Turbulence by Whitney G.
I shake my head, in utter disbelief at her right now.
“So, you’ll look next time, right?” she asks.
“No.” I scoff. “Can we please not talk about Dean’s penis?
“What about Dean’s penis?” he asks, suddenly stopping right in front of us.
Words stall at my lips and I can’t get a single one to fall out. I just stare at him, along with Autumn.
No guy should be allowed to be that attractive...It’s just not fair...
“Nothing.” I get it together within seconds. “No one is talking about your ‘penis’.” I insist. “Do you really think either of us would say that?”
“I said Dean’s penis.” Autumn smiles.
He laughs, winking at me before walking away.
“Seriously, Autumn?” I’m going to kill her.
“Lighten up.” She nudges my shoulder. “Now seriously though, even though you’re pretty biased, is he really a jerk in private?”
“You mean, besides the fact that he was an hour late and didn’t see any problem with that?”
“Yes, besides that.”
“No, he’s not a jerk. He was actually quite tolerable.”
“Great.” She takes my coffee and downs the rest of it. “Does your mom know you’re tutoring him yet?”
“My mom doesn’t know anything anymore. We haven’t spoken since Saturday.” I cringe at the very thought of my mother. I know I’ll have to talk to her eventually, but I swear if there’s ever a casting call for “Real Life Mother from Hell” or “Woman Who Gives the Devil a Run for His Money,” I’ll be signing her up for the part.
I sigh and start to tell Autumn about the latest thing my mother did, but the school’s PA system suddenly comes on.
“Hear ye, hear ye!” Our DJ, a senior who’s been trying to make his voice sound ten times deeper than it really is, since freshman year, clears his throat over the speakers. “The official start of our football season is this Friday night! Now’s the time to get tickets to attend the bonfire. Also seniors, make sure you submit your nominations for the homecoming court! Voting starts in a few short weeks!”
Everyone in the cafeteria cheers and the DJ rings three bells to let us know his announcement is over.
“Are you going to act like an actual senior this year and go?” Autumn crosses her arms.
“Not at all. I’ll be too busy counting down from two hundred and sixty-eight.”
“Two hundred and sixty-eight? What’s that?”
“That’s how many days we have left in our Central High careers.”
And in my case, the end can’t come soon enough...
Chapter 2
MIA
When I arrive at Dean’s and my spot in the library the following week, I’m surprised that he’s already there, waiting for me.
Impressed, I take a seat. “Is there a catch to today’s session? Is that why you’re here early?”
“No.” He smiles. “I was actually going to ask you if we could do an extra hour today? I got an A minus on that last essay.”
“Is that not good enough for you or something?”
“It is, but I told you I needed an A, a flat one.”
“Really though?”
“Yes, really though.” A brief look of concern comes over his face, but it’s gone within minutes. “I really have to make an A on all of my next papers to make up for the Cs I made on our first few papers.”
I nod, still feeling completely caught off guard.
“Where should we start?” he asks.
“Well,” I say, taking out my folder. “Since you’re not caught up on the reading, we’ll do the work that’s currently due and pick up everything else later. Which piece did you pick for the assignment?”
“Macbeth.”
“What? You’re joking, right?”
“Not at all.” He arches a brow. “What’s wrong with Macbeth?”
“Nothing, I just...” I pause. “I never would have thought you were the Shakespearean literature type. That’s all.”
“Well, why is that?”
“Because Shakespeare had a very strange tendency of killing off all of his cocky characters. That, and Macbeth is one of my favorite plays.” I admit.
He’s silent for a moment, but then he looks at me. “What’s your favorite novel?”
“I love way too many to choose just one.” I try to direct the conversation back to Macbeth and our assignment, but he stops me.
“Tell me,” he says. “What’s your favorite novel?”
“I’ll have to write you a list. I prefer essays. Such, Such Were the Joys by George Orwell is my top re-read. What’s your favorite novel?”
“I don’t have one either.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a book. The Art of the Personal Essay. “I read this a lot, though. For pointers, of course. That Orwell essay is actually in here...”
“Okay,” I say, stopping myself before I actually continue this line of conversation because there is absolutely no way that we have that in common. “I swear to God, Dean, if this is your attempt to get into my pants—”
“It isn’t.” He laughs, putting the book away. “Trust me, when I attempt to do that, you won’t have any doubts and you’ll know for sure.”
I’m not sure what comes over me right then, but I actually laugh out loud.
He laughs even louder, and then we can’t help but ask each other about our other favorite things, completely ignoring the time. I’m not sure at what point it happens, but we get onto the topic of music and he pulls out his iPod and hands me his earbuds, insisting that he introduce me to some of his favorite bands.
We share all the same ones except two.
It’s not until the librarian lets us know that the study room is closing, that I realize we didn’t accomplish anything today.
“How about we make it up on another day this weekend?” he asks, helping me put my books away.
“Don’t you have football practice?”
