Undecided (4 page)

“You
don’t need the air quotes,” I say, taking a seat at the very edge of the
mattress. “I’m actually just going to quiz you.”

He makes
a finger gun with his hand and shoots me. “I knew you were smart.” He grabs a
bottle of water from the cup holder on the elliptical, chugs half, and climbs
back on the machine. “Okay. Start.”

I flip
open the book and skim the first page, raising my voice to be heard over the
thud-whir. “You ready?”

“Bring
it.”

“First
question: head and shoulders, knees and…?”

“Toes!”
He fist pumps the air.

“That was
just a warm up. Question two: the toe bone’s connected to the foot bone, the
foot bone’s connected to the…?”

“Ankle
bone.”

I laugh
and dodge the bottle cap he throws at my head.

“Now ask
me some real questions,” he says. “At this rate I’ll be the smartest guy in the
class.”

“I never
knew you were so studious.”

“I’m full
of surprises.” He uses a small set of weights to do bicep curls as he runs
backward on the elliptical. I try not to watch his muscles move. He’s much bigger
than Kellan. Kellan has a traditional runner’s physique, tall and trim. Crosbie
looks more like a wrestler, shorter, broad and stocky.

“All
right.” I force myself to concentrate. I’m supposed to be quizzing Crosbie on
biology, not obsessing over his body. I don’t even
care
about his body.
But as I start to ask him real questions and he does his very best to answer
correctly, I start to care about this, just a little bit. Because he’s
completely and utterly sincere, no trace of the brash bravado he normally
exhibits. No sign of the guy who dances on tabletops and adds Crosbabes to the
list scrawled on the bathroom wall on the fourth floor of the Student Union
building.

He’s not
a genius but he tries hard, and he’s obviously been paying attention because he
gets about seventy percent of the answers right without any prompting.
Sometimes I give him hints and his brow wrinkles as he considers things, then
bobs his head arrogantly when he figures it out, never once breaking his stride
on the elliptical. The only time he sets down the weights is to take a drink of
water, then he’s right back to it. He’s certainly committed.

Speaking
of committed—I have a job to get to, and nine minutes in which to make the ten
minute trip.

“Work,” I
announce, slamming the book shut and standing. “I have to go.”

“Oh
yeah.” Crosbie powers down the machine and hops off, snatching the towel and
mopping himself up. Sweat runs in rivulets down his neck, his shirt is soaked,
and I remind myself to keep my eyes on his face. “I’ll walk down with you,” he
says, reaching past me to open the door. The elliptical did a good job of
blocking out the noise from the rest of the house, but without it I can hear
raised voices downstairs—certainly more than just Dane, and certainly having more
fun than they were half an hour ago.

“You
don’t have to do that,” I say hastily. Because even though we were only
“quizzing,” absolutely no one will believe it, and how unfair would it be to
have my “good” year tainted before it even begins?

“I don’t
mind.” He’s too close now, holding the door and waiting for me to pass through.
He smells like sweat and…man…and it should be off-putting, but it’s not. That’s
confusing enough to have me hustling out the door.

“Really,”
I say, putting up a hand to stop him when he tries to follow. “Don’t. It’s a
flight of stairs. I can handle it.”

“I think
the guys might say—”

I shoot
him a terse smile. “I think they ‘might’ too,” I interrupt, my meaning clear.
He’s worried they might make some sort of generally inappropriate comment; I’m
worried about a more specific type of rumor. And I see the dark and offended
look shift into his eyes when he realizes what I’m implying.

“Right,”
he says, stepping back and folding his arms across his chest. “Suit yourself.”

I feel
bad, but I don’t change my mind. “Good luck on your test tomorrow.”

“Yeah.
Thanks.” Then he closes the door in my face.

I arrive at
Beans for my shift, entering the kitchen just in time to see Nate and Marcela
laughing as they arrange pre-made cookie dough on a baking sheet. In itself,
that’s hardly incriminating. The suspicious part is how Nate leaps away as
though the cookies are radioactive and he’s only just now remembering it.

I’ve always known that Nate was in love with
Marcela. The three of us are the same age—twenty-one—but Nate’s our boss and
often acts like an old man. He tries to be professional and grown up, and apart
from a two-month period last spring where he sent her gifts from a “secret
admirer,” I don’t think he’s ever acted on it. I think the fact that she never
figured out it was him was pretty discouraging, and since then I assumed he’d
given up the dream.

“Hey,” I
say, pausing mid-stride to peer between them.

“Hey,”
Nate says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He has a handsome,
model-like face—too pretty, Marcela used to say—and super blue eyes. Right now
those eyes are having a difficult time meeting mine, though Marcela appears
completely oblivious. Though it could just be her determined effort to give me
the silent treatment.

I arch a
brow at Nate as I walk past, then head out front. The shop is pretty low-key,
and there are half a dozen patrons seated randomly around the room, reading,
texting, and drinking coffee. I grab a bus bin and amble around clearing off
tables, and when I get back to the counter Nate is standing next to the
register, looking uncomfortable.

