Director, producer, stage designer. Hell, I’d be happy working the concession booth if it meant being near the stage every day.
“Professor McGraw, please.” I took in a ragged breath but still couldn’t seem to fill up my lungs. “It’s not just my face. I have other things goin’ on.”
Grams was having a bad couple weeks, but I didn’t want to throw her into the mixed bag of excuses for why I hadn’t signed up for the play. I was too busy trying to make sure Grams was alive and well to focus on school.
“Like what?” Professor McGraw leaned forward, knotting her fingers together.
“It’s … personal.”
“Life is personal.” She smiled. “You want another extension on your practical grade, I’m going to need to know why.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about Grams. About her being paranoid, and forgetful, and needing constant care. Admitting Grams had a problem would force me to hear unsolicited advice, and I didn’t want to put her in a home. Besides, portraying the woman who raised me as an obstacle didn’t sit right with me.
I shook my head, stuffing my fists into my hoodie’s pockets.
“Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry.” I stood up, the chair scraping behind me with a screeching sound that clawed at my neck. “I understand you might have to fail me this semester, Professor McGraw. Obviously, I will respect your verdict regardless, but I’m hopin’ I’ll get an extension and take part in the next play, junior year. Would you let me know?”
She stared up at me, pity swimming in her eyes. I could tell she was disappointed in me. That she wanted this conversation to shake me into action.
“Will do. Is it really that bad?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
You have no idea.
I shook my head, closing my eyes. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, turning around to leave.
“And, Grace?”
I stopped, my back still to Professor McGraw.
“Whatever your journey is, be certain you have someone to lean on when things get tough. Because they always do. Someone who is not your grandmother. Someone chosen, not a built-in family member. Someone who’d walk through fire for you.”
I smiled bitterly. I only knew one person who would do something like that.
Me.
West arrived at the food truck five minutes early.
It surprised me that he showed up at all. I still thought it was some kind of trap.
I refused to accept this arrangement was real. That he didn’t have an ulterior motive.
Standing closer to him than I had on Friday, when it was dark, I noticed he wasn’t completely unscathed. He had a cut lip, a shiner on the verge of turning from purple to green, and a nasty nick running down his neck. He looked like he hadn’t slept in years. I almost laughed at how different we were.
I would give up the world to have my unsullied face back, while he fought on a weekly basis, and rode a motorcycle, daring fate to take away his good looks.
Since I had Grams and Professor McGraw to stew over, I hadn’t had time to properly freak out about working with St. Claire this evening. I’d even forgotten about the stupid ballet shoes. The minute West’s face popped between the open doors of the truck, I rolled my hoodie’s sleeve up my right elbow and jerked my chin to a stack of boxes waiting outside while cutting bell peppers into thin strips.
“Mind carryin’ and unpackin’ ’em inside?” I didn’t bother to look at him.
Rather than commenting on my poor manners, or taking the high road and introducing himself properly, West lifted the heavy boxes that were stacked on top of each other like they contained air and not fifty pounds of guacamole, lemons, and fish. He arranged everything in the fridge under the window.
We prepped the food in silence, with him following my clipped instructions.
After food prep was done, West flicked on the grill and started roasting fish and bell peppers like he’d been doing this his entire life. His movements were relaxed and lazy, like a panther’s. He was comfortable in this small food truck despite his size. I tried to be as invisible as I possibly could, sticking to my corner of the truck. I realized I hadn’t been alone with an attractive guy in the same confined space since age sixteen, and that I’d missed the sweet, sticky current that hung in the air when it happened.
West was a space-hogger. He was everywhere, even when he was on the other side of the trailer.
Judging by the food prep, it didn’t look like he was planning to put me through the nine circles of Dante’s Hell, or if he did, he was doing a pretty crappy job of it.
We opened shop and served the customers trickling in, mainly high school and college students coming back from afternoon classes and practice, and a few working moms who opted out of making dinner. We didn’t exchange one word, other than me asking him to do things and him asking me where certain ingredients were, both of us adopting our driest, least friendly tones.
West worked hard, never complained, and aside from missing Karlie and her nineties this or that questions, working alongside him was marginally pain-free.
“Is death by sweat a thing?” West drawled after hours of radio silence. He grabbed the hem of his shirt, using it to wipe his forehead. My whole body jolted at his voice, like he’d struck me. I was so used to wearing my oversized pink hoodie in this climate, the temperature didn’t register anymore.
“It can be.” I considered his question. “Dehydration comes to mind.”
“No A/C?” He flipped a row of fish over on the grill, keeping them perfectly whole and bronzed.
I shook my head. “The ancient air-con that came with the truck costs thousands to repair, and Mrs. Contreras says it ain’t worth it because the window’s always open, so the cold gets out. She’d rather pay us above minimum wage.”
“Well, I’d rather not die. Let’s take the cut.”
Was he for real? He’d been here for all of half a second, and he was already trying to make changes?
“There’s a sayin’ in Texas, St. Claire. Never miss a good chance to shut up. I suggest you make use of it now.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to dump it in the trash on my way out. And you’re wearing a hoodie.” He turned to face me for the first time during the shift. “Are you deranged?”