Val: 2

I had no intention of actually calling you back.

If you thought I had, you'd be crazy. Attention was the last thing you deserved.

I talked to Jet the day after you called, over dinner. We were having macaroni, and I was cooking. My back foot lifted from the linoleum as I reached for the Cajun seasoning. I nearly dropped it.

"Careful," Jet warned, but without concern. He knew I was too talented of a cook to let an amateur boss me around in the kitchen. I placed the vial on the counter and then rooted through the cupboard for a frying pan. Macaroni and cheese was one of Dad’s specialty dishes; he’d taught me to whip up a pot as soon I could see over the oven. Stubbornly insisting that mac and cheese wasn't the “real deal” without a sprinkle of bacon.

I set a wooden spoon in the sink. I moved aside so Jet could reach the soap. Jet was attracted to the sight of dirty dishes like a mosquito to a light. Washing dishes was an obsession for him; albeit the strangest obsession I’ve ever heard of. The steaming, soapy water running over his hands was his mechanism for placidity. I didn't get it. These tics of Jet’s used to be my favorite thing in the world. Recently, they'd only become bothersome and difficult to deal with.

I asked him how you and him were getting along, my mind still recycling the events of the night before. I had to say your name aloud; you weren't quite real if I didn't. Until now, you’d been the faceless villain lurking in the background of Jet’s story-like qualms; the end-all-be-all antagonist. Giving you a name made you seem human.

Jet hesitated before meeting my eye. "Miserable," he finally sighed, dropping the dish-ware in the sink. I jumped at the sudden noise. "He's been hassling me since day one," Jet complained, raising his voice. "You've seen it."

I exhaled. It was the same old song. My eyes flitted to the pan in my hand. I moved it to the front-left burner, tinkering with the heat dial. I told him that maybe you weren’t so bad. He stared at me. I avoided his eyes.

"Isn't so bad?" Jet asked, laughing humorlessly. "What about him 'isn't so bad'? Is it the part where he beat me bloody? Or where he publicly humiliated me?"

"You punched him first," I mumbled, feeling the need to address that logic.

"What’d you say?" Jet asked, fury simmering behind his blue eyes.

Abruptly sick to my stomach, I swallowed. I glanced up at him furtively. Realizing I was defending the wrong person, I said, "Nothing. I didn't say anything."

Jet let the spoon tumble from his hands again, and into the right section of the sink. He rinsed his hands and then turned off the faucet. He adjusted his belt, tucked his tag back into the neck of his shirt. My eyes glimpsed over his slim body, his gelled dark hair, the way his body bent at the waist as he tossed the soap bottle into the bottom cupboard. I began to think he wasn't about to finish his sentence, when his voice piped up. "I'm gonna go into work for an hour. Boss wants me to file a report."

A few months ago, Jet had applied for an internship at an engineering firm, and was accepted. After only three weeks of working there, his employer had been so impressed with how smart and adept he was, that Jet was promoted to a paid position. Jet was ecstatic. He’d excitedly informed me that his position was usually one only offered to college graduates, and he couldn’t believe his boss would go so far as to pull strings for him.

For Jet, that excitement had since morphed into an unshakable drive. For me, it had merely become one more reason to eat alone.

My heart fell. "It's seven o'clock," I argued.

Jet looked at his watch. "Wow," he marveled, as his eyes followed the ticking hands across the interface.

"I thought you said you were staying for dinner," I said, frustration and disappointment setting in.

Jet paused, the arms of his coat tugged halfway over his elbows. He flicked the jacket over his shoulders, and then wrapped his left arm around me. "Sorry," he replied, a little flustered and frustrated himself, as if it wasn’t fair for me to take jabs at his priorities.

I began to feel squirmy under his arm. Maybe because he was side-hugging me, and because side-hugs were the worst. I hated them more than anything. Side-hug was analogous to escape. He wanted to escape.

I took his forearm as he was about to walk away, hindering his efforts to escape. I stood on my toes and kissed him tentatively on the lips. I felt his breath washing over my cheek; he tasted like mint toothpaste and smelled faintly of dish soap. We both pulled away at the same time. "Are you coming back?" I crossed my arms.

"Maybe later," he said. Beneath his mask of reluctance, I knew that all he wanted was to be in that office, filing his report. "I love you," he said, and it was the same as your M; a last ditch effort to impress.

He continued out the door.

When he was gone, I marched into the living room, perching on the edge of the couch. Dad was on his business trip, and Mom wouldn’t be back until eight; when Bage’s parent-teacher night was over. I sat for a moment, unmoving, not brave enough to do anything. Subconsciously, I had thoughts of turning on the TV or curling up for a nap.

