Happenstance (2 page)

Chapter Two

Thirty minutes before the first bell rang, I adjusted
my backpack and set out on my morning trek. Blackwell High School was just a
few miles away, so unless something wet was falling out of the sky, the walk
really wasn’t that bad. It was these quiet moments between Gina and school that
I savored the most—but I wouldn’t miss them. I wouldn’t miss anything about
Blackwell, except for Frankie, her snot-nosed kids, and maybe Weston’s green
eyes.

Oklahoma State University’s campus was just under an hour away by
car, in Stillwater. The campus was small enough that I wouldn’t need a car and
the transit system would take me anywhere else I needed to go nearby. But I had
to figure out a way to OSU. The acceptance letter came in the mail a couple of
weeks before, and I celebrated alone, jumping up and down in the kitchen. Gina
didn’t know. I hadn’t even told Frankie. I didn’t want to jinx it.

Half a block before I reached the school, the sky opened, and a
cold spring rain poured down. My pace broke out into a sprint. I didn’t want my
shoes to slosh and draw attention more than my sopping hair already would.

Once inside, I walked straight to the east wing bathroom. It was
next to the office, so teachers were more likely to be in there. Sure enough,
Mrs. Pyles was drying her hands under the automatic dryer.

She greeted me with a smile, but once she recognized how drenched
I was, her expression changed. “Oh, Erin!” She yanked paper towels from the
holder and handed them to me. “Didn’t you know it was going to rain today?”

I shook my head. “I had a feeling. Hoped I could make it here
before it started.”

She helped me slide my backpack to the floor and took my jacket,
holding it under the electric dryer. “I’ve given you my number a dozen times.
Why won’t you call me?”

I shrugged. “I like to walk.”

She frowned. “Next time the weather man calls for precipitation
before school, I’m going to be parked in front of your house.”

“Please don’t,” I said. “You’ll embarrass Gina. She won’t like
it.”

“I don’t care.”

I pushed the silver button and leaned beneath the dryer. “I just
have a couple more months. It’s not worth it.”

Mrs. Pyles shook her head, her bright blue eyes heavy with
sadness. “I haven’t done enough for you, have I?”

“You’ve done plenty. See you in class.” I left her alone in the
bathroom.

Mrs. Pyles cared about her students, and she’d asked me so many
times if everything was okay at home. It had to be so frustrating to be in her
position. Gina had a bad temper, and she was a mean drunk, but DHS had been
called a few times before and they could never find a good enough reason to
save me. Mrs. Pyles always seemed to be in a mood the day after DHS made a
surprise visit to my home. It had occurred to me that she might be the one
reporting Gina, but I’d never asked. It didn’t matter, and no one should have
to answer for trying to protect someone.

First period was Mrs. Merit’s Advanced Biology class, and I
shared it with Brady Beck. Four students sat at assigned seats around five
round tables with black counter tops, carved with initials and pluses or
hearts, the abbreviation “Sr.” followed by every year since 1973, and inappropriate
pictures.

I sat in my seat at the middle table and watched other students
filter in. Brady and his friend Brendan ran in just before the bell rang,
sliding into their seats with shit-eating grins on their faces. They were both
at the corner table. Brady had traded spots with Andrew at the beginning of the
year so he could face me and mouth things like
whore
or
skank
.
Sometimes he said it out loud, but Mrs. Merit wasn’t one of the teachers that
minded if I was bullied.

Once the shrill beeping of the bell ended, Mrs. Merit offered
them an annoyed smile, and began setting up for the lesson.

Sara Glen sat across from me at our table. She was only chatty
with me when she wanted to tell me what rumor was spreading about me that day,
like when Brian Grand began a discussion in health class about how disgusting
it was that I wore the same dirty jeans every day.

I had two pair that I’d found at the Second Hand, and they looked
nearly identical. Once I’d spilled something on them two days in a row, and
because of work, I didn’t have time to take them to the Laundromat. That was
when Brian noticed, and I couldn’t argue, because it was true.

“Erin,” Sara whispered. She put her elbows on the table and
leaned in. “I heard you got fired from the Dairy Queen for spitting in Sonny’s
ice cream. People are saying you have AIDS and were trying to give it to her
out of spite.”

“AIDS. That’s a new one,” I said, doodling in my notebook.

“So it’s not true?”

“No.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Sara seemed satisfied, so she returned her gaze to the teacher.

