Katie
“Do you remember Levi Walker?” I asked Penelope as she sat slumped on our lumpy couch with her bare feet propped up on the coffee table. Nail polish jars and a polish remover bottle, along with a variety of pedicure instruments, covered the wood surface. Her toes were held apart with a bright green separator. She’d given herself a pedicure as a means to save money. She’d had trouble finding her first “real” job also, so she was working as a daily office temp. Filling in for absentee receptionists and administrative assistants, she liked the non-commitment. It also meant a lack of consistent income.
“Levi Walker?” Her brow scrunched in thought, or maybe it was concentration on her pinky toe as she touched up a bright red nail.
“Do you remember him?” I sighed, plopping down next to her with a bag of popcorn. Stress eating was something I did often when I reached nervous wreck status. I’d embarrassed myself to no end with all the uncontrollable blushing and the boring answers, and I planned to eat myself into food-coma oblivion.
“Did I sleep with him?”
I laughed, then choked on a kernel. My first thought was: I hope not. My second was: maybe, but I still hope not.
“I…”
“Don’t answer that,” she said seriously, holding up her palm while she fanned her other hand in the direction of her feet. “I think I’d remember someone named after a pair of jeans.”
Ah, my wayward friend, how much I loved her while I didn’t understand her. Opposites, like I said. I’d only ever been with my high school sweetheart. Paranoid I’d get pregnant too young and end up like my father and my first mother, I feared intercourse again until college. Then I didn’t find the right kind of men, only boys lacking romance. I wasn’t a sex-only girl, which was where most boys lost interest.
“The Levi Walker from Elk Rapids. I'm positive, it's him.”
Penelope’s head swung to face me. “Didn’t he go into the military?” Her brows pinched, questioning me. Recognition dawned slowly. I nodded, chomping on another handful of popcorn hoping her memory wasn’t as weak as Levi’s appeared to be.
“There would only be one way to truly identify that frog. Did you kiss him?” she teased, breaking into a fit of laughter, her memory fully restored, and turning one of my darkest moments into a joke. My responding scowl softened her giggles.
“Aw, Katie Kat, I'm kidding. I think I vaguely recall a Levi Walker in a history class or something, but that fine specimen was not the scrawny Levi Walker of our hometown.” Her eyebrows wiggled up and down, reminding me of a boy celebrated at my aunt’s home before he went off to protect our country. Thin in stature, the man who sat in the desk behind me was completely contradictory to the boy from home. Penelope hadn’t ever known there had been more than one encounter. After mistakenly sharing the first embarrassing secret, I vaulted away the second to protect my heart and my pride.
“He isn't.” There was definitely something different about the Levi Walker in my class, something edgier. His smile could still be sweet, when he didn’t have that clenching thing happening, reminding me of my father. His eyes lied, however. Deep brown, they looked hollow at moments. There was something locked inside him. Something I recognized in me. I’d always had a strong connection to the man I hardly knew.
“Katie, you can’t possibly still be fantasizing about him. Wanting him to be a hero? You don’t need a hero. You have me,” she joked. But I strongly believed in them. Not the save-me-from-distress and fire-breathing-dragon kind, although that would be fantastic, but the everyday kind. I believed heroes came in many forms. My adoptive mother, Emily, was the best example. She saved me. She saved my father. She brought him comfort, love, and stability, and I often wondered who would bring those things to me. Who was my hero? While my life appeared stable from Emily marrying my father and adopting me, I still felt incomplete. It wasn’t a matter of saving me, but finding the counterpart to my divergent-femme fantasies.
“Is he married?” Penelope asked.
“Don't know. He doesn't wear a ring.”
“Of course not,” she sighed. A smirk returned to her plump lips. My best friend was a beauty, and men always noticed her, while I stood in her shadow. I didn’t compare to Penelope’s acorn-colored hair and buxom curves with my slim figure and straw-blonde hair, but I wasn’t jealous of her. I thought back to her earlier question about sleeping with Levi. Penelope had a rich past. Momentarily, I worried she did know Levi Walker, sexually, and I didn’t like it.
“Have you slept with him?” The question ate at me, escaping with popcorn from my teeth. Being with Levi was a strong possibility. I couldn’t keep up with all her supposed conquests.
“No,” she choked. “Wasn’t he older than us? I don’t do the old ones.”
“Yes, you do,” I scoffed, reminding her of her own dark past, but laughing to myself. Levi was roughly six years older than us, but at twenty-four that didn’t matter as much as it had at thirteen. Penelope ignored my comment and shivered.
