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December 2-December 8, 2007

December 2, 2007

“Asshole!” Cameron greets me as I open the door.

Her back's to me, crouching as she picks up the little foam basketball I just now realize I deflected when I opened the door. I grin. “Sorry about that—didn't realize you were shooting.”

“Well you can close the door now,” she says, straightening.

I go ahead and close it, stepping out of the line of fire, toward my desk. She squares up to the hoop and shoots ball like she would a real basketball, and it falls through the hoop, not even touching the rim.

“I didn't realize you ever shot around here,” I say.

“I always used to play basketball when I was stressed,” Cameron says, picking the ball back up, and retreating to the same spot she shot from the first time. She lines and shoots again, draining another shot.

“Not bad.”

She shrugs, retrieving the ball again. “I played for my high school team up through junior year—before I got fed up with all of the team bullshit.”

“Well I did not know that,” I say, hanging my pea coat over a bedpost. “So what did you say you were stressed about?”

“I didn't say.” She makes another shot. “But if you must know, I'm just stressed about school stuff. That, and Geoff is being a huge dick.”

“Being a dick about anything in particular?”

She sighs, squeezing the ball as she picks it up. “It's just like he doesn't get that being an art student still means you're a student. It's like he thinks that the end of the semester doesn't mean anything. But I do have projects to finish. Critiques to write. It all takes time.” She throws the ball hard, banking her shot in.

“No doubt about it,” I say. “Of course you're spending your time now abusing that backboard.”

Cameron spins, grunting as she wings the ball at my chest.

December 3, 2007

“How's that Wasabi chicken working out for you?” I ask, smiling as Chang gropes for his cup of water, peeling back the lid and beginning to chug it down. “That good?”

“Well,” he says, taking a deep breath, “they got the spicy part down. Unfortunately, that's the best I can say for the sandwich.”

“It's like I've been telling you,” I say, picking up my turkey sandwich, “the adventurous thing doesn't do you any good in a college dining hall.”

“I suppose not,” Chang says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I guess there's a part of me that just keeps dreaming, though.”

“I guess that's admirable—in a messed up way,” I say, taking a bite. I look past Chang at the crowded Lighthouse. If anything, I feel as though the place has gotten busier as of late. I guess people are less prone to take their food on the road when they know they'll have to trudge through the snow with it, and enjoy hanging out here, inside, for as long as they can.

“That, and digestive issues give me a good excuse for study breaks later in the day.”

“You've been looking for excuses to take a break?”

Chang winces as he chews another bite of the Wasabi chicken, but doesn't go for the water this time. “There's just a lot of work to do. That, and Brad's been hitting the books really hard lately. And if he's studying hard, I feel guilty if I'm not doing the same thing—unless I have a valid excuse.”

I crack a grin. “I guess you can't deny nature's call.”

“No getting around it,” Chang agrees, shaking his head before he takes another bite.

December 4, 2007

I slide my window shut, as the last words from Cameron's mouth rings through the air, hovering from where Cameron yelled it outside. The heat is turned up ridiculously high here in the dorm, to the point where I only wish I could push the window the other way, having it open all the way, to let that cold air in.

Cameron and Geoff are having a hell of a fight outside, though, and I'm doing what I can to not eavesdrop. I missed the start of the argument, and since they've come outside the building it's mostly just been expletives.

Even through the glass, I can still hear them.

“Get your ass back over here!” Geoff yells.

“Back off!” Cameron says. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

“Why won't you fucking listen to me?”

I peek out between the blinds. Something about Cameron telling him to get his hands off her actually worries me—like maybe I shouldn't be avoiding this argument, but intervening on her behalf. By the time I look out, there's a few feet between them.

“Because you're so full of shit, and I'm tired of it. It's always the same thing with you. You think you're the only thing in my life.”

“And what's more important? Drawing your little pictures?”

Cameron slams her fist against Geoff's chest. He backs up a step, but when she fires her second blow, he catches her by the wrist.

“Don't try me, Cam .”

“Or what?” she asks. “You'll put me in my place?”

“Don't try me,” he says a little louder, gritting his teeth.

I get up and head out the door. In the few seconds it takes me to get to the outer door, I think about how badly I don't want to get mixed up in this situation, and what a bad idea it might be to go outside.

