Mine: A Love Story
Read Mine: A Love Story Online
Authors: Scott Prussing
Mine:
A Love Story
By Scott Prussing
MINE:
A LOVE STORY
Copyright © 2011 by Scott Prussing
All rights reserved.
Scott Prussing
1027 Felspar St.
Suite 2
San Diego, CA 92109
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any mechanical or electronic means without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. The scanning, uploading and distribution via the Internet or via any other means without the written permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law.
I believe in fairy tales—sort of. I mean, I want to believe. I need to believe. And not just in the standard ones, like Cinderella and Snow White marrying their princes and living happily ever, or Belle’s ugly Beast turning into a handsome prince. No, I believe in tales like Romeo and Juliet, too. Only in my version, there’s no poison and no knife. Just joyful years together. And lots of cute kids, too. Pretty cool, huh?
There’s a reason I need to believe so strongly. If you spent even a couple of days in my life, with my father and mother, you’d see it. I know they were in love once—I’ve seen the photos and read their old letters. Probably, they still love each other, in their own weird, incomprehensible way. But they fight all the time. When they’re not fighting, they’re arguing, and if they’re not arguing, they’re bickering. Constantly. At each other, back and forth. Pick, pick, pick. I hate it. When it gets too loud, I lock myself in my room and try to drown them out with my guitar. I love that guitar.
This kind of family life has molded me, for sure. I’m the most cautious girl you know. Cautious about what I say, cautious about what I do, cautious about who I let into my life. I’m so cautious no one has ever heard me play my guitar. That’s right. Nobody. Except my mom and dad, and they’ve only heard me through my closed door. I think I play pretty decent, but I’m afraid of the kind of comments I’d get if I played for anyone. That’s what happens when you grow up in home filled with so much negativity. I’m kind of shy, too. Shy and insecure—there’s a winning combination for you. I finally got on Facebook this year, and I’ve got all of fourteen friends—and five of those are my cousins! How many eighteen-year-old girls do you know who have only fourteen Facebook friends?
I’m in a good mood today, though. Guardedly happy, but happy nonetheless. In just an hour or so, I’ll be leaving for school—State U. I’ll be living on campus. No more fighting, no more arguing, no more bickering. I hope I get a cool roommate. If I do, maybe I’ll even let her hear me play my guitar. Maybe…eventually…way down the road….
Mom and Dad want me to live at home—State’s less than twenty-five minutes away, an easy commute. Are you kidding? Live at home? I mean, it’s not that I don’t I love them. I do. They’re my mom and dad, after all. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stay one minute longer than I have to. They’re paying my tuition, but I’m paying the room and board—every penny of it. I’ve been saving for this since I started babysitting when I was twelve, and almost every cent I made working at the gift shop the last two summers and after school went right into my “escape fund.” Today, I escape. Hooray!
Right now, I’m digging into a stack of blueberry pancakes Mom whipped up in honor of my last breakfast at home. They’re fantabulous, topped with real butter and sweet maple syrup. Mom’s a really good cook. I think she’s hoping the memory of these pancakes will get me back here for more home-cooking sooner rather than later. As another delicious bite slides down my throat, I think maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to slip home for an hour or two now and then—at dinner time, of course.
Then Dad comes into the kitchen, and I remember why I’m so happy to be leaving.
“How come you never fix a breakfast like this for me?” he asks Mom.
His tone is sort of light-hearted, and I know he’s only teasing, but that’s how it usually starts. I instinctively reach for the iPod I keep fastened to my belt, but earphones are forbidden at the table, so there’s no refuge for me there.
“Oh, Henry,” Mom replies. “It’s Heather’s last meal here. I wanted it to be special.”
“She’ll only be ten miles away,” Dad grouses. “She knows we’ll come get her any time she wants. Heck, she could walk home in a couple of hours if she really wanted to.”
Dad knows I love going for long walks, but that’s not the point. Besides, the reason I started taking the walks in the first place was to get away from all this, not to come back to it.
“And you’d probably make her walk, wouldn’t you?” Mom counters. “That would be just like you.”
And so it begins, again. Since I can’t use my iPod, I play music in my head. I’ve gotten really good at that. One of Taylor Swift’s earliest songs, “One Way Ticket,” has been my escape anthem for four or five years now, and it automatically fills my brain. She sings about buying a train ticket and seeing how far away she can get. I can’t believe how young she sounds, how young she was when she recorded it, on a demo CD yet. Lost in the lyrics and the music, I barely taste my pancakes. Mom and Dad’s bickering has a way of sucking the joy out of most things, even something as completely awesome as homemade blueberry pancakes smothered in butter and syrup.
