Jeeeesus. Why does my teacher have to be so hot? Ten years older than me. I almost can’t stop staring. I have to force myself to look away and take a drag off my cigarette.
“He helped me get into CU right after high school. I was sorta like you. Smart, but unmotivated. He motivated me.”
“CU?”
“University of California.”
“Oh. I’m not up on all that college stuff.”
“You should be.”
“Why? It’s not like I’m ever going.”
“Why not?”
“Um.” I laugh. “I’m broke, number one.”
“They have scholarships. But you have to apply.”
“My grades are terrible. And the occasional A in biology won’t cover that fact up.”
“There’s lots of ways to go to college, Shannon.”
“Maybe it’s just not for me,” I say, irritated.
“Maybe you have no idea what’s good for you.”
“And you do?”
He shrugs again. “I know you can do trig.”
“Like hell. I’m not sure why everyone thinks I’m so smart here, but back in Ohio I was nothing but average. So you people either have very low standards or you have no idea what mediocrity looks like.”
He laughs. “Mediocre people don’t use the word ‘mediocrity,’ Shannon.”
I sigh and take another drag. “I’m tired of talking about this. I’d rather just be invisible, thanks. Bowman should mind his own business and ignore me like everyone else.”
“Who’s ignoring you?” He chuckles. “I can’t imagine you get ignored much. You’re like a little explosion in a bottle.”
“You’d be wrong. Everyone ignores me at this school. Some girl started talking Spanish to me this morning. She just assumed I was Hispanic because I have brown hair. And I’ve seen and even talked to her at least half a dozen times, yet she never saw me.” I take a drag. “It pissed me off too. Invisible, that’s what I am. I guess I should get used to it.”
“Your call,” he says, standing. Just then a yellow cab pulls under the shelter and comes to a stop next to his bike. “Your ride’s here anyway.”
I get up and wipe the stones off my ass, but it’s no use. I’m still soaked. Alesci walks over to the cab and talks to the driver through the window. He turns to me, opens the back door of the cab, and waves me in.
“This is me?” I ask, dumbfounded. “I don’t have enough to pay for a cab.”
“I paid with a credit card online.”
“Oh.” He planned this pretty thoroughly. I start to slip the jacket off and give it back, but he stops me with a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Keep it on, Shannon. I can see your tits through that bra. And next time you wear a white shirt, check to see if it’s gonna rain before you leave the house without a jacket.”
My whole face heats up and I’m quite positive it’s bright red.
“You’re good for the jacket, right?”
I nod and swallow hard.
“I’m gonna be seeing a lot of you, Shannon Drake. There’s no way in hell you’ll be invisible to me.”
I don’t even know what to say. So I just slip into the cab and lean back against the seat and wonder why my heart is beating so fast.
“Mateo,” he says, leaning down into the cab, his face so close to mine I can feel the heat of his breath.
“What?” I whisper.
“My name,” he says. “Mateo Alesci. Happy birthday, Shannon. See you tomorrow.” And then he closes the door and pounds twice on the roof to signal the cabbie to leave.
I’m still repeating his name in my head fourteen blocks later when the cab pulls up in front of my apartment.
And then it hits me. He knows where I live. He knows everything about me because he has my file.
Chapter Five
Our building is a collection of one-story apartments in a u-shape, centered on a grassy quad. There are only about fifteen of them. There’s an alley on the other side of the laundry room building where people have small garages. The 5 freeway is less than fifty yards from where I stand on the curb, and less than twenty feet from my bedroom window.
It is a constant source of white noise that I have gotten used to. It’s a comforting hum in a life that should be empty silence.
I am not even halfway across the grass, heading towards our corner apartment, and I can hear the baby. The windows are open and she is loud. I know I should go inside and help Jason, but I haven’t eaten since lunch and I still have two dollars in my pocket. So I keep walking past our front window, thankful that the curtains are drawn, and slip into the alley. Bill’s Burgers is just on the other side of the freeway and they have ninety-nine cent sliders for happy hour. I have about fifteen minutes to make the deadline, so I jog, my backpack slapping with the rhythm of my feet.
I’m still wet, but the heat is on and it rushes past my face when I enter the restaurant.
“Hey, Shan,” Jose, the owner, says from behind the kitchen counter. He says this even though there are about a dozen people milling around and waiting for service or take-out.
Every head swings to look at me and I can’t look down at my feet fast enough.