Working Girl (9 page)

Eventually, I feel my mind quiet and I’m able to pick up on the picture. I’m seeing it, but I’m not feeling it and therein lies the problem. Everything about this situation only affirms to me that I prefer books. Movies are a waste of my time, and time is precious these days.

Without warning, panic rises in my chest as each second passes until suddenly, I’m not seeing the movie anymore. Instead, I’m faced with visions of Momma passing before my eyes. I imagine her out on the streets, fighting for survival without the protection the brothel offers. It’ll only be a matter of time before she gets knocked around until she breaks.

Or worse.

I start to panic more. My breathing shortens, my head pounds, and I’m pretty sure there is an elephant sitting on my chest. Black dots cloud my vision and the ringing in my ears tells me I’m about to pass out.

I shouldn’t be here
.

An ache in my chest starts to perpetuate and I know I have to get out of here. The blood rushes through my ears as my breathing becomes sporadic, and my skin crawls with anxiousness, not-so-politely informing me that my little day of pretending is over.

I stand, and Emerson moves his legs for me. “You okay?” he asks as I pass him. Unable to form a verbal answer, I shrug and quickly walk my ass out of the deathtrap people call a theatre.

Walking as fast as my feet can carry me, I bolt out to the sidewalk. The minute the fresh air hits my face, relief washes through me. My lungs expand as I take in a deep breath . . . well, as deep a breath as I can take. I bend over with my hands on my knees trying to regulate my breathing, needing to get it under control before Chrissy—or even worse, Emerson—comes looking for me. Movies are not for me. I remember why it’s been so long now. The darkness. The silence. Those two things, paired with watching a happily ever after, is too much for me to handle. Reading about happily ever after’s is one thing. Watching them slowly take place in front of me on the screen; it completely undoes me.

Finally the dizziness starts to subside, and I’m able to take in a full breath. The welcome clarity is marred when I realize I have to start thinking about how I am going to get home, without ruining the rest of Chrissy’s day. My head is pointed towards the sky when I hear the door open behind me.

“What’s up, Presley?” His voice rings through my ears, straight to my soul and despite it being full of concern, I let out an exasperated sigh, stepping down from the sidewalk to the street to sit in front of the door. Without a word, he joins me.

“Movies aren’t my thing,” I say, hoping that he’ll sense the tone of my voice and not push me further, because I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it together if he starts being too nice.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“You didn’t give me the chance.”

He smiles and slides closer to me. Why? It’s not exactly like I’m being warm towards him. In fact, I’m doing my best to be as aloof as possible. I need for him to leave me alone. In order for me to stay focused and get where I need to go, I need to be on my own.

“Well, this is better anyway. At least out here we can talk.”

I roll my eyes and silence surrounds us, the chill of the twilight air biting at my skin. “I really just want to be alone.”

Although he can’t know it, I spend most of my conscious hours alone. As a creature of habit, and hiding while Momma worked, I found it easy to be stuck somewhere with no one but myself. Alone is familiar, and I need Emerson to think that it’s okay for me to be that way because I’m asking for him to leave me be.

But it’s a lie. I don’t really want to be sitting out here alone. Besides, being next to Emerson is easy. Nice. And that’s the problem. This is exactly what scares me the most: I feel comfortable with him, and the last time that happened with a guy, I almost lost something important to me.

Sitting next to each other on the sidewalk, our elbows barely touching, it seems simple. Easy, even. I can feel layers of my anxiety peeling away as the comfort surrounds me. But my solace is short-lived as he starts to kick up a conversation again.

“So what’s your story?”

Ah, and there it is: the dreaded question. I silently wish for the comfort to return again. It was much easier that way. But as much as I will it to, comfort is an evasive bastard, and so I’m left having to make the situation better myself.

I have to lie.

“I don’t have a story.”

“Everyone has a story,” he argues.

“Well, I’m too busy still writing mine to be bothered to tell it to you.”

“Touché.”

“Means to touch.”

I jump when I feel the pads of his fingertips brush the length of my arm. Looking up from the ground, I notice that his eyes are already on me, and I feel naked under his gaze. “Well, aren’t you smart.”

Glaring, I shrug him away. “It’s a nasty side effect of reading as much as I do.”

“Favorite book?”

My not-so-subtle hints are not doing the trick. He’s obviously not going anywhere, so I decide to put some distance between us, moving slightly to my left. “The Great Gatsby. I always wanted to be a ‘pretty little fool.’”

“Why be a fool?”

“Because then I could be oblivious to all the bad shit in this world.”

“Without the bad, there’d never be any good.”

Considering what he’s saying, I stare at him in order to gauge his statement. It’s when I’m looking into his eyes that I know that he genuinely believes what he said. And I don’t know whether to be moved, or pissed off.

“So, drugs, murder, lies, deceit . . .”

“Without any of that, there would never be an honest and genuine hero to save the day.”

Chewing on my lip, I think about the truth in his words. He believes that with bad comes good, and for him that is worth it. But for me, I suffer . . . for what? Where is my hero?

I look away from him. “I don’t know if I can buy into that.”

“While thus to love he gave his days

In loyal worship, scorning praise,

How spread their lures for him in vain

Thieving ambition and paltering gain!

He thought it happier to be dead,

To die for Beauty, than live for bread.”

