Chapter Two
Ricky
FORMING A FIST, I punched the door to Psych 201 open, pleased to hear it bang against the wall. Psychology was my last required core class before getting my associate’s degree from Indianapolis Community College.
I walked into the crowded lecture hall toward the rows of seats, avoiding eye contact with my fellow students. I didn’t give a fuck what they thought of me.
Immediately, I felt eyes tracking me. I didn’t look the part of a typical college student. I’d give them that. Like my sisters, I had thick, straight black hair that I also wore long, gathered at the back of my skull into a low ponytail. Colorful and bold tattoos were prevalent on my arms, neck, and hands. Money spent on tattoos was a luxury I didn’t allow myself. Bartering my mechanical skills in exchange for tats at my buddy’s shop, was an ideal arrangement. The permanent expression on my skin and the pain involved getting it, a hedonistic pleasure.
I wore a faded leather jacket, distressed, holey jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a t-shirt—all within the color range of white, grey, or black. Not because I was trying to make a statement. Promoting a look or dressing for status was comical. I wore the same outfits repeatedly because it was all I owned. Over the years, I’d watched rich, pretty boys try and copy my biker look, hoping their attitude would be reflected by their clothing. My friends, the guys I’d trust with my life—Landon, Dean, and Jon—would howl with laughter at the irony.
My attitude had nothing to do with wardrobe or the antiquated motorcycle I’d ridden since I’d scraped the money together to buy it.
My attitude was learned from life. Loss. Loyalty. And family.
Anything for my family.
Walking up the steps, I passed rows of seats arranged theatre-style, elevated, so that everyone would get a view of the professor. An aisle seat, perfect for an easy exit, beckoned me. The middle rows of the lecture hall were always my choice. I wasn’t an ass-kissing fucker, like those in the first few rows, but I also paid attention and gave a shit, unlike the back-row fuckers.
To say I hated having to take a class like Psychology would be an understatement. Who needed to analyze themselves or others? I despised the concept of therapy-speak. My version was more, “I hear what you’re saying, Señor numb nuts, but you’re a fool.” Or “Grow the fuck up. Move the hell on. Get over yourself.” Lips pursed, I held back a smile. I’d be a badass therapist.
I slung my ratty backpack in front of my feet, pulling out a spiral bound notebook and pen. Unlike most of these privileged shitheads, there was no laptop on my desk. I had to use one of the college’s library computer rooms to type papers.
As I turned to a new page, I glanced at my fingernails. Despite a long, hot shower, black grease remained caked under the nail beds. I had been out until four o’clock in the morning the night before. One of my jobs was steam cleaning restaurant vents after they closed for the night. It was disgusting work, but it paid great. That job alone covered household groceries for the next month. Not to mention the owner, Matteo, always had a six-pack waiting for me at the end of a long shift. I’d enjoy a couple of those cervezas tonight.
“Hello?” A thin, rigid looking woman in a blue pantsuit stood in the front of the room, clapping her hands together. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dr. Alicia Redmond. Welcome to Psych 201, Psychology of Personality.”
Dr. Redmond walked to the table next to her podium and picked up a large stack of papers. “This is your course syllabus. Required texts, assignments, and important dates are included here. I advise you to read this thoroughly and keep it handy.” She strolled up the center aisle, handing a stack of papers to each student seated at the end of the row, nodding for us to pass them down. When she came to me, I took the papers, grabbing one from the top, handing the rest of the pile to the next person without a glance.
I scanned the document. Not much captured my interest these days. With my boys all off in different places, I hadn’t taken the time to make new friends. My focus was on helping my family and getting my degree.
But after perusing the college’s course catalog, the description of this particular class struck me. While I thought therapy was utter bullshit, this class covered a topic I found fascinating—personality. Mine was fucked up, no denying that. I’d like to understand why.
“Now that you’ve all had a chance to look at the syllabus, let’s get started. Psychology 201 is a popular course for both pre-Psych majors and those seeking interesting elective courses. Why? Because inherently, we all want to know why we are damaged. Am I right?”