Mom and I are standing beside the driveway, watching Dad load my stuff into the back of our Explorer. Our chocolate Lab Sam sits in front of us, watching as well. His tail isn’t wagging with its usual vigor, and I wonder if he knows what’s happening, that I’m leaving. He’s a pretty smart dog. I’m going to miss Sam.
It’s a beautiful morning. Warm, but not hot. A gentle breeze carries the scent of Mom’s rose garden to the driveway. I love the smell of flowers. Roses, honeysuckle, jasmine—you name it. Above us, the narrow contrail of a high-flying jet is streaking through a crystal sky, heading straight for a giant white cloud. Most people would probably think of a missile heading for its target, but I see Cupid’s arrow aimed at a waiting heart. I told you I was a romantic.
I’ve got my long, dark blond hair tied behind my neck, keeping it out the way while I packed and carried my things out. I’m wearing a dark blue Old Navy T-shirt and ripped jeans. Nothing special. The jeans didn’t come ripped—they’re way too expensive to buy that way. I don’t spend much on clothes. Like I said, I’ve been saving my money for years so I could live on campus. My guitar and iPod are about all I’ve splurged on, and I consider those necessities, not luxuries. All that scrimping and saving is about to pay off. I used scissors and my hands to rip my jeans, and they look just as good as store bought ones. Better, if you ask me, because I got to tear them exactly the way I wanted.
Dad is struggling to fit one of my boxes into the back, but Mom and I make no move to help him. We’ve learned that with projects like this, it’s best to stay out of his way and let him do everything himself. We helped carry the boxes and suitcases out to the car, but we’re letting him load it. Mom has her arm around my back. It feels good. One my other side, I’m holding my guitar case. That feels good, too. No one touches my guitar but me. Not even when it’s in the case.
I’ve read every word the college sent about my dorm and the things I should bring. I made notes of anything I thought was important, and I’ve got a list of everything I want to take. I checked each item off as I packed it. Cautious girl, being thorough.
There’s not all that much stuff. I’ll be living in one of the oldest dorms on campus, in a single room with one roommate. I learned the other day her name is Marissa, but that’s all I know about her. It would have been nice to live in one of the newer suites with my own bedroom and a couple of roommates, but those are way more expensive, so I chose the cheaper option.
“You haven’t told us what courses you decided on for your first semester,” Mom says.
“Oh, just the usual,” I say. “Required stuff—English, algebra, American history. And psychology as an elective. That might be fun.” I don’t tell her about the special fifth course I signed up for, which I hope will really be fun. She might understand, but Dad won’t. And I don’t want to hear anything about wasting his tuition dollars.
“I’m sure you’ll do great in all of them,” Mom says. “Look how well you did in high school. College is just like high school, except the kids are older.”
Ugggh. I hope it’s not anything like high school, for more reasons than I care to share with Mom.
Finally, Dad is done loading. The cargo area of the Explorer is packed tight.
“All set,” he says. “Take a look. A perfect fit, like a giant three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.”
Mom and I murmur appropriate praises. I open the back door and Sam jumps inside, excited he’s not being left behind. I ease my guitar case onto the seat beside him and climb in. Mom slides into the passenger seat and Dad gets behind the wheel and backs out of the driveway. We’re on our way!
In the car, there are no rules against earphones, so I stick mine in before we’re even out of our neighborhood. Dad always has the radio set to a Rock and Roll station. I like the music, but the stereo doesn’t drown out their bickering like earphones do. Kellie Pickler’s “Best Days of Your Life” fills my ears. I can see Mom and Dad’s mouths moving—sometimes both at once—but mercifully, I can barely hear them. If I have to guess, they’re arguing about Dad’s driving. Mom thinks he drives too fast and follows too closely. Which he does. Dad thinks he’s the world’s greatest driver. He’s always saying he should have driven in NASCAR. Says he probably would have if he hadn’t gotten married and had a kid so young. Gee, Dad, do you ever think how that makes your kid feel?
Fifteen more minutes and we’ll be at school. Thank god. The guy in Kellie’s song may already have had the best years of his life, but I’m pretty sure mine are about to start. I sure hope so, anyway.
We’re here! I know it’s barely ten miles from home, but it feels like I’m in a whole different city. It’s not the distance that matters, it’s the separation, the freedom. I can’t keep from smiling as Dad swings the Explorer through a wide stone gateway onto the campus. He slows down now, meandering along shady lanes, past impressive old brick and stone buildings. Some of them sit close to the road; others perch behind lush green lawns or thick hedges. It really is a pretty campus.