Consciously, I couldn't help mulling over the prospect of calling you, the digits of your number replaying in my head.

I waited for about another minute before I dialed your phone, waiting impatiently for you to pick up. As if Jet would walk back through the door at any moment.

"J.J.'s girl," you remarked, immediately upon answering. Then you laughed. "See that?" you asked me. "I got it on the first try."

"Wow," I responded, feigning surprise. "Maybe next time, you'll remember my actual name."

You paused at my deadpan, and then laughed again. This time, it was a real one, euphoric cackle rising up in your chest. I almost smiled, my hate for you threatening to dissipate for a moment.

"Sweetheart," you said, still laughing, "you don't even know the beginning of my name trouble. We can play the name game all day, and an hour later my memory'll just delete you from my system like an error."

I was reminded of my agitated rage when it began to boil in my stomach. Sweetheart? Had you just called me sweetheart? I guess I didn't reply, because you continued to talk. "So, all I'm saying is, it's a start." I found that I still couldn’t reply. My tongue felt heavy in my mouth. "So what's up?” you asked, like I was one of your boys who’d just called you with a favor. “What d'you need?"

I cleared my throat, remembering the task at hand.

"If we're gonna do this whole sandwich business thing, we're gonna have to make a few rules."

I'd been thinking about it nearly all night. In theory, your idea was well-constructed. You were smart and scrappy. Something about that realization made me want to find out what else was in store. It was a huge risk. I could lose my job. You wanted me to apply for the night shift and to—without getting caught—steal ingredients, only to scrape a little profit off the top. What you were asking of me was ridiculous.

At first, it had been a no-brainer. I wasn’t going to risk everything for someone I didn’t know. There was also the risk of getting in trouble at school. Our sale would be unwarranted. Illegal. We'd have to trust our customers to keep a secret. Above all, we'd have to trust each other.

You had used cunning rhetoric the night before, ensuring that we’d "cover our tracks". You’d convince the janitor to keep watch. A little bribe would take care of it. You clearly envisioned your ploy as some kind of casual game of Cops and Robbers. I had asked you how much profit we'd be making, and you said that accumulatively, we'd probably make a few hundred a week, once we got started. Foot-Longs at Subway nowadays were close to six bucks, and we'd sell them for five dollars, even.

“It’s a deal,” you insisted.

It was a deal, considering that kids would be willing to pay. The nearest Subway was nearly ten miles from the school campus. “We wouldn’t even really be stealing anything,” you reasoned. “It would be like borrowing a loan. We’d take what we need, and then repay them later for what we took. Just a simple slip of the cash in the register, and that’s that. We’re payed up, and nobody’s gotta be worried about their ass on the line.”

The physical aspect of getting away with it was what scared me. I couldn't risk getting caught on camera. Even if we weren't technically stealing, it would still look suspicious—and even criminal. The owner wouldn't hesitate to fire me. If the principal found out, we could be detained for engaging in suspicious and unwarranted activity on school property.

I would be putting everything on the line, and you’d be risking nothing but your disciplinary record. It didn't seem fair.

The promise of money didn’t attract me. But the thought of sneaking around and changing things and even defying the rules; it was strangely alluring. I had grown tired of following orders, of routine, and of coasting through life; of never giving nor taking. The way you talked about the business made it seem plausible. It wasn't some rinky-dink operation; it was real to you. You had endured vigorous planning, contemplated worst-case scenarios, and worked out the logistics. You were already fantasizing about how we'd advertise.

I was still coming to terms with the very idea of running the business in the first place.

"Oh yeah?" you asked. I detected an underlying hint of excitement in your voice. "Like what?"

"We'll have to be careful," I said.

Your voice was a garble of protest on the other end of the line, asking if I’d heard any of the precautions you mentioned.

I broke in. “No, you don’t understand. If I'm gonna agree to this, then we're gonna have to be really careful. I could lose my job, or worse. We could both get in trouble.” I sighed. “You're gonna have to have my back."

My back.

I couldn't believe I was trusting you with that, of all things.

I got up and walked into the kitchen, turning off the stove and cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder. I hauled the pot to the sink, and started to drain it. You were silent for a moment. I thought you'd hung up before you continued, voice crackling to life.

"To be honest,” you marveled, “I can't believe you're even thinking about this."

Irritation pulsed through my veins. You were playing me, just like you did everybody. If you hadn’t believed I’d think about it, then you wouldn’t have called me up in the first place. But you knew something about me; something that maybe I didn’t even know about myself, and you were taking advantage. And somehow, you still had the gall to patronize me.

