“Oh…yeah. That’s him. I forgot, you two haven’t met,” I say, knowing I should introduce them, but not ready or wanting to leave the confines of the office.
“Hmmmm, okay, so I guess it’s up to me then, huh?” she says, brushing off her hands and tucking the pencil behind her ear from her studies. “Relax, relax. I’ll go do my thing. Be right back.”
I smile at her, guiltily, but still not feeling badly enough to be a brave girl. I watch her through the office window as she walks right up to Trevor, shakes his hand, and proceeds to chat him up for the next 15 minutes. He’s laughing and smiling, and then she points over to the office once or twice. I’m scanning the garage for Cody, and I finally spot him behind the wheel of the Mustang, starting and stopping the engine while Gabe’s under the hood. He looks right at me when Jessie points for the final time, and I lock eyes with him.
His expression is nothingness. He’s not smiling, or scowling, or angry, or…anything at all. He’s just looking at me, looking through me, pushing up and down on the pedal while he revs the engine and waits for Gabe to shout, “Again!”
I can’t peel my eyes from him though, and it’s like we’re in some horrible game of chicken, because he’s not turning from me, either.
I only look away when Jessie busts back through the metal door and slides her body into mine on the sofa. “So, are we hiding in here? Is that the drill?” she says.
“Yes,” I say, biting my lip and waiting for her to yell at me.
“Okay, then. Well, the least you can do is help me. It’s an essay on ’20s literature. Start proofing,” she says, throwing a stack of papers at me. I’m a little surprised when I flip through the dozen or so pages she’s handed me.
“What?” she says, while I continue to sift through them and scratch my head.
“Oh, it’s just…seems like a big class,” I say, not wanting to say what I’m really thinking—that I didn’t take Jessie for someone who took real classes.
“Mmmmm, I get it. Purple hair. Poor. I must be stupid,” she says, and she looks back down at her books, clearly upset with me.
“Nooooo, no. It’s not that at all, it’s just…” I start, but I have nowhere else to go. “I just didn’t know you were so far along in your studies. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”
I’m holding my breath, hoping she’ll forgive me. There I go, taking my only friendship ever and throwing it out the window because I feel superior—I feel superior. What horseshit.
“Whatever. Just start reading. I need to get an A,” she smirks, and I feel the weight start to roll away.
I spend the next hour proofing Jessie’s paper, and I actually learn a lot. I’m so amazed at her ability to write, and I’m honestly a little jealous over it.
As much attention as I’m devoting to her words, I’m also dividing my time by listening through the door to Trevor and Cody talk. Cody walks into the office a few times, going behind the desk for papers, or books, and taking them out to Trevor. The phone rings a few times, too, and he rushes in to grab it.
“Jake’s,” he says every time someone calls, jamming the phone into the crook of his neck while he writes down notes in his appointment book. He’s scheduled four or five new vehicles since the time we’ve been here, each of them expensive, foreign cars, or old classics. This seems to be Cody’s specialty. I know it’s what impresses Trevor the most; he spent an hour bragging about Cody over the phone with me the other night. It was one of the conversations I actually listened to.
I’m chewing on the end of Jessie’s pen when I feel Trevor’s hand pull it slowly from my mouth. “Hey, miss editor. You must be reading something good. I’ve been calling your name for about 30 seconds,” he says, his smile perfect, like a Kennedy. Every time he smiles at me, I feel my insides slide south, knowing that one day—one day soon—I’ll have to hurt him.
“Sorry, it’s Jessie’s paper. It’s really good,” I smile. Jessie just throws a crumpled up paper at me—she doesn’t take compliments well. “I mean, it’s terrible. Good thing I’m reading it.”
“Exxxxaccctly,” she says, winking at me. I hand back her stack and stand to stretch my legs, which are sore from sitting crisscrossed for the last hour.
“You about ready?” Trevor says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I almost flinch at his touch, but remind myself he’s doing his job, and hold my body steady and plaster on my smile.