Dad eases to a stop in front of a rectangular four-story brick building. It’s barely ten o’clock, and there’s only one other car here. Most kids are probably coming from farther away than me and will take longer to get here. That’s good for us, allowing Dad to park in the shade of a leafy maple, directly in front of the cement walkway leading up to the front door. That means less distance to lug my stuff, too.
I study the old building. Thick vines of green ivy twist their way up the wall to the bottom of the second-floor windows. We’ve passed plenty of buildings on campus with more charm or character, but I don’t care. A small lump forms in my throat. I’m looking at my new home!
Dad switches off the engine, and we all climb out of the car. The new surroundings seem to have brightened Sam’s mood as much as mine. His tail wags joyously as he scampers around on the lawn in front of the building.
“Come, Sam,” I call. He races back to me and I kneel in front of him, scratching him behind both ears. I’d like to think he’s feeling my joy, but I think he’s probably just excited to be somewhere new. So I guess in a way, he is sharing my joy, because I’m definitely thrilled to be somewhere new.
“Well, let’s get started,” Dad says, pulling up the cargo door.
Mom opens the back door of the Explorer. “In you go, boy,” she says to Sam. “No dogs allowed inside the dorm. You can guard Heather’s stuff while we’re gone.”
With the windows half down and the shade of the maple to keep things cool, Sam will be fine in the car for a few minutes. He sticks his nose out the window and watches as Dad hands Mom and me a couple of the smaller boxes. Dad grabs my two heavy suitcases, lifting them easily. We follow him up the walkway. Near the doorway, I ease ahead of Mom and Dad and pull the glass door open.
There’s a single elevator across a tiled lobby. Mom pushes the up button, and it glows yellow.
The elevator arrives with a sharp ding, and the metal doors slide open. We step inside and I press the button marked “4.” As the elevator begins to rumble upward, Dad drops the suitcases to the floor with a loud thud.
I hold my breath for a moment, hoping the jolt of the heavy suitcases won’t mess up the old elevator. I feel a little foolish, but I can’t help myself. Cautious girls worry about all kinds of things.
We make it to the fourth floor without any problems. I’m in Room 401, directly across from the elevator, which is nice for moving in or out. I pull my room key from my pocket. Filled with nervous anticipation, it takes me a moment before I can fit the key into the lock.
I twist the knob and push the door open.
I can’t believe how happy I feel as I step into the room. My room. Well, mine and Marissa’s, anyhow. Mom and Dad follow me inside.
The room is pretty much what I expected. It’s kind of small—barely bigger than my bedroom at home—and I had that all to myself. The furnishings are simple and practical. A faint scent of an ammonia-based cleaner lingers in the air, so the first thing I do is crank open the windows. Then I survey my new home more closely.
Twin beds rest against the two side walls, which are painted a bluish-green hue, probably called seafoam or something like that. Beyond the beds, mirrored sliding doors front the narrow closets—no walk-ins here. Good thing I don’t own all that many clothes. There’s also a pair of four-drawer oak dressers on the far wall, as well as two small desks. A porcelain sink with a mirrored cabinet above it protrudes from one wall. Showers and toilets are communal, down the hall. I’ll check them out later, but I’m sure they’re not anything fancy. I just hope they keep them clean.
“Why don’t you start unpacking,” Dad says to me, “while your mother and I go get the rest of your things.”
“No, I’ll come down with you,” I say. “I need to say good-bye to Sam.”
The elevator is waiting for us across the hall, another advantage of being one of the first to arrive. Back at the car, I hug Sam good-bye while Dad unloads the rest of my stuff.
“I’m going to miss you, Sam. But don’t worry, I’ll drop by before too long.” Sam is worth putting up with mom and dad for a couple of hours. And who knows, maybe they’ll be so happy to see me when I visit they’ll stop bickering for a little while. A girl can hope, can’t she?
A second trip up the elevator is all we need to get the rest of my stuff to my room.
“Do you need any help unpacking and getting set up?” Mom asks.
“No, I’m good. Orientation doesn’t start until this afternoon, so I’ve got lots of time to get settled.”
“Okay,” Mom says. “Call us if you need anything.”
Dad pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and hands it to me, an uncharacteristic piece of generosity, especially since he’s against my living on campus in the first place. “In case you have any unexpected expenses,” he says.
I give him a warm hug, then walk them over to the elevator, where I hug Mom while Dad holds the doors open, just in case someone calls the elevator from downstairs. Finally, I let go, and Mom steps into the car. I’m pretty sure I see tears misting her eyes.
My own eyes feel a bit moist as I cross back into my room and let out a big sigh. I can’t believe I’m finally here.
Since I’m the first to arrive, I guess I get to pick which side of the room I want. I choose the side with the window. I’m hoisting a plastic storage box onto a shelf in the top of the closet when I hear a female voice behind me.