"Why,” I asked, “because you and Jet are in the middle of some kind of middle-school gossip fest?"

You didn't respond. Then you laughed, so I continued, "Or because I'd be putting my job on the line for some stupid business plan that some stupid guy who I don't even know came up with?"

"Both," you responded.

And then, with seemingly no cause at all, the frustration that had welled up was suddenly gone. I was fighting a smile. I began to spoon out pasta onto a plate. "Well,” I said, “you've heard rule one."

"What's two?" you asked.

"When we're together, it'll be strictly on business. You seem to think that flirting with every girl you meet is alright, but I don’t want you to do the wink and kiss-me act with me. I don't want to even be your friend." You laughed again, a big, open, incredulous laugh, but didn't respond. I felt the sudden urge to play defense. To say something that would make you take me seriously. "Alena's my friend,” I interjected, “and she's Jet's sister, and as long as you're dating her, you’re only—"

“You the dating police, too? How do you even have time for school between all these jobs?” you cut in, but were no longer laughing. Not once I'd mentioned Alena. You kind of snorted and were quiet.

I saw the way you looked at her. You might not think I noticed you back then, but I only sat two seats in front of you in Economics class, when your entire posse used to get fierce glares from Mr. Norton. I remember turning around and seeing Alena’s legs draped across your lap, her in a fit of laughter, maybe at something you said, and your face twisted in a wild, puppy-like expression. I remember being surprised every time it happened, because Mr. Norton seemed like the type to crack down on the “no PDA” rule.

I guess I assumed you were in love with her. It was written all over the suppressed grin and the laugh that softened at her jokes, like the laugh was meant just for her. It was the only thing that compromised my otherwise unadulterated view of you. When you were with her, it was like you shed your skin—your renowned rep for being a player and a hustler—and actually cared. I’d never really allowed myself to take notice. In my book, it was just another act; only dressed up a bit. That was the only excuse I could conjure.

Jet's own views were even more one-sided. He was dreading the day when you would break his sister’s heart.

It's funny how things end up turning out.

"Anyway," I said quickly. "Three."

You said nothing. I was hesitant about continuing. This time, the thought of wounding you emotionally felt different. It felt guilty. I almost offered an apology.

Then my expression turned sour; there was no reason to please you, nor did I owe you a thing.

I shook parmesan from the container before retrieving a fork. "Three," I repeated. "No telling Jet about any of this. If he finds out, he's going to get the wrong idea. He'll probably--"

"Punch me in the face?" you offered.

It was funny, but I refused to laugh. "That option is not off the table, apparently, no."

"What an uptight dick," you grumbled, not angrily, but as if you were stating a known fact. I didn't know how to respond. I found that I agreed more than not at the moment. "Sure, fine,” you relented. “No telling J.J. anything. Secret's safe with me. Anything else?"

"No talking to me about Jet."

"What?" you asked, as if this was the most outrageous of the four rules. "You don't wanna know about the way he humiliated me in front of my entire football team? Or have you forgotten about the stick up his--"

"Shut up," I spoke, cutting and harsh.

"Christ, easy. I was only making a joke."

"A joke that you knew would get under my skin."

You exhaled, as if exasperated, and it was muffled by the speaker. You were getting tired of my restrictions; it was sucking the fun out of your game. The thought of this made me momentarily content. Impatient, you asked, "So are you in, or not?"

I took a bite of macaroni, and thought about it. Not quite believing my own words, I said, "We can try it. But at the first sign of something going wrong, I'll be on my way out." I was chewing my food ravenously, as if I could bite back my decision. Anxiously, I quickly added, "And no screwing me over. I get half the profit."

You laughed. You did that a lot. "Are you eating?" you asked, which caught me off-guard. You were still laughing.

As if it was a crime to eat while talking on the phone. I rolled my eyes, even though you couldn't see them. And then, sighing, I repeated, "So, no screwing me over? I wanna hear you say it."

This cracked you up even more. "Yeah, okay. Fifty-fifty, I got it."

Fire coursed through my blood. You were laughing at me. "Don't--"

"I won’t screw you over," you interrupted, an odd sincerity to your voice. It broke the circuit of my rage. I tried to tell myself that you weren’t so bad; that maybe you lacked ill intention; that maybe I could indulge in something risky and be by your side without hurting myself. I pretended to be convinced that the things I heard about you were your accidents; your mistakes. I wanted to believe the real you was the part that assured me you were a good enough guy. It took a lot for me to even want to believe that. More than it seemed.