A spattering of awkward laughter filled the room. She was exactly right though, and I understood long ago that not many people wanted to admit they were fucked up.
“In this class we will define personality and attempt to understand how individual personality evolved. You will take and administer several personality tests, as well as discuss personality disorders. The greats will heavily influence our discussions: Freud, Maslow, Piaget, and Erikson are integral parts of our discourse.” Dr. Redmond stopped pacing the stage and stood in front of her podium, elbows on top, and hands folded.
“Spoiler alert. I’ll tell you the answers to our studies for this class right now. On the first day. Feel free to leave after I share this information if you are satisfied.” She paused, scanning the room.
Students fidgeted, restless and uncomfortable with the quiet perhaps, but most likely the way she watched us. Her eyes were probing, but they didn’t bother me. She could look as closely as she wanted. No one got inside me.
“Nature versus nurture,” she went on. “That’s what everyone wants to know. That’s why you’re here, right? You want to blame your baggage on your parents or your genetics. I know, I know. I do, as well.”
She moved away from the microphone, facing us now with her hands on her slim hips. “If only life consisted of easy explanations for your questions, people. The answer is both. Neither weighs more heavily. The combination is complicated, fluid, and delicate. Your genes and your society equally affect the person you will become.”
Fiddling with her laptop, she powered on the large whiteboard that displayed a replica of the class syllabus. “If you’re in with me for the tough journey… the one that will make you question everything you know about yourself, your family, your friends, society, and hell, your government… pull up your big girl or boy pants and open your minds.”
She paused, slowly looking row by row at her audience. “Let’s begin.”
I smothered my smirk, but I couldn’t hold back my approval. Dr. Redmond was my kind of teacher. She presented a challenge. Intrigued me. Left me wanting more.
Damn right, I was ready for the tough journey. My whole damn life was nothing but that.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, the lecture finished. Glancing at the time on my phone, I stifled a groan. I never told my boss my new class schedule. He’d assume I was late and try to cut some of my pay for the day.
Scrambling, I shoved my shit into my backpack and moved into the aisle. I elbowed my way past the crowd and jumped off the first step, ready to bolt to my bike.
But as I turned to my right, I crashed into someone.
Dammit. I didn’t have time for this.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” a meek voice peeped out from below me.
Looking down, I figured I must have knocked right into this girl as she was packing her bag. A laptop was on the ground, papers scattered. She knelt, her hands in front of her, feeling along the floor.
“Do you see my glasses? I can’t find them.” Her timid voice rose an octave in panic.
Crouching down, I scanned the ground. A thin, brown frame was lying in the shadow of her seat. I grabbed them and placed my hand on her arm.
“Here.”
She jumped, my touch seeming to startle her. As her fingers made contact with the glasses, she shoved them on her face, the frames askew.
“Th-th-thank you.” Her eyes widened as she took me in.
I narrowed my eyes back at her. I knew what she saw. Same as everyone else. I looked like I could be a criminal. Someone you’d be nervous to be alone with in a parking garage at night. Stereotypes were something I’d experienced my whole life.
Still, I played nice, gathering her computer and papers and handing them to her. We stood, and she tucked her belongings into a leather bag that looked as expensive as my bike.
This time I took her in. Along with the crooked glasses, her hair was pulled away from her face in some sort of twist. Her figure was petite, and she was short, the top of her head reaching the level of my chest. She wore dark blue jeans that looked tailor-made for her figure. The sweater draped over her shoulders appeared to be cashmere, and her shoes had the round, metallic emblem of a fancy-ass designer over the top. Large diamond studs covered most of her earlobe, and an equally large stone was perched at the base of her neck.
Rich bitch. Another entitled girl whose parents spoiled her. I’d bet her hardest decision today was which gourmet shop to order coffee from. Coupled with the look of fear she shot me, I’d say I’d hit the nail on the head.
She opened her mouth to speak, but I stood and walked off without a word. Why bother? Rich bitch and the poor kid from Peruvian immigrants weren’t destined to be friends.
Not a chance in hell.