“Spring break is the week after next, people,” Mrs. Merit said. “We
have a mid-term test. I’ll hand out the study guide a week from today. Look it
over.”

Mrs. Merit’s study guides were the questions and answers, albeit
worded slightly different, of the test, in order. Even though it was supposed
to be an advanced class, studying consisted of memorization, so it didn’t
surprise me that Sara didn’t know AIDS couldn’t be transmitted through a little
bit of spit. A percentage of the girls in our class hadn’t even gotten to
graduation before getting pregnant, so basic biological knowledge didn’t seem
to be a priority among these students. Or maybe there just wasn’t enough to do besides
stand around and drink at bonfire parties at the Diversion Dam or have sex.

Lunch came and went, then I had fifth period Health class—my
least favorite—with the Erins. I had third period Calculus with Alder, but she
didn’t speak to me without her cohorts around. Brady was in fifth period, too,
but he typically left me alone to pick on Annie Black, a sweet and incredibly
smart junior with cerebral palsy. He did an Annie impression every time she
passed him in the halls. Only a few people called him out on how disgusting he
was. He was born into one of the most affluent families in Blackwell, and his
parents were pillars of the community. His father had donated hundreds of
thousands of dollars to the school, and his mother was a rather rabid bitch and
shrieked to her good friend the superintendent whenever someone dared instruct
her son on rules or common courtesy, so even the teachers tried to ignore his
antics. Brady Beck had been caught vandalizing the school, drinking on school
grounds, skipping class, and bullying dozens, but he never once sat through Detention.
He was everything that was wrong with our little town.

I sat at my desk and waited. It was Friday, so Coach Morris
didn’t make us do much. He usually had us do a word find or let us read to
ourselves. When we didn’t have much work to do though, the Erins made
themselves busy with me. It would be easy to ignore them if Weston didn’t sit
right behind me. But for whatever reason, when he was around, their jabs felt
more humiliating.

“All right, hoodlums. Pull out a book and read. TGIF.”

Ten minutes hadn’t yet passed when I heard someone whisper my
name—possibly my name. A few seconds later, it was louder, and I recognized the
voice as Sonny’s. She was trying to get my attention. I didn’t dare turn
around. Any hope of comprehending the words on the page in front of me was
lost. I just stared at one word and hoped Sonny wouldn’t catch the coach’s
attention.

Coach Morris perked up and nodded to the back of the class. “Yes?”

Sonny lowered her hand and sat tall in her seat with a smug
expression. “I was just wondering what the school policy is on the AIDS virus.”

“What do you mean?” Coach asked.

“If one of the students has tested positive for AIDS, what does
the school do to protect the rest of the students?”

“Why do you ask?” The curious light in the coach’s eyes had
extinguished, and it was obvious that he knew Erin was up to something.

“I just heard today that one of our students has it, and everyone
is nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s contagious, and no one wants to die just because
some skank wants to punish everyone else for her loose ways.”

“Loose ways,” Coach Morris deadpanned. “I can explain the school
policy with you in detail after seventh period if you’d like.”

“I have cheer,” Erin said, annoyed that her plan didn’t work. “I’m
sure the entire class would feel better hearing what you have to say.”

Coach sighed. “I think it’s more likely that you’re helping to spread
a cruel rumor.”

A collective tittering made its way through the classroom.

“That’s offensive,” Sonny said. “What are you again? A
karmologist?”

Coach chuckled. “Kinesiologist.”

“That’s what I said. You’d think a graduate of health science would
typically consider my concern valid.”

Coach didn’t hesitate. “Common sense disagrees. Read your book.
No more talking.”

His perceptive remark saved me from further ridicule for now, but
the senior meeting after school was going to be considerably less fun.

“What are you reading?” A deep voice asked.

I barely acknowledged Weston’s question, holding up the cover of
my book high enough for him to see.

He nodded, waiting for me to speak. When I didn’t, he offered a
small smile, and sat back.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

Weston immediately leaned toward me, holding up his cover the way
I had.

“Piers Anthony?”

Weston cleared his throat to stifle a cough then smiled. “I like
his stuff.”

I nodded. “I approve.”

“Good,” Weston whispered. “I was worried.” After a short pause,
he leaned into my ear again. “Why don’t you ever talk to me in Art class?”