“I do.” That strange look from our first session crosses his face again. “But I’ll make the time afterwards. Let me give you a ride home.”
“You really don’t have to keep offering to do that. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s eight o clock, Mia. There are no buses, and I’m not about to let you walk home or call someone when I’m right here.”
This time, I don’t bother arguing with him. I simply walk by his side as we leave the building.
When we make it to his car, he completely surprises me by opening the passenger door for me.
“What?” he asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You opened my door.”
“Yes.” He smirks. “That’s the only way to get inside of the car. Do you know an alternative?”
I hold back a laugh and get in.
After shutting my door, he slips behind the wheel and cranks the engine. Then he speeds out of the parking lot, going the wrong way.
“Do I need to remind you where I live, Dean?”
“No, but there’s construction that way. That’s why I’m going this way.”
There’s definitely no construction that way, and there hasn’t been any new construction in our city for years. But when I see him pull onto the main road that leads directly to my neighborhood, I let it go.
He’s taking the super long way to my house—passing Donnellson’s where the varsity team is currently hanging out with their letterman jackets on full display, the movie theater where me and Autumn worked our very first jobs last summer, and the hidden cover where couples go at the end of their dates to make out.
When he finally pulls up to my house, I don’t get a chance to unbuckle my seat belt before he gets out the car to open my door. “So, you really are a gentleman, huh?”
“When it comes to you.” He extends his hand with a grin, making me blush against my will. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.” I rush inside and shut the door behind me. I place a hand over
Shit, it’s real...It’s real...What the hell?
“Why are you standing there with your hand over your heart like that, Mia?” My mother walks into the foyer. “Have I unknowingly installed an American flag in the hallway? Are you pledging allegiance?”
My heart rate instantly returns to its normal pace, to the beat of “Fuck my life.”
“Is that Dean Collins?” she asks, peering through the window. “Did Dean Collins just drop you off at home?”
“Yes, he did.”
A smile crosses her lips and she pulls me into a hug. “Good. You’re finally learning how to be social and you’re dating.”
“We’re not dating. I’m his tutor.”
“What could he possibly use tutoring in?” She looks confused. “What teacher at Central would be dumb enough not to pass him? Especially with a third state championship on the line?”
I bite my tongue before I can say something smart, something really smart.
Fortunately, she doesn’t notice the look on my face. Instead, she pulls me into a hug that makes me feel hundreds of degrees colder. “Have you heard back from Harvard yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“You did apply, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” My eyes veer toward her framed degree that hangs on the wall. (She has like twenty copies of it hanging all over our house.)
“Well, if you haven’t heard anything back in four more weeks, let me know and I’ll make the call.” She lets me go. “What about the bonfire and homecoming? Also, prom? I know you’re planning on going to all of those events this year. At least, you better be.”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“Let me know when you look for a dress for homecoming. We’ll make it an event—a mother daughter type of thing. It’ll be good for your development.” She smiles as she walks away from me and into the living room. Just like that, I know our numerous arguments for the past month are now forgotten.
Especially since this is the first time she’s spoken to me in a while.
All of our arguments end the same way, with her holding a grudge until I do something that makes her smile. While most moms get upset over bad grades, drug experimentation, or serious shit that actually affects a life, my mom gets upset over my inability to like the things that really matter in life. Things like wanting to be homecoming queen, having a great high school social status, and dating.
Two hundred and fifty-five days...
Before she can ask me to do anything, I run up the stairs to my room and shut the door. I plop onto my bed and groan as I take in the pale and bleak ugliness that surrounds me.
If anyone else saw my room right now, they’d think I was trying to imitate a cell in a psych ward. My walls are covered in a near-colorless eggshell color, my bed spread is taupe, and all of the furniture is the color of coffee cream.
If that’s not horrible enough, the only pictures that hang on the wall are those of gray and brown rocks. Oh, and sand. Lots and lots of sand.
I’ve been begging my mom to let me paint and redesign this ugliness since I was seven years old, but “neutral colors are a necessary stimulus for the female brain” according to her ridiculous psychology studies. And besides, to her, my art is a hobby that’s distracting me from the things that are truly important in life. Popularity.
I pull the covers over my head and feel my phone buzzing. A text from Dean.
DEAN: Hey. Is red your favorite color?
MIA: Hey. Just because we had a good day today, does not mean you’re allowed to text me outside of tutoring. Goodnight.
DEAN: LOL. Answer the question, Mia. Is it red?
MIA: No, red is not my favorite color. Stop texting me.
DEAN: Is it blue?
MIA: Yes, it’s blue. Goodnight.
DEAN: Interesting. I only thought it was red because you always wear red bras, and you clearly have quite the collection...The one with the polka dots, the one with the lace, the one with the flowers, and today’s silk one. The best one yet, in my opinion. Goodnight :-)
I turn my phone off, my cheeks on fire.
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Whitney G., Turbulence