Page 6
Chapter 5
Rina
18 years old | Spring Break
“ M a, are you serious? We're supposed to be going on break, not worried about another project.”
My mom sits back in her desk chair and stares me down.
“I don’t know why you think Spring Break should be any excuse for you not to work on getting ahead, Katarina. You want to pass; this is what it takes. Work.”
She then proceeds to mutter to herself, mostly in Spanish, about how she can't believe kids these days and that we all want things handed to us on a silver platter.
"Si supieras," she says now loud enough for anyone walking into her class to hear. "If you only knew the things your father and I had to endure to get to what we have today." She scoffs. "You'll never understand. But I won't let you get entitled, Katarina. I won't let you get lazy. When you're older, you'll thank me. Even if it means you hate me now."
I'm still standing in front of her like the good daughter she expects me to be. Listening. Taking it.
Because honestly, there's no arguing with her once she’s made up her mind. There’s a reason why Professor Elena Lopez is known as the Literary Tyrant of English 102. She doesn’t mess around.
She came here from Puerto Rico when she was twelve and taught herself to master the English language after being bullied for her accent in middle school. She promised herself she would dominate it better than any natural-born English speaker.
She read dictionaries. She memorized poetry. She excelled in spelling bees. When it came time for her to decide what she wanted to dedicate her life to, she knew it was an English professor. Just to prove to all those who ever doubted her that you don’t mess with Elena Dayanara Munoz-Velazquez de Lopez.
The other side of that is that I’m the daughter of a woman whose ego and expectations are so big that she makes it almost impossible to uphold her standards.
“You know I can’t stand a complainer, Katarina. You do, or you don’t. There’s no in-between,” she says, her accent even thicker now that she’s upset.
“Do or do not—there is no try,” I say.
She looks up from the paper she’s now scouring. “Que?”
“It’s Yoda.”
She stares at me, puzzled.
"Star Wars, Ma."
She sighs. “And that’s what’s wrong with kids these days. They quote Star Wars but can’t recognize art when it slaps them in the face.” She slams the paper down onto her desk and looks at the door just as the first student enters.
“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth,” the voice behind me says. A rare smile cracks on my mother’s face as she watches him approach.
“Thoreau,” she says appreciatively. “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
The guy steps up to my mother’s desk and I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
“Wilde,” he says.
“Very good. See what I mean?” My mom motions to Keelan. “Someone who gets it.”
I look at him, and he winks. “I’ll save you a seat, Katarina ,” he says, my given name rolling the r , then he confidently takes the steps of the auditorium two at a time.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t bother,” I mutter behind him before turning back to my mom.
“You can keep standing there attempting to convince me to no avail, Katarina. Or you can take a seat and crack open a book until class begins.”
“What’s the point? You’re going to fail me regardless.” I grab my backpack and toss it over my shoulder, finding a seat somewhere away from my roommate’s boyfriend.
“Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity,” Mom recites. And I know it’s from a book I haven’t read.
“Gruyere!” Keelan says excitedly from his seat.
“That’s right,” Mom says, now standing in front of her desk as more students pour into class one by one.
I glare at Keelan, who sits back comfortably in his seat, arms resting behind his head and feet propped over the seat in front of him. He’s a few rows above me on the opposite side of the room, but his face turns to me and beams.
I turn away from him and grab the book before me, bringing it up to my face abruptly. But I can see in my peripheral that he’s still looking at me, shaking his head.
We are not friends. Especially now that he’s officially my mom’s teacher’s pet. I’m sure he has every single professor in this school wrapped around his finger. That’s just the kind of guy that Keelan is.
Charming, confident, and fun-loving. Students and teachers alike find him endearing. I watch as the seats around him fill up first: cheer squad girls, hockey bros, and guys that he breakdances with out in the courtyard. They approach him and do secret handshakes. The girls hug him. And Keelan just lives for the attention.
Honestly, I don’t realize I’m staring at him until he turns to look at me again. I scramble, setting the book down and grabbing my phone to look busy.
A text comes through just as my mom begins her lesson.
Keelan
You’re exactly the way I remember you in my dreams.
I do a double-take on my phone. I re-read the line a few times before I turn to him looking panicked and confused.
What the hell is he doing?
He points to his phone again, smiling. Another text comes through.
Keelan
It’s from Star Wars, Katarina.
Oh my god. He’s making a point. He must be. That he’s the kind of guy that can quote Thoreau and Lucas.
Me
That don’t impress me much, Landry.
Keelan
Twain.
Shania. Not Mark.
I smirk at my phone.
Me
Fine, you’re the most well-rounded guy at this school. Is that what you want to hear, teacher’s pet?
Keelan
If I’m the teacher’s pet… what does that make you?
Me
Cinderella.
P.S. My mom is the only person who calls me Katarina. And that's because she doesn't care how I feel about it.
I watch the dots come on my screen. Then they disappear.
