Page 56

TWENTY-ONE

ruby

It’swhen I get slapped on the ass that I decide to quit.

Fuck the men in this place, fuck Lorenzo for dragging my heart in every direction, and fuck me for letting it happen.

Sure, it’s my own fault my stomach has been turning inside out all afternoon at the thought of Lorenzo and Alli together. I pushed him to see her. I pretended I didn’t care. And I know why I did it. The only way I can trust myself never to kiss him again is if he belongs to someone else. And if he gets back together with Alli, it won’t be because I told him to. It’ll be because he wants to. And Lorenzo deserves what he wants.

But how is he going to flirt with me like he’s never dared before and then drop Alli’s name into our conversation like a bomb? Does he really think the idea of him and her together doesn’t completely crush me?

Even though I think I could pull off a memorable rage-quitting scene, I don’t quit right then and there. I finish out the hour left in my shift, take my paycheck, and say goodbye to the small handful of people who know my name, thankful I’m never coming back to the distinct, sickening smell of stale cigarette smoke, male sweat, and clashing perfumes.

The money was okay, but I wasn’t making anything near the kind of money the dancers were. Anyway, money, while fabulous, isn’t what keeps me awake at night. It’s the future. And it’s Lorenzo’s words. I whine about all the years I wasted in high school, but I’m still wasting them.

I’ve thought about the aquarium job every day, about how much I wanted it and how ashamed I feel telling everyone I got fired before I even started. Everything that’s happened in the last few weeks rages and burns inside me: losing the job I wanted so badly, hearing Professor Wythe insult and encourage me in the same breath, kissing Lorenzo, feeling the warmth of his attention and then pushing him toward Alli. I can’t just take this feeling and go home. I need to do something with it.

Back in civilianclothing and with my hair scraped into a ponytail that reads as sleek, professional, and willing to grovel, I park near the biology building on campus and try to compose myself. It’s not a great time—late afternoon and I’m showing up unannounced. I’m not at my best—angry, tired, and reeking of the club. But the words I want to say burn in my throat, desperate to get out.

I take the stairs to the second floor and walk down the empty fluorescent-lit hallway, my left shoe squeaking. I don’t know whether I hope to encounter the same man who hired and subsequently fired me, or if my luck might be better with someone I haven’t already pissed off. I push open the door to the lab, and there’s a familiar face behind the desk.

His eyes are on his computer screen. “Can I help you?” It’s only then he looks at me.

“Hi, Mr. Simms.”

His brows knit together and he opens his mouth but stops. I can see him searching for my name and coming up short.

“Ruby,” I offer.

“Right. Ruby.” He nods. “You’re back.”

“I’m back.” I smile. “I wanted to talk to you about the job.”

“Fish care facility assistant.” He says it like he’s attempting a tongue twister. “What about it?”

“Has the position been filled?”

He eyes me. “It’s being taken care of.”

“Because I couldn’t help but notice the job opening is still posted on the university website.”

He shrugs. “Not my department. Tech and whatnot.”

“So you’ve found someone else for the job?”

“Why are you asking? You lost that job.”

I wince. I was hoping they were in dire straits and Mr. Simms would be thrilled to see me walk in the door and offer my services. I was probably an idiot to tell my boss at the club I wouldn’t be coming back. But I did, and now I need money, and anyway, this is where I want to be. “I know, but here I am asking for it again. If it’s open, that is.”

The fact that he doesn’t immediately shut me down tells me they’re still looking for someone, so I proceed with my hastily prepared speech.

“I know I made a bad first impression by not being available. The circumstances were highly unusual and won’t happen again. My best friend was having surgery, and at the last minute his parents couldn’t care for him.”

Mr. Simms looks bored. “So you mentioned.”

“He plays football for Shafer. Rossi? Middle linebacker.” I’m taking a risk by saying this. Most people worship or at least have a healthy respect for Shafer football players, but there is that certain subset that resents their privileged status on campus.I’m banking on Mr. Simms, being a rather gruff sixty-something white guy, falling into the former category.

There’s a little spark of interest in his watery blue eyes. “Your boyfriend, this is?”