“Wow, you’re really tall.”
I
am
tall, and self-conscious about it, too. Almost six feet, I tell people who are impolite enough to ask, though I’m actually closer to six-foot-one. I never wear heels, but I’m still much taller than most girls I meet. I need to hang out with the women’s basketball or volleyball teams, I think. If I were more coordinated, maybe I could actually play. But I’ve never been any good at sports.
I turn around and see a short, dark-haired girl standing just inside the doorway. The tips of her straight, shoulder-length hair are dyed so blond they’re almost white. She can’t be more than five-three. I find myself hoping this isn’t Marissa—how am I going to be best friends with someone so short? I’ll feel awkward and gawky all the time. And really I do want to be best friends with my roommate.
“And cute, too,” she says after I turn to face her. “Really cute.”
I take a closer look, trying to see if there’s anything in her face that would belie her words, because I don’t think of myself as all that cute. Past history tells me differently. Her face is round and pretty, and she’s flashing a bright smile at me. There’s a hint of something exotic in her features—maybe a bit of Spanish or American Indian or something. She’s got a small glass stud on the right side of her nose. Her dark eyes don’t show any guile or insincerity. She’s wearing a gray top off one shoulder with “PINK” scrawled diagonally in pink letters across a curvy chest.
I think about my own less sexy shape. A girl’s figure is the one place where B’s or C’s are way better than A’s. Oh, well, there’s nothing I can do about it. The shirt looks great on her. I don’t own any Pink stuff—it’s amazing how that one simple word adds twenty or thirty dollars to the price of a piece of clothing. Her jeans are ripped—maybe if she did them herself like me there’s hope for us yet. Her shoes are dark gray platforms, at least three inches high, which means she’s even shorter than I first thought. Short girls are lucky. They can wear heels and be taller. Tall girls can’t do anything to make ourselves shorter. Except sit down.
“Hi,” I manage to say. “You’re cute, too.”
Her smile grows wider. “I am kinda cute, huh?” she says. “But not like you. You’re gorgeous.”
I don’t know what to say to that. If I’m so gorgeous, where are all the guys? A line from a Sara Evans song pops into my head, something about straight haired girls wanting curly hair and brunettes wishing they were blond. Probably all the short girls wish they were tall. I wonder if the built ones wish they were flat. Somehow, I doubt that. Anyhow, I’m pretty sure I look uncomfortable.
“Don’t worry,” she says, grinning. “I’m not hitting on you or anything. I like guys
way
too much.”
“No, no,” I say. “I didn’t think that. I’m just kind of awkward sometimes. Sorry.”
“I’m Marissa,” she says, walking toward me. “You must be Heather.”
“Yes,” I say, extending my hand to shake hello.
She walks right past my hand and envelops me in a tight hug. “Great to meet you, Heather. We are going to have
some
fun this year, Roomie. I just know it.”
I have to admit, Marissa does seem like someone who knows how to have fun. That would be very good for me. And with luck, her outgoing personality will pull some attention away from me, which is how I prefer it.
Marissa lets go and steps back. “My brothers are bringing my stuff up,” she says. “They’re usually a pain in the ass, but they’re good for some things.”
The elevator dings across the hall, and a moment later, three short, muscular guys trudge into the room carrying Marissa’s boxes and suitcases. Two look so much alike they have to be twins, probably three or four years older than Marissa. The third looks like he’s still in high school, maybe a junior.
Marissa introduces them. The twins are Jason and Jeremy, and her younger brother is Michael.
“Wow, you’ve got a hot one here, Sis,” Michael says, smiling at me.
I can’t help but smile back. I guess I’m cute enough for high school kids, at least.
Marissa cuffs him playfully on the head. “Down boy. My roomie’s off limits.” She grins. “As if you’d have a chance, anyhow. Heather’s way out of your league.”
Michael returns his sister’s grin. I bet he doesn’t have any trouble with girls his age.
“Never hurts to shoot for the stars,” he says. He winks at me. “That’s how I roll.”
Marissa shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Okay, boys,” she says, pushing her brothers toward the door. “Time to go. Thanks for your help. I love you all, but I want to spend some time getting to know my roomie.”
We spend the next hour unpacking and talking non-stop—when we aren’t laughing, that is. By the end of the hour I feel like I’ve known Marissa for years. I don’t think I could have asked for a better roommate.
“We are going to have one helluva year, girl,” Marissa says. “Who says freshman year has to be difficult?”
Freshman year
.
Difficult
. The words echo in my head, bringing back memories of my last freshman year, in high school. And of the last girl I’d felt this kind of connection with. Gaby.