It's fine. We shouldn't be texting anyway—for so many reasons. Mainly, I refuse to be another number he can add to his ever-growing fan club.
My phone buzzes in my lap.
Keelan
Sorry to hear that. But you know she’s probably hard on you because she wants you to be the best.
My dad was the same way.
Was… not is.
Me
Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to be the best. Maybe I just want to survive college and get on with my life.
Keelan
That’s your problem. If the goal is merely survival then you can’t let yourself enjoy the journey.
Sounds pretty dull if you ask me.
My mom’s voice drones on in the background.
Me
Well, I didn't ask you…
But let me guess. You know all about enjoying the journey, don’t you, man-child?
Keelan
Man-child?!
Me
Only children are concerned with always having fun.
Keelan
Oh no…
Me
What?
Keelan
She's rubbing off on you.
Me
My mother?!… oh my God! Don't ever compare me to her ever again.
Keelan
Fine. Prove it.
Meet me after class near the quad. I’m going to show you something.
Me
I have homework. And I don’t think Jenny would appreciate me hanging out with her boyfriend.
I’ll pass.
Keelan
Jenny will be there, silly. So don’t run off. We will come find you. We’ll send the cheer squad and hockey team out to get you.
“Phones up,” my mom says, glaring at me. Of course, she says nothing to Keelan. My jaw drops in disgust as I push the phone away on my desk.
Once she goes back to her discussion, the light on my phone blinks on. Another text.
Keelan
Troublemaker.
I turn to glare at him and he’s not looking at me. He’s facing forward, a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide a grin.
“Nope,” I shake my head. “I am not doing it.”
“Oh, come on, Ri!” Jenny insists. “It’s not going to kill you to try it.”
I look at her. “Are you serious? That’s exactly what can happen.”
Keelan comes up on my other side, whispering in my ear. “Just pretend it’s your mom.” He grins, and I slowly shake my head at the suggestion.
He’s so bad.
I look at Jenny who passes me the stick. I snatch it out of her hand reluctantly, sighing, “Fine. But I’m only doing this once.”
“You say that now,” Keelan insists. "Suit up,” Keelan calls out to the other side, where Ryker nods and begins slipping into the sumo suit.
“It’s way too hot for this,” I complain, waiting for him.
“You’re going to love it in there,” Jenny says, nearly squealing. “Make sure you get pictures,” she tells one of her cheer friends.
“Don’t you dare take pictures,” I say, pointing to the girl already getting her camera ready.
“Oh–ok,” the girl hesitates.
“Take the pictures,” Keelan whispers to her behind me.
To be fair, I won’t be recognizable in said pictures. Ryker and I are wearing identical suits except for the color of the… whatever the diaper thong thing is called. He steps up onto the ledge. And I do the same on the opposite end.
When Spring break kicks off at ASC, the student council organizes random activities around campus to get us in the spirit. This particular activity is called “Beat the Stress.”
Two people wearing sumo wrestling suits try to knock each other off the ledge and into a pool of jello. Lots of jello. So much jello, in fact, that I start to wonder if there’ll be a national jello shortage after this.
Also–who made all this jello? It must’ve taken weeks.
“On your marks,” Keelan says over a megaphone. I snap into focus. Ryker stretches his neck and bounces up and down, the suit looking much smaller on him than it does on me.
“Pretend it’s mom. Just pretend I’m fighting Elena Lopez,” I whisper to myself.
“Go!”
Ryker charges toward me, but I’m faster, running so quickly that I take him by surprise. He halts halfway. I use the momentum from my run to knock him with the giant pugil. He stumbles back but doesn’t fall.
Freakin’ giant.
I hit him again—this time with even more force.
“Jesus, Rina,” he says, struggling in front of me.
I keep hitting him over and over again. He’s blocking my shots—the thing he does best, considering he’s ASC’s starting goaltender.
But I keep at him. Relentless. Convinced, she needs to go down—my mom—not Ryker. Ryker’s just her unfortunate placeholder at the moment.
I catch his ankle with the pugil, and he slips, falling backward into the pool of jello suddenly covered in the red, soppy mess.
“Yes!” Keelan and Jenny are both screaming on the sidelines.
Oh my god. I did it. I actually beat her–him–I beat him.
I hold the pugil stick up and toss it into the pool. Then, from the rush of excitement, I beat my chest like a gorilla. My classmates cheer for me as Ryker attempts to climb out of the pool.
I turn, pumping my hands into the air and savoring the attention for once in my life. But as I turn, I see my mother on the far end of the quad. She’s not alone. She’s accompanied by one of the coaches. He’s making her laugh. She doesn’t seem to know it’s me in the suit. But suddenly, I don’t hear the roar of the cheers of my classmates.
Instead, all I can focus on is the woman who raised me, now warmed up to a man who isn’t my father. And he’s rubbing her belly.
And as I watch him do so, my own stomach drops.