“Did I
interrupt something?”

“No,” he
says quickly.

“No?”

We both
glance over as Marcela comes out with a tray of clean mugs and starts to stack
them with the rest. Nate’s eyes linger a second too long and I harrumph and
return to the kitchen with the dirty dishes. Since it’s slow out there I grab a
leftover croissant and count inventory as I eat, and when I eventually make my
way back to the front, I see Nate say something to Marcela, his expression
stern, and the tight set of her mouth as she stands at his side. She looks like
a reprimanded child who’s being made to apologize.

“What’s
going on?” A quick look around the shop shows we’re down to three customers,
all of whom are sufficiently absorbed in their own activities.

“I have
to leave early tonight,” Nate says. “You two need to close and do the bank
deposit. Together.”

“There
are like, eight people in this whole town right now,” Marcela argues, clearly
not for the first time. “And this place is dead. One of us can do it.”

“You’ll
stay and do it together,” he says, his voice remarkably firm. “I’m leaving at
six, you’ll lock the doors at nine-thirty and be out of here by ten. Together.”

Marcela
rolls her eyes but drops the argument. Once he’s got our unspoken agreement,
Marcela heads off for her break, Nate disappears into his small office to work
on payroll, and I tend to the random customers who stroll in over the next
couple of hours. Marcela keeps herself busy in the back and I don’t even think
about her again until Nate comes up with his jacket on, car keys in hand.

“Think
you two can be civil for a few hours?”

“We’re
always civil.”

“Like the
Civil War,” he replies dryly. “Don’t burn this place down.”

“Me?
Never.”

“And keep
all your clothes on.”

“I told
you. I turned over a new leaf.”

“A new
leaf that’s living with Kellan McVey?”

“How did
you—” I break off when I spot Marcela over his shoulder, halfway out the
kitchen doors and most definitely having overheard that last bit about Kellan
if her stunned expression is any indication.

Nate
winks at me. “There are no secrets in this town.”

I shoot
him a warning look. “Are too.”

He points
between Marcela and me as he backs away. “Best behavior.”

“Aye
aye,” Marcela replies, sounding bored.

I give
him a thumbs up and watch Marcela retreat into the kitchen, a festering feeling
of guilt growing in my stomach. I know it’s not fair of me to be the one to end
our friendship and then resent the fact that we’re not friends, but I do. It
wasn’t like she had to work to convince me to do any of the stuff we did, but
she’s a gateway drug. A super fun, loyal, sensitive gateway drug in a black
sweater dress, fishnets, and red platform heels.

I
didn’t come to the decision to call things off easily. But my scolding visit to
the Dean’s office was followed up with half a dozen irate phone calls from my
parents and a very stern talking-to from the judge when I got called in to be
reprimanded for my drunk, naked sprint through town. There’s only so much a
girl can take. If only to get everyone off my back, I swore up and down I’d
make things right, and “make things right” involved giving my friendship with
Marcela the ax. It’s not like she’s Miss Perfect—the streaking was her idea,
after all. She’s just a faster runner. And better at hiding. Because while I
got caught crouched naked behind a compost bin, she never got found at all,
even though I knew where she was hiding. I also refused to supply her name,
which resulted in an additional fifty hours of community service for me.

Marcela
was a lot of fun, but staying friends with her and
not
going to parties
is like a recovering addict saying they’ll just go to the movies with their
former dealer—nobody’s watching a movie. If I fail another class, my
scholarship is over and I’m out of here. My parents can’t afford another year
of tuition, and my income from the coffee shop is barely enough to cover
minimal rent and groceries. This is it for me, and that, more than anything, is
what has me picking up a dishtowel and heading off to wipe down tables instead
of following Marcela into the kitchen to clear the air.

* * *

By eight,
things in the shop are pretty much dead. I’m working on the Sudoku puzzle in
yesterday’s
Portland Press Herald
, and Marcela’s sitting at one of the
tables doing some sort of glitter polish thing on her fingernails. Nate doesn’t
care so much about the Sudoku, but the nail polish is strictly off limits and I
know Marcela’s just doing it to get back at him for sticking her with me
tonight. Oh well—if her fury is directed at someone else, hopefully she’ll
forget to aim it at me for once.

I’ve
finally figured out which number goes in the upper right corner of the puzzle
when the door swings open and Kellan and Crosbie stroll in. Despite the chilly
night air, they’re wearing T-shirts, shorts and sneakers, and both are drenched
in sweat.

“Hey,”
Kellan says, grinning as they approach.

Crosbie
follows at his shoulder, and is it wrong if I notice that Crosbie’s shirt
strains across his chest just a little more than Kellan’s? That his biceps look
like they could snap the seams of his sleeves if he flexed, just a little?

Focus,
Nora.

“Hi,” I
say. My eyes flicker to Crosbie and he gives me a little nod. Between him and
Marcela, I have officially pissed off half the people in this room. “What are
you guys doing here?”

Kellan
links his fingers behind his back and stretches. “We figured we should get in a
few runs while we could, so here we are. I’ve gotta step up my game. I came in
third in nationals last year—I can’t let that happen again.”

