Well, that's a first.
I've seen her get hit on more than once in the time I've worked here. But never have I seen her lean into it in any way. That's actually one of the things about her I admire--how she handles male attention. Me, it makes me defensive. But she doesn't let it go to her head or get under her skin. She's indifferent to it and that, I think, is the essence I want to embody.
I try to grab snippets of their conversation, like the shameless eavesdropper I am, but I can't manage to catch a coherent word due to the ambient noise and music playing through the overhead speakers. They talk for over ten minutes, while I tend to a few other customers.
When they finish, he leaves and when Lex passes me again, I hear myself ask, "Who is that guy?" and immediately regret it. My question is too interested and gossipy. She and I are not at that level, I remind myself. We aren't friends.
"Just a guy," she says, straight faced, then turns her attention to a cocktail sitting on the service bar. "No one's picked up this drink yet?"
Before I can respond to her question, she reads the order receipt and whisks the drink away to its table. And I know that later on tonight, one of the servers is going to get an icy scolding for their lapse.
The rest of my shift goes smoothly enough. There's just one obnoxiously drunk guy to deal with, whose drinks I take the liberty of watering down before finally cutting him off. Otherwise, it's a quiet Wednesday night, hours ticking past slower than usual as I look forward to peace and quiet.
Afterward I sit in my car, my face illuminated by my phone screen as I scroll past names on my contact list. I've caught myself doing this over the last few nights, just watching the names go by and feeling a slight pull behind my navel when I reach the names of my sisters.
The emails from friends have dwindled away over the past few months. I'm relieved because I don't need the constant reminder. Nor do I need the disingenuous concern from people who I rarely talked to until they heard what happened. It was as if people wanted me to entertain them, wanted details of my personal life to distract themselves from their own reality. I refused to be an act in someone's circus and that meant alienating myself.
It's funny, really. I used to complain of not having a moment to myself. Living with my two sisters and my very conservative parents felt suffocating. But now, sitting in my car after a long shift, the slow build of nostalgia grows in my chest. The desire to hear a familiar voice, a familiar laugh.
I guess I didn't realize how often I'd unwind by telling my sisters about my day. They're my closest friends and just one simple phone call away. If I just allowed my finger to tap on Cassandra's name, I'd hear my older sister's voice and her loud, infectious energy would fill my car. Calling Lola, on the other hand, would guarantee an update on her love life, which is always eventful.
But I haven't spoken to either of my sisters in a while. We haven't had an easy conversation since the day I was sure everyone was ganging up on me, when I felt my sisters were just mouthpieces for my parents, scolding me in indirect ways.
Looking back, I wonder if maybe I'd been overly defensive and too hurt to see their questions for what they were--concern. Time and distance have a way of putting things in perspective.
And though I'm not upset with them anymore, I still scroll past both of their names, my pride not quite allowing me to press call. Calling either of my sisters carries the load from the weeks of silence, like a physical barrier we would have to climb over in conversation. That climb feels too daunting for me to tackle tonight, so, once again, I make the choice to put my phone away, to avoid facing the music for a little longer.
Chapter Four
Julia
I'M BATHED IN THE BLINDING light pouring from overhead, my surroundings reduced to spots of colors from my distorted vision. Blue, tan, black, and gray halos of color.
There's an echo of a tuning microphone still trembling in my eardrum, drowning out what seems to be silence beyond. And as I try to bring something into sharp focus, the sounds of the microphone die out and I realize there are other noises, too. Movements, soft murmurs. The halos of blue and tan sharpen into auditorium seats, the other colors becoming the clothing of the people sitting in them.
I'm standing on a stage and the surrounding air grows a few degrees colder. I'm aware of my arms resting loosely at my sides. At the air pressing against every inch of my skin. Because I'm naked. I'm naked and I can't move.
I'm naked and every eye in the room is looking at me. No, not just looking at me. They're pointing, critiquing, discussing what they see amongst themselves. Anger fills me, because I didn't agree to this, I didn't tell them they could look. But their faces are relaxed and unapologetic as their curious eyes roam freely, never quite locking with my own. It's as if I'm trapped in a painting, reduced to something inanimate, with no right to be upset.
A wave of nausea washes over me, bringing up thick embarrassment at the fact that I'm still standing here, allowing it to happen. Because I'm frozen, trapped in my own skin.
I wake up with a sharp gasp, heart pounding, and eyes shut tight in the relief of knowing I'm awake. With my eyes closed, all I know is that I'm lying face down on soft cotton sheets. As I stir, my fingertips spreading across the linens, a new scent reaches me. A light, citrus smell, not the usual lavender of my aunt's detergent.
I open my eyes, blinking a few times at the light streaming in through the open blinds. This room is unfamiliar and for one wild second, I'm plunged into a panic of not knowing where I am. But just as quickly as it came, the grip over my stomach relaxes when I remember I've just spent my first night in my new room.
I sit up and take in my surroundings as I push the bed covers aside. The small room seems more spacious than it should. Not just because of its light, airy color of pale tan, but because there's practically nothing in it. My full-sized bed, courtesy of my uncle, is pushed into the corner of the room, with a single nightstand to its side. The plain, wooden bed frame is the only decorative element in the room.
Making this room feel like home is going to take time. And money. Money I shouldn't spend on frivolous things when I need to continue to save for my living expenses that will come fall quarter.