Monday comes and goes, as does Tuesday, without a word from Crew, and while I didn’t expect him to drop everything for mission “deflower Davis,” some part of me must’ve assumed he would’ve reached out by now. Why else would I be pouting into a bowl of moose tracks ice cream?
Call me eager or impatient, or maybe just needy, but I’m going to need him to agree to some kind of schedule. Then I can bust out an Excel sheet, add in everything there is to add, and come up with a reasonable deadline.
He knows I like order, so maybe he’s doing this to mess with me?
Or maybe he just has a life, Davis.
Ugh.
I annoy myself.
School and work might rule my existence for the most part, but that’s cake compared to running a bar. I bet he’s in there long before they open, getting things ready, and even longer after dealing with the chaos of the night. Not to mention making the schedule, keeping tabs on his employees, inventory, restocking, and who the heck knows what else. Not me, but I see some of the stuff my manager does and it’s a lot.
Plus, he has to find time to sleep somewhere. He basically works swing and graveyard shifts.
It’s whatever, and it’s those two words I play on repeat in my mind. It works until Wednesday rolls around and all my classes are done. That’s when I throw the whole “whatever” thing out the window, but rather than blow up his phone and wait for a response, I decide to not so casually be in the neighborhood. His neighborhood, that is, and with a giant plateful of homemade peanut butter cookies that may or may not be his favorite.
Like my apartment complex, parking here is atrocious, and the closest thing to his building is not close at all, so I sneak my mini-Mitsubishi into one of the assigned carports, since I don’t plan to be here long. I figure popping in and dropping off a treat is a great way to remind him I exist and he made a deal. You know, in the off chance he forgot.
Like I said…needy.
His apartment is upstairs, so I use the forced moment of exercise to squat with each step up. Three-quarters of the way, I grab the railing for support, since my legs are quickly jiggling like Jell-O. There’s an ugly upside-down beaver-looking statue beside his door, the tail sticking out to the side and holding an aloe vera plant that could use some water, so I make a mental note to mention so and knock on the door.
And then I knock again.
Why I continue to knock after several minutes of waiting, I don’t know, but it’s not to no avail, as after the third and maybe a half, a groggy voice groans from the other side.
I perk up, holding the bag in front of me with a smile.
The door is yanked from the frame, but I’m not met with the deep dark eyes of a miraculous male, but instead a short, skinny, green-haired girl I most definitely woke up. If the wild-child hair and smeared makeup didn’t clue me in, the see-through crop top that wouldn’t stretch past my shoulders and a teeny, tiny strip of cloth covering her vag would have done it. Maybe.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here or are you just going to stare at my underwear? Because if it’s the second one, I could turn around and show you the back. There’s a little jewel that hangs just between the cheeks.”
Only then do I remember where I am, and that a woman—an extremely attractive, even in a state of disarray woman—answered Crew’s door. Without pants.
And underwear equipped with jewelry, apparently.
I didn’t even know such a thing existed.
“Okay, backside it is then.” She begins to spin, and I snap out of it.
“No!” I shout as quickly as I can, and she pauses, her annoyed stare meeting mine once more. “I’m sorry. I came by to say hi to Crew.” Lame, Davis. “But I’ll give him a call later.”
My words indicate I’m out of here, yet my feet don’t move, and she cocks her head, looking me over.
“You’re looking for Crew?” She eyes me.
I nod, attempting to secretly slide the bagful of cookies behind my back, but she sees it, a judgy, slightly strained gleam slipping into her eyes. One leading me to believe she’s thinking something along the lines of “poor, pathetic, plain girl.”
Maybe I’m the one thinking that?
“When’s the last time you saw Crew?” she questions.
I’m tempted to lie. What if he doesn’t want her to know where he was this weekend? Maybe she doesn’t know he’s been anywhere?
Maybe she’s his girlfriend and will want to fight if I tell her the truth?
“Sunday.” Truth is always best.
She nods, holds up a finger, and closes the door in my face.
On the other side, several bangs sound, and I half expect Crew to be the one who yanks the door open this time, but not a single part expected the gorgeous girl to come back. Just as naked as before, she shoves an old shoebox into my chest.
“Tell this Crew to take his ass to the post office already. The next thing I get of his, I’m shredding and using as a shit pad in my hamster’s cage.”
“Uh… okay?”
She slams the door.
I look up at the number hanging above it, double-checking it’s the right one, it is, and peeking into the shoebox on my way back to my car confirms as much.
Placing it in the passenger seat, I drop back against my own.
‘This Crew,’ she said.
So she doesn’t know him.
So Crew moved.
When?
Why?
Where?
I consider calling and asking him all these questions, but instead, tear into the cookie bag on the drive home, officially claiming his surprise treats as my own.
What’s worse? I’m almost as relieved to discover he no longer lives where the feisty green-haired girl is sleeping half-naked as I am annoyed I was unaware he didn’t.
Almost.
My favorite class is my humanities one. In part, because Mrs. Anna, as she insists on being called, is hilarious, but mostly because it’s a totally random class I’m only taking to satisfy the elective credit needed for graduation.
I’m not sure what you are supposed to do or learn in a humanities class, but we pretty much search for and stare at ancient artwork all day, coming up with a sophisticated outlook or perception of why it was created and what it could signify.
Basically, we use our imagination to stimulate our professors, and I’m all for it. It’s sort of cleansing to complete a task that literally has nothing to do with anything outside of challenging our own intellect. Unfortunately for me, today, I’m only able to pop in before class begins to turn in my assignment, and then I’m rushing toward the student parking lot—after asking permission to do so, of course. Mrs. Anna just laughed and waved me on.
Rachel, my boss at the diner, works with my schedule pretty well, but every now and then, she’s forced to add me at times employment paperwork notes I’m unavailable. She knows when she does it, I’ve been here since winter break my freshman year and to convince her to give a student the job—something she hates to do—I had to agree to keep my schedule as is. If I tried to change it, it would be grounds for termination.
I agreed, and honestly, it makes my life easier, but like I said, sometimes I’m her only option, so if I can make it in, I do.
The relief on her face as I push through the door this fine Thursday says it all; she’s damn happy I pulled it off this afternoon.
Tying my apron behind my back, I quickly jump behind the counter, using the tablet bolted there to clock in. “Okay, fill me in. What do we got?”
“One fryer is down. Sarah had to leave to pick up a sick kid, and Marla is two seconds from losing her mind if she doesn’t get a break.”
“Lunch, Rachel.” Marla swoops by, snagging a batch of chili cheese fries and a pile of napkins. “I need to take my lunch.”
“Right. Lunch.” Rachel looks at me mid-count of the money. “Got it?”
“Got it. Work Sarah’s section today, cover Marla’s for the next thirty, and convince people they would rather have fresh fruit than fries.”
“Attagirl, I’m going to call Stephanie to see if she can come in an hour early tonight, and I’ll be back on the floor.”
“And I’m clocked out!” Marla whisper-shouts, disappearing through the double doors behind Rachel.
So, I get right to work.
I need the distraction anyway.
Anything to keep from wondering why there’s a pile of unopened mail with Crew’s name on it on the floorboard of my car… and where I can score myself a jewelry-like G-string.