Halfway through his monologue, I feel the urge to look at him; to watch his face as he speaks. To look into his eyes and see whether the words he speaks are just learned—because I know enough to recognize Ralph Waldo Emerson—or whether they’re spoken because he truly believes in Emerson’s message. Is this boy, whom I have cast judgment upon so easily, nothing more than an actor in a play? Or is he in fact, a genuine soul? I’m sure my surprise is visible all over my face, but I don’t care to hide it.

“Are you serious?” In an attempt to hide my awe and wonderment, I allow my voice to drip with sarcasm.

His eyes lock on mine and he leans in closer. My heart races, unsure of what his next move is since he’s so close our noses are practically touching, and my mind reels.

“I’m as serious as it gets.”

“Does that usually work? Do girls like that shit?” My experience is limited to say the least, but it doesn’t take much to realize that Emerson is unlike any other guy our age.

“I don’t know. Then again, I don’t usually go around reciting poetry to every girl I meet.”

“Bullshit.” I know he’s lying. He’s too suave, too cool. He’s done this before. “Now leave me alone, you’re annoying.”

“And you’re not very friendly, but even the strongest people need someone to lean on.”

Clearly he’s not about to give me what I want, so I stand and glare down at him. “You don’t even know me, so don’t make some dumbass assumption. Tell Chrissy I’ll meet her at home.”

Turning on my heels, I start to walk away from Emerson, who is likely still sitting on the sidewalk wondering what the hell he did wrong. But he didn’t do anything wrong that has me all riled up.

It’s what he did
right
.

He made me nervous. He made me hopeful—something I can’t afford to be anymore. Unable to trust myself around him, I know that I need to put some distance between us. More than anything, it was how he seemed to know that I needed someone without me ever actually saying it.

But that someone could never be him.

I need to keep my eye on the prize. Focusing on schoolwork is where I need to be placing my energy. Opening myself up to some guy who is more than likely just playing games just isn’t an option.

EMERSON’S WORDS PLAY IN MY
head over and over again. What had he meant? Or did it even mean anything at all? The bigger question should probably be: why am I spending my time thinking about a stupid boy?

I groan, and direct my attention back to the book in front of me. There are bigger things for me to be worrying about at the moment. But knowing better and actually doing it are two different beasts. Obviously, Emerson is under my skin.

Chrissy somehow manages to get into the office without me knowing and plops down in her usual spot next to me. “I want the dish on your boy toy.”

“He’s not my boy toy!”

“You say that now, but mark my words, that boy will pop—”

“Don’t say it, Chrissy!” I cover my ears. Her crudeness is just something I will never get used to. In fact, I refuse to. In a way she’s right, though. Guys have only ever wanted me for one reason, and I’m sure this one will prove to be no different.

“Okay, calm down.” She grabs a nip from my drawer. “Keep your panties on.” She giggles before sucking down her mini vodka. “But seriously, the boy is a dish.” She fans herself with her free hand and smirks.

“I don’t even know him,” I bite back.

“Which makes him even
hotter
.”

My head rolls back. “Ugh, you drive me crazy.”

“I’m just saying, you need someone to keep you in check, someone else to drive you insane.”

“I don’t want to be crazy.”

“But you are. You have to be to live in this hell hole.”

She’s right. You have to have a certain degree of psychosis in order to make it here. I wonder how much damage I’ve really sustained. Having done a pretty good job at convincing myself that I can maintain a normal lifestyle, I thought that I might turn out to be a functioning adult, but I’m seriously starting to reconsider that. Especially given my recent behavior.

A few moments pass us by, both of us too lost in thought to be bothered with conversation, until I finally decide to break the silence. “Don’t you ever wonder what it’s really like out there? I mean, there’s got to be more to life than this.”

Chrissy lets out the breath she was holding in. “Yeah, I guess. But it seems pointless to think about it because I know a bright future isn’t in the cards for me.”

“But it could be.”

“If I wanted it, sure . . . but I don’t, Presley. Honestly. I’m content. Happy even, at times.”

We’ve never really talked about our difference in opinion. Just the thought of all the bad shit Chrissy and I have seen cause goose bumps break out over my skin. There’s no limit to our knowledge. We’ve seen girls over dosing, our moms being beaten up—accused of skimming—then being forced to perform for Big Earl to redeem themselves. Our lives are far short of happy, but Chrissy has never wanted anything more. In the simplest of terms, I am a fighter. She isn’t. But somehow still, Chrissy is my rock.

I slide my hand into hers and smile. I can tell she’s thinking, and when Chrissy thinks, she tends to get sad. Her mind is her own worst enemy—it’s where her demons live. My questions have caused her to slip away and I need to bring her back. “Emerson is cute though, isn’t he?”

She snaps her head and grins. “Yeah, he is. Those dimples alone are enough to melt my panties. So tell me, when do you see him again?”

“Class.”

“And . . .”

Shrugging, I sigh. “And . . . I don’t know,”

“C’mon.” She nudges me with her elbow. “You gotta go for it. Let me live vicariously through you.”

“You’ve dated more than me,” I argue.

“Giving hand jobs for twenty bucks hardly constitutes a date, Presley.”

“Touché. But seriously, I don’t know. I’ve got so much going on, I don’t have time to get involved with some boy I barely know. And, anyway, how can I trust him? He’s probably just after—”