The End Zone
What. The. Fuck.
I straighten my back, shaking off some of my surprise.
“I really have no idea what in the good fuck you’re talking about, woman. Jolie is not a piece. She’s my childhood friend and we’re dating now. It has nothing to do with me wanting to be there for you. When we hooked up, I said it was for fun. We had fun. The condom broke. Not so fun. Shit happened in-between. Fucking terrible, I know. Now we’re dealing with this. Together. Look, I’m still here for you, yeah? But this has nothing to do with JoJo.”
Her lower lip is shaking. People are starting to stop and look. Stall with their phones. Pretend to mess around with their bags. Shit. It’s becoming a scene, and that’s a problem. I take Amber by the elbow and usher her outside, away from the hall and toward a tree overlooking the entrance of the building. It’s a gray day, and no one is out but us. I lean over her—not too close to give her the wrong idea, but close enough so that she knows that I’m serious.
“Anything you need,” I say, “I’m here for you. I mean it.”
“I need you to leave her.” Amber’s tears are now falling like a flood, and I want to stop them, I do, but I can’t. Not the way she wants me to.
“Amber…”
She throws herself at me, her fists curling around the collar of my jersey. She gets into my face. “Please, Sage. Give us a chance. You’re going away next year. Do you think Jolie will go with you? She’s not the kind of girl to leave her family. I know her type. I’ll do it for you, Sage. I’ll leave this place for you.”
My eyes darken, and my thoughts jumble in my head. So when Amber seeks my warmth, burrowing into me for a hug, I give it to her.
Because I gave her something else without meaning to.
And now she lost it.
Because I need to make this right for her somehow.
And because I’m afraid that she is right about JoJo.
You know the part in the movie where the couple gets together and everything works out and everyone gets their happy ending? Well, this is not what happens in real life. At least not to me.
The day starts with Chelsea informing me that she and Mark are not going to the Christmas charity event in New York because she has a job interview for an au pair position in Canada. The woman is heavily pregnant and looking for a full-time nanny to assist her when the baby is born. Mark is going with her, and they’ll be flying back to spend Christmas with her family right after. They’re moving fast, and I’m happy for them, but at the same time, I wanted so badly to spend time with my best friend in the Big Apple.
Then, I get fired by a text message. Travis, my boss, who apparently has the diplomatic skills of a swordfish, sends me the following message:
Hi, Julie. Trish told me you had a falling out yesterday. I’m going to be completely honest. She’s been with us for a decade now and this could be a problem. I think it’s best for everyone if you just hand in your resignation tomorrow after your shift. Thanks for your service and stuff. – Trav.
At first, I think about firing him back my unfiltered response:
Hi, Gravis (oh? You’re not Gravis? Well, guess what, I’m not Julie. It’s Jolie, you prick!). No need to sugarcoat it. You want me gone because you and Trish meet at the kitchen three times a week before her shift and do some ungodly (and unsanitary) things on the counter. I am more than happy to offer my excellent services to someone who appreciates them. Have a nice life. –Jolie.
But, of course, like the good Southern girl that I am, I settle for being agreeable:
Travis, thank you for your message. I regret to hear about your firing me (because that’s essentially what this is), but I’m in no way going to argue with you about it. Since your response to my altercation with Trish was immediate, I think it is only fair that my resignation will be immediate, as well. I will drop by to pick up my last check next week at a time of your convenience. Thanks. –Jolie.
After getting fired—just when I think things cannot get any possibly worse—I land my butt in a library’s chair, trying to study for my next lit exam, and open up my MacBook. Five seconds into reading an essay about the history of the English language, I rub my eyes, trying to concentrate. When I feel something gooey and warm connecting with the side of my head, I freeze. It slithers down my hair and slaps my face, and my first reaction is to cover my face with both palms. After I hear the knock of whatever’s been thrown at me dropping to the floor, I raise my head and look to my right, where the thing came from.
Amber.
Sitting at the desk beside me.
Smiling.
I look down. It’s a Starbucks cup. I touch my hair, sniff around me, the shock still working its way to my system. It’s my now-cold pumpkin latte with marshmallow. Jesus H.
Bitch.
I know her reasoning behind it, and I get it, I do—it hurts. I can’t even begin to imagine how much. But it is also not my fault.
My chair scrapes the floor as I stand up and make my way to her. She is sitting with her sorority friends, their army of cardigans, pearl necklaces, and mechanically straightened hair in full attendance. I look sloppy in comparison. My Chucks are dirty, my blonde is also red, and my clothes are too casual. And still, they can’t treat me this way. Ever.
“You need to stop this.” I slap my hand on her desk, lifting my chin up to look down at her. She stares up at me with a conceited smile I’m dying to wipe off of her face.