you, Chrissie.”

As he walks down the sidewalk I can hear him whistling one of my dad’s biggest hits from the 60s.

~~~

Inside the condo I find Rene huddled over the kitchen table; books, note pads, colored highlighters, post-it notes, and paperclips scattered everywhere.

I set down my cello case and drop my carry tote on the counter. “You’ll never guess who I had lunch with and who walked me home from symphony tonight.”

Rene shakes her head in aggravation, jerking on the ends of her dark brown hair, tightening the ponytail atop her head.

“I don’t have time to guess, Chrissie.”

I reach into the refrigerator for a Diet Coke. “Neil Stanton, from Santa Barbara. He’s working as a janitor in the music department, if you can believe that.”

Rene frowns. “Neil who?”

How could Rene not remember him? “That guy. That guy from that night at Peppers before we left for New York on spring break. The guy who did me a really, really big favor.”

Rene looks at me, eyes narrowing as though trying to remember.

I lift a brow. “You screwed his friend in my dad’s car. Josh something. That was his name I think.”

Comprehension floods the pretty lines of her face. Then she scrounges up her nose. “Josh! What an asshole. He never called. Why would you have coffee with Neil? Wasn’t he a jerk to you that night?”

“Well, not completely. He was kind of nice at times.” I sink down at the table across from her. “I’ve had a weird day. Lambert was all up in my face again and then Neil asked me to go for coffee and I just sort of went.”

Rene grabs for her pink highlighter. “Chrissie, can we talk later? I’m buried here. Organic Chemistry is kicking my ass and I have a test tomorrow.”

“Fine. I always listen to you talk about your guys. Your dates.”

“You’re studying music. You already have a PhD in that. I’m studying molecular cell biology. Trust me, Chrissie. You don’t get into medical school with courses like ‘The history of the Vietnam War Through Music.’”

I roll my eyes. She can be so rude at time. “It’s through film, not music, and I actually like that class.”

“Whatever!”

I grab my Diet Coke and head for my bedroom. Rene obsessed with her books and grades; I’ll never get used to that change in her.

I sink onto my bed and turn on the TV, then adjust the volume low. My thoughts drift back to my summer road-trip across country with Rene.

It was a weird trip, but Jack was right, it was good for me.  I think it was keeping busy, always having something new to see, that got me through everything that I needed to work through after my breakup with Alan.

Spring break in New York was some kind of strange pivot point for both Rene and me. Afterward, I was different. Rene was different. And our friendship was different. In May, when we left Santa Barbara for the East Coast, Rene was tamer and more serious about life. I wonder if that had anything to do with her father remarrying and her finally accepting that he isn’t ever coming back to her and her mother.  And I was less introverted. I know that has everything to do with me being with Alan.  We each left New York with good shit and bad. It made us both just sort of ready to have a really chill trip, enjoying that best friend thing.

Of course, that doesn’t mean we didn’t do a dumb thing or two.  I laugh as some of Rene’s antics dance in my memory. In every state Rene left behind a guy.  And me…I shake my head…I had my first, and what I hope will be my only, one night stand in August.

It just seemed like the right thing at the time. We were in New Orleans in a club, and the lead singer of the band was hot, and it just happened. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t bad. It was just sort of blank. It doesn’t belong in either section of my journal: good experience or regret.

Rene said it was just one of those things girls do after a painful breakup, but I don’t know. I think I just wanted to know what it would be like to have sex with someone other than Alan. It was weird. Not bad, just weird.

Rene had a readymade answer for that during my morning after of indifference over the entire experience: That’s the curse of having your first time be with a guy who cared about you, Chrissie. Once you’ve gone to bed with a guy who cares, it pretty much ruins every other type of sex.

Cared: past tense. Rene didn’t mean it that way, but it still hurt. I don’t like to admit it, but even after seven months I’m still emotionally, if not physically, involved with Alan. After the one night stand I called it quits on guys. I’m just not there yet, in the past tense emotionally with Alan, ready to start something with someone new, and since Berkeley I haven’t even tried the guy thing. Shit, I hardly go out.

I shake my head. It makes it so much stranger and confusing that I just went off with Neil today. I wonder why I did that. We didn’t exactly end as friends after our one night in Santa Barbara last spring and he’s definitely not my type. Still, I did have fun with him today, even though we traded verbal insults most of the time. He’s really cute.

I toss the TV remote away, climb from the bed, and begin to undress for the night.

Maybe I went to coffee with Neil because he isn’t my type and I’m not emotionally done with Alan, even if Alan is emotionally done with me. I knew when I left New York we were over. Still, I wasn’t prepared to open a newspaper in August to learn that Alan had married Nia. Nope, I didn’t expected that one or that our ending would be such a clean ending. Seven months. Not one call from Alan. No letter. Not even a token gift sent. Just over.

I rummage through my drawers and lift out Alan’s t-shirt, the one I took the last day we were together. For some reason, I want to wear it tonight. I pull it over my head, shut off the TV, and climb into bed.

So much has changed and it’s only been half a year since spring break.  Neil Stanton became a janitor. Alan Manzone married Nia. Rene studies more nights than she parties. And I’m lost and alone at Berkeley.

It seems life pushes us all onto roads we never expect.