“You know who else is in my class?” I offered to change the subject once again. “Nate Reynolds.”
Penelope’s brow shot upward. “Now there’s a man I’d allow to do me.”
I broke into laughter. From the moment we met in high school, Penelope had been my soul-sister. The irony of her name alone was not lost on me. It matched one of my favorite modern fairy tales, about a cursed girl searching for the love of a man, only to discover the love to break her curse was inside her. Loving herself was all she needed. Like that fictional character, Penelope had that self-love, and she protected me while she pushed my limits.
“Speaking of do-me, you should see the new assignment I have. He’s hot.” Her brows danced, addressing her latest temp position. She’d make trouble with a glance, if she could. As a continual rebel-with-a-cause, she attempted to piss off her parents who hardly paid her any mind. She sought attention by making mischief. I couldn’t believe what we’d been through together. It was part of the reason I didn’t complain when she was late with the rent. It was also the reason I suggested another roommate because we weren’t going to make it in our new place without financial help.
There had been so many changes to the various warehouse buildings near campus, and our loft-like apartment was a great find. It was spacious and open. I loved the atmosphere of being close to the university, in a neighborhood bustling with small businesses and lively restaurants. It seemed trendy, in theory, but I wouldn’t know as I lacked the social life to enjoy the energy.
Speaking of energy, our latest interviewee arrived like a burst of hot air through a sunroof. She was the last one on our list of potential roommates. Kentucky Weber was bleach-blonde with big boobs, a soft Southern accent, and the brightest smile I’d ever seen. She was everything I wasn’t—loud in tone, but soft in demeanor. I instantly liked her laughter and her confidence. She chuckled heartily and contagiously. As former NEU alum, although a year or two ahead of us, she was telling us stories of fellow classmates when Levi’s name jumped out at me.
“Do you know Levi Walker?” I blurted before anxiety hit me and I realized I was too obvious with my intrigue.
“Sexy Walker, you mean?” She winked. “I had an English class with him as a freshman. Honey, the rumors that followed that sexy man on a stick.” Penelope broke into giggles as Kentucky fanned herself.
“Gossip says, he had a different woman every night. Sometimes even two. Most of them were older than him as he was a non-traditional student. Some military thing, I think.” Instantly, she assured us she had not been on his calendar.
“I don’t do the book types,” she said. “Too smart for me. I’m dumb jocks all the way to the bank. The bigger the jock, the better.” She winked, but the gleam in her soft brown eyes told me not to believe her. She actually seemed rather smart under the blonde hair but used that bright yellow color to fool people. I liked her, and I could tell Penelope adored her. Their personalities were more alike. I’d be the odd person out, but I was used to it.
“Book types,” Penelope interjected, narrowing her eyes on me. “I forgot to ask. Did you hear yet?” Our newest roommate looked at me. Not many others beside Penelope knew my secret dream to publish my supernatural fantasies. My kick-ass tales of girls with superpowers were a well-contained secret. One of my heroes in writing had been an undergrad biology major turned famous writer. She considered her writing a stress relief. Lucky for her, at twenty-three, her first book was published and she was an instant success. I wished to follow her lead, but it wasn’t as easy going for me.
“No. Rejected again,” I sighed. Penelope reached out for my arm, sympathetically rubbing up and down my sleeve.
“It will happen. You’re amazing. That imagination of yours is a gift.”
A gift, I laughed. More like a curse, as I couldn’t seem to get any notice for the stories I submitted. I heard it was harder than romance novels to get a bite of interest in a young adult tale with female heroines saving princes. It was part of the reason my former Creative Writing teacher recommended submitting my latest piece to a contest sponsored by Tribune Publishing. The Perseverance Project was a writing competition and Professor Johnson thought one of my pieces would be an excellent entry. Winner received a publishing contract. Not wanting to discuss my current rejection further in front of our interviewee, I shifted the conversation to our bedroom selection.
We had room, sort of. Penelope and I could share, or we had a dining room with glass doors, which could be closed off from the living space with some privacy curtains. We didn’t need the dining room and I was willing to take the space, if it prevented us from moving. To my surprise, Kentucky wanted the dining room alcove, claiming it had character. She also wanted the room the next day. She admitted she was in a bit of a bind with her current roommate situation and needed to get out immediately. I wanted to run some references, but Penelope accepted Kentucky’s plea. She showed us her recent paystubs from a sports management firm, telling us her degree had been in sports marketing and recreational facility management. She wasn’t kidding about the jock types. They were big money for her—the bigger the better. And just like that, Tuck, as she told us to call her, was the newest addition to our living arrangement.