I hover at the entrance of Sudz, shifting the bag of laundry on one shoulder, my backpack on the other, and observe Banner at my leisure. In a flurry of deft movements, she tames the wild tangle of whites into orderly stacks, all the while whispering to herself, the thick, sculpted arch of her dark brows dented in concentration. Earbuds in, she is rehearsing what I know to be conversational Mandarin Chinese.
Banner has a thing for languages. First day in our Debate & Public Speaking class, Professor Albright said the power of language is how it connects us. He asked something in English, and of course, we all answered. Then he asked a question in Spanish, still many replied in kind. French, fewer, but some still answered. Italian, almost no one, a few, maybe three. When he called out a question in Russian, only one voice echoed from the very back of the huge lecture hall.
Banner Morales.
Even uttering the phlegmy, harsh Russian consonants, her voice sounded like it had been smoked over coals then left chilling on ice. Richly flavored, but cool. Husky. Confident. I couldn’t resist. I had to turn and see who belonged to that voice. I’m used to girls noticing me, but Banner’s eyes never left Professor Albright standing down front, even though I stared up at her for a good minute. I wanted her to see me watching her, but she didn’t acknowledge me. I’ve been trying to get her to see me ever since.
“Hěn hào chī,” she whispers, starting on a stack of darks.
I tap her shoulder and she jumps, screeching a little and making me laugh. It’s so unlike her to screech.
“Sorry,” I say, my grin unrepentant.
“You scared me half to death, Foster.” Hand pressed to her chest, she rolls her eyes, but a good-natured smile tugs at those full lips. Her lips look perpetually just kissed. She has one of those Julia Roberts mouths. Her lips, the top and bottom, are precisely the same width and fullness. There’s no dip or bow, like when they were molding Banner’s features, they tugged at the corners of her mouth and said just a little wider.
They must have thought, “There. Perfect. That’ll torture Jared Foster every time he looks at her.”
“What were you mumbling about when I walked in?” I ask.
“Working on restaurant conversation tonight.” She turns off the audio on her phone.
“Oh, that’ll come in so handy.”
“More than the Latin you took in high school,” she says, chuckling. “They call it a dead language for a reason. You need to learn something that’ll be useful to you in business.”
“Yeah, yeah. I will. Now tell me what you were saying when I came in.”
“Hěn hào chī.” She carefully places each syllable like if she drops one it might break.
My lifted brows request the translation.
“Very delicious.” She grins infectiously. “On my first business trip to China, I’ll be able to tell the server that the meal was Hěn hào chī.”
“China, huh?” I drop my bag of already clean laundry to the floor. Many of my clothes get re-washed to justify studying with Banner in a laundromat.
“Basketball is exploding in China,” she says. “Yao Ming tore down the Great Wall, so to speak. The financial implications of China for the NBA are huge.”
“So they tell me in our Econ class.”
After having no classes with Banner at Kerrington, despite the fact we are both sports management majors, we share two classes our last year here.
“Speaking of which, we need to study for that final,” she says, tossing a dryer-warm T-shirt in my face. “And you’re late. Again.”
“Sorry.” I toss the T-shirt back into her pile of navy blue and black cotton. “Again.”
“I hope it’s worth it.”
I let her words settle around us for a second before answering.
“You hope what’s worth it?” I ask with a quick frown.
“I’m not stupid,” she says wryly.
“Obviously.”
“I know what you’ve been up to,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
Oh, shit.
“Uh . . . you do?”
“Of course.” She hits my shoulder with her small fist. “You’re pledging a fraternity.”
A relieved breath rushes past my lips. “What makes you think that?”
“The buzz cut?” She points to my shorn hair. “The late hours and weird ‘assignments.’ It all adds up to a fraternity. I just hope they aren’t asking you to do anything too outrageous. Or dangerous.”
The stern line of her lips paired with the belligerent glint in her eye makes me want to divulge all the outrageous, dangerous shit I’ve done the last three months to get in with The Pride. Of course, every prospect signs confidentiality agreements, and even if we don’t get in, we can’t talk about The Pride. But if I could tell her . . . she looks like she would kick some ass in my defense.
“So are you in?” she asks, going back to the pile of darks and starting to fold again.
Hell no. Prescott’s words “fuck a fat girl” resurface in my head, and anger grips me by the throat. I swallow several colorful curses and simply shake my head.
“I withdrew.” I twist the rope on my laundry bag and avoid her stare. “They crossed the line.”
“I’m sorry, Jared.”