“Third in
the country sounds pretty good.”

“It’s
not.”

Er… “It’s
better than fourth?”

Kellan
jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Crosbie came fourth.”

Crosbie
nods at me. “’Sup.”

Frick.
“Are you guys hungry?”

Fortunately
the subject of food is an easy way to distract Kellan. “Maybe a bit.”

“We don’t
have any mac and cheese,” I warn, and hear Crosbie snicker.

“Ha ha,”
Kellan says. “I’m here for the brownies.”

“Anything
for you?” I ask Crosbie.

“Yeah,”
he says, looking at the Sudoku puzzle. “Same.”

I open
the display case. “We’ve got triple chocolate or chocolate banana. What’s your
preference?”

“Triple
chocolate,” Kellan says. “For both of us.”

I look at
Crosbie for confirmation and he nods. Seeing the look, Kellan explains that
Crosbie hates bananas.

I try not
to laugh. “What? Who hates bananas?”

“They’re
awful,” Crosbie replies seriously. “They taste like dirt and they’re impossible
to peel. It’s a sign.”

I’m
pretty sure I’ll just laugh if I respond so instead I bite my tongue and plate
up two inoffensive triple chocolate brownies. I’m entirely aware that Marcela
has stopped painting her nails and is openly watching us, and a little thrill
goes through me when I realize that neither Kellan nor Crosbie has gawked at
her, as so many guys do. They’re only talking to me.

“How
often do you work here?” Kellan asks, scarfing half the brownie in a single
bite.

“Three
shifts a week, now that school’s starting.”

“Is this
the sign up sheet?” Crosbie speaks through a mouthful of brownie, and licks off
his finger before flicking open the binder labeled “Open Mic Night.”

“Yeah,” I
say, still feeling guilty about offending him earlier, even if every bit of it
was true. “Do you want to sign up? We only do four each year and it’s coming up
in a few weeks—”

“Dude,
no,” Kellan interrupts. “For the love of all that is holy, do not.”

Crosbie
smirks at him. “Why not? I’ve got magic fingers, man. All the girls say so.”

Both
Kellan and I roll our eyes. “I say this as your friend,” Kellan adds. “Spare
yourself the embarrassment.”

Crosbie
just laughs and elbows him in the side, but I swear a flicker of hurt crosses
his face before he smoothes it away. He’d opened to the page for the next show,
which at present is only half full, though we’re always booked solid when the
night rolls around.

“It fills
up pretty fast. You can put your name down now,” I suggest, “and if you change
your mind just let me know and I’ll cross it out. You might not be able to get
in, otherwise.”

He
finally meets my eyes, and a strange sort of energy passes between us. Like he
knows I know he wants to do this, just like I know he doesn’t want Kellan to
know how much he does. “It’s fine,” he says, shaking his head. “Another time.”

I offer a
conciliatory smile and close the book. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Hey.”
Kellan leans in and lowers his voice. “That’s Marcela Lopes, right?” He nods
his head in Marcela’s direction, where she’s finished with her nails and is now
straightening a display of hand painted wooden spoons.

“Ah…” A
sick kind of disappointment spreads through me, but I can’t very well pretend
it’s not her. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s her.”

“I didn’t
know she worked here.”

I force
another smile. “Yep.”

“I saw
her around a lot last year.” He looks contemplative and I want to shove him.
You
saw her?
I want to yell.
I was right beside her! You didn’t see me!
Apparently not even when we were the only two people in the closet, you fucker.

“Well, she goes to school here.” I
pick at a thread on my apron, and when I finally glance up, it’s not Kellan
watching me, it’s Crosbie. And there’s that energy again. But this time he’s
the one learning my secret.

“Let’s
head out,” Crosbie says. The words are for Kellan, but he’s looking at me.
“Three more miles.”

Kellan
shoots one more look at Marcela, then tugs out his wallet and puts five dollars
on the counter. “Keep the change,” he says. “See you at home.” He smiles and
waves, and I stare at the money as they leave. The brownies are actually three
dollars each, so I sigh and fish out a dollar from the tip jar.

* * *

What is
just a light drizzle at the start of my bike ride home quickly turns into a
downpour, and I’m drenched and cranky when I push through the front door, my
jeans chafing painfully against my inner thighs with each step.

Kellan
and Crosbie are on the couch playing video games, a bucket of fried chicken
between them. It’s quarter past ten, my first class is at nine tomorrow, and
all I want to do is take a shower and go to sleep, not listen to shoot ’em up
sounds through the paper thin walls.

“Hey.”
Kellan glances over when I enter, taking in my bare feet, wet socks in hand.

“Hey.”

Crosbie
and I look at each other but say nothing, and I head into my room to exchange
my sopping wet clothes for a robe and a towel. I don’t like the idea of cutting
between the guys and the TV to get to the bathroom, but I don’t have a choice,
so I duck past, self-consciously clutching the robe against my breasts. I climb
into the shower and turn on the hot water, shuddering when it pounds my
shoulders.