I can't take the chance this is going to get worse.

“Hey Cameron,” I call out.

They both turn, Cameron ripping her wrist free from Geoff's hand.

“I thought I heard you outside,” I go on. “Why don't you come on in.”

She turns to Geoff for a second. He shakes his head.

Cameron turns back to me. “Thanks for getting the door Preston ,” she says, and heads toward me.

Geoff reaches a hand after her, but doesn't move his feet—doesn't make any real effort to touch her.

Cameron makes eye contact with me for a second as she comes in. She doesn't make a sound, but mouths a quick “thank you” before she comes inside.

December 5, 2007

“Hello,” Teri says, leaning upward to kiss my cheek as she comes into my room.

“Hey, how's it going?” I ask, closing the door behind her.

“It's going. And how are you doing, Cameron?”

Cameron raises a hand, sort of waving as she stares at her laptop screen. She reaches over, getting her cup of tea, and cradling it in her hands before she takes a sip. Cameron's been like this all day, fixated on her computer screen, hardly speaking a word to me, hardly getting up except to microwave another cup of hot water, or head into the bathroom.

Teri points her thumb at Cameron, raising her eyebrows. I sort of slant my mouth and half shrug, somehow trying to communicate that it's OK, but that I think she wants to be left alone. Teri raises her eyebrows further, crinkling her forehead, I think as if to say she has no idea what I'm trying to say.

I scratch my head.

Teri moves past me to the window, and peers out between the blinds. “There's a break in the snow,” she says. “If you want to come over, now's the time.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agree, and head over to my desk, where I start tossing books and notebooks into my messenger bag.

“Could I come too?” Cameron asks, her voice sort of a croak. I turn to her and she's looking down at her desk. “I sort of want to get out of here for a while.”

I look to Teri. I can't be positive of what her intentions were, but I know I had intended to get some work done at her place, then spend the night.

Teri doesn't flinch. “Of course you can come,” she says. “Get your stuff and let's head out.”

December 6, 2007

“Hey Mom,” I say over the phone, walking to class. I've had sort of a funny feeling all day, as the end of the semester nears. There's snow on the ground, and Christmas lights hang from more than a few of the dorm windows—holiday wreaths on the outer doors of some of the academic buildings. It's the kind of the day that gets your head moving ahead of you.

I can see myself at home with my mother and father, my brother and grandmother. Maybe I'm getting behind myself. This holiday season can give you a strange mix of nostalgia and anticipation

“ Preston , it's good to hear from you. How are you doing, honey?”

“I'm Good. And I don't know how things are in Florida , but it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here.”

“ Lot of snow?”

“Eight inches yesterday,” I say. “But that's all right. Makes it easier to stay inside and study.”

“Have finals started already?”

“They start Monday. But the preparation has begun. That, and I've got papers, and presentations and whatnot.”

“Well, I know you'll do great, honey,” Mom says. “You always do.”

“Thanks,” I say, stepping over a little puddle of sludge. “So you're going to be home for Christmas, right?”

“That I am. And I'm going to have a little surprise for you.” She pauses for a second. “I don't want to spoil it, though. Oh, and the doorbell's ringing. I'm going to let you go for now, all right?”

“Yeah sure,” I say with a chuckle, a little puzzled, a little amused. “Take care, Mom.”

December 7, 2007

An hour ago, Emma slapped her notebook shut. We were three hours into our group meeting with Claire and Nick, and I think every one of us had had more than enough book talk for the night. She looked directly across the table at me, through slightly bloodshot eyes. “I think we're done,” she said. “Anyone want to grab a beer?”

Emma laughs, pressing her forehead into my chest now, as I lean against the bar at the Hammerhead. Every word we speak seems to be a yell over the sound system, and the noise all of the people milling around, talking, setting down bottles and pint glasses.

I look down at Emma's hair as she moves away. It's turned lighter—a dark pink since the time she dyed it. I wonder if she's going to let the color fade, or dye it again before she's back to blond. Maybe she'll dye it another color to mix things up—maybe brown, or jet black.

I don't ask her a thing about her hair. I figure it would be weird if she even knew I was thinking about it so much. I suppose it is a little weird, and I'm not sure why it fascinates me.

She looks up, still smiling, and for a second, I can remember every piece of why I fell in love with her in the first place.

“All right,” Nick calls out, setting out a row of shot glasses behind us. He reaches, to slide the glasses of Guinness behind them. “For a hard working group, it's time for a just reward.”

“I don't know,” I say, raising a hand.

“Don't pussy out on me, Burns,” Nick says, taking a shot glass in one hand, a beer in the other.

“Yeah, Preston , don't be a pussy,” Emma says, giggling at herself before she finishes the sentence.

If anything, Claire looks less certain than me, but as I reach for my glasses, she follows suit.

“All right,” Nick laughs, raising his Guinness high, before he lets it drop back to chest level. “To the finest group Professor Jones will ever see.”

We drop the shots in all at once, and a half second later, we're off and drinking.

Claire coughs loudly, setting hers down, not quite done. Nicks slams his finished glasses down on the bar. Emma follows suit, and I'm finished a second later, taking an awkward step back as I shake my head.

Emma sort of stumbles toward Claire, leaning toward her. “You OK?”

Claire keeps coughing, and for a second, it looks like she's going to ralph. Emma keeps a hand on her back as she leans up against the bar.

Nick puts an arm over her shoulders. “I'm sorry,” he calls out, “that was probably a stupid thing to do.”

Claire looks up long enough to glare at him, her eyes watering a tiny bit.

Nick steps in front of her, and Emma moves to get out of his way. He pushes her hair from her face with his fingers and leans downward, kissing her softly.

All of a sudden, I think I might be sick.

Things are better in a second.

Claire pushes his chest hard, then swings to slap his face, just barely connecting as she stumbles forward.

“What are you doing?” Emma demands, getting in Nick's face.

“I have a boyfriend,” Claire says, backing up to the bar, rubbing her hand over her mouth. “You fucking asshole, I have a boyfriend.”

I step in between Claire and Nick, my chest to Emma's back. I look straight at Nick. “Maybe you'd better leave.”

“Come on, Third Degree Burns, you were seeing the same signs I was. Any guy—”

“Get out of here,” Emma says. We're all yelling, just to be heard, but there's this sharper edge to her voice right then, and I don't think anyone would question her.

Sure enough, Nick raises his hands, turns and walks away. He moves just fast enough so I don't think he could have an idea as Claire steps away from the bar, and throws up all over the floor.

December 8, 2007

The cashier punches buttons on the old mechanical register, cursing the thing as he has to enter certain numbers over and over again for the machine to recognize them. I take a sip of my coffee, holding a five dollar bill in my hand as I wait for him to finish putting in the transaction. A part of me is tempted to just leave the five and have him keep the change to spare us both the aggravation. I'm not in any hurry, though, and I've been trying to remind myself to save every dollar I can for the Christmas shopping ahead

“Presto, my man.” I turn to see Dave coming in the coffee shop, arms stretched wide. We clasp hands and he draws me in for a one-armed hug. His brown corduroy blazer reeks of smoke.

“How's it going, Dave?”

“It's good, man. Jesus, I feel like it's been months since the last time I saw you.”

I nod. “Yeah, it's been a while.”

“Crazy.” He shakes his head. “But yeah, things are real good. Band has a ton of gigs for next semester already.”

“Good for you. It's been a while since I've seen you guys play.”

“We've been getting off campus, man. Not playing Madison Square Garden quite yet, but we're getting shows in the area—pretty much anyplace in a half hour radius of school, and I'm telling you, we're expanding in 2008.”

“Good deal.” Looking down, I see a stack of 8'x11' papers in his hand. “So what have you got there?”

He turns them over, holding them up against his chest. They're flyers, featuring Dave wailing on his guitar. “Last show of the semester, and the school's paying us. December fourteenth.” He points at me. “You're going to be there, right? You've gotta be there.”

I smile. “I wouldn't miss it.”

“I knew you wouldn't,” Dave says. He tugs at the end of a roll of electrical tape, hanging on his wrist, stretching it out, before he breaks off the strip between his teeth. I'm going to offer to help, but it seems like he has everything in order. He curls the strip over and plants on the back of flyer before slapping it to stick against the back of cash register.

The cashier looks up, exhaling loudly. He punches one more button then turns to me. “That'll be $1.84.”