We had seventh period Art together, the class I looked forward to
all day. Weston was in it, but more important, people like the Erins and Brady
weren’t. We were serious about our work, and it was the one place during the
school day that I could be myself.

“I guess I was just busy.”

“Are you going to be busy today?”

“Probably.”

“Well, maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll take a break.”

I turned around to hide my grin, but not before glancing back and
seeing the familiar look of hatred in Alder’s eyes.

Whore,
she mouthed, glaring at me.

~*~

After seventh period, I put my books in my locker and
walked slowly to the east hall, the fifty-minute-long high I’d been on with Weston
during Art quickly faded with each step. I dreaded seeing everyone’s reaction
when I walked through the door.

Brady and Brendan were sitting on top of desks, some students
were looking at their phones, texting or checking social media, and the Erins
were sitting at desks that were turned around to face everyone else. Mrs.
Hunter, English IV teacher and senior class adviser, wasn’t there yet.
Shit
.

“What are you doing here?” Alder said. I didn’t answer, but that
never deterred the Erins. “No one wants your opinion.”

I took a seat in the back near the door and hoped Mrs. Hunter
wouldn’t be much longer.

Sonny feigned sympathy. “You can leave. No one gives a shit what
you have to say, anyway.”

“It’s mandatory,” I said simply. “I’m not leaving.”

Sonny stood up. “You will if I make you.”

“Sit down,” I said.

Sonny’s expression morphed from annoyance to shock to rage. “What
did you say to me?”

I looked her straight in the eye. “I’m staying. Sit down.”

Weston’s gaze bounced from the Erins, to me, and back. Sonny took
a step toward me, and Weston stood. By the look on his face, even he was
surprised at his reaction.

Sonny looked at him with utter disgust. “What are you doing, Wes?”

Weston cocked his head for a moment. He took a breath and blinked
a few times, clearly unhappy about being in the middle of things. “It’s a
mandatory meeting. No point in making her miserable over it. She probably
doesn’t want to be here.”

“Weston!” Alder said, astonished.

Weston took a puff from his inhaler, staring his girlfriend in
the eye. “Leave her alone.”

Just as both Erins’ mouths fell open, Mrs. Hunter breezed through
the door and headed to the front of the class. “What did I miss?”

Weston sat down, and so did Sonny.

“Nothin,” Sonny grumbled.

“Okay, let’s get started,” Mrs. Hunter said, winded. “Who wants
to be in charge of the senior assembly?”

The relief that washed over me made me emotional, more than I’d
been in quite a while, but I kept the tears inside, refusing to let my
classmates see me cry. They would just have to be disappointed for the day.

Chapter Three

“Bitches!” Frankie said, as she watched soft serve feed
out of the machine. “I can’t believe she bowed up on you like that. What was
she going to do? That’s right! Nothing!”

“Are you even talking to me right now?” I asked, amused.

“I would
love
to talk to the twaterati about it. Love!”

I laughed once and shook my head, letting the mixer blades make
love to the M&M Blizzard I was making. When Frankie trained me, she said it
looked a lot like giving a guy a hand job. I wasn’t exactly sure what that was
like, but I would make someone very happy one day.

Frankie was ten customers deep when I finally arrived after the
senior class meeting, and we hadn’t had a break in four hours. Friday nights
were always hectic, but that didn’t stop Frankie from ranting about my
confrontation with Sonny.

She put her hand on her hip, and all of her weight on one leg. “I
am so proud of you. For real. I think it’s the first time you’ve ever stood up
for yourself, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t really standing up for myself. I just
told her that I was staying.”

“And to sit her bitch ass down.” She wrinkled her nose. “That
part’s my favorite.”

Just as the sun began to set, the pace eased up a bit. The last
car left the parking lot, and I began scrubbing the huge mess we’d made when we
didn’t have time to clean up after ourselves—or be careful—before the next
rush.

A truck pulled in quickly, and I knew instantly who it was.
Weston Gates was the only person in town with a lift kit and Rock Star rims on
a cherry red Chevy. He hopped down and jogged over to my window. He was sweaty,
still in his baseball cleats, and alone.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I said, glancing over to Frankie. “What can I get for you?”

Weston watched me for a moment.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He blinked. “Yeah. Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “Are you?”

I shrugged. “I’m fine. Can I make you something?”

“Just a . . . whatever.”

I made him a Hawaiian Blizzard and he paid, still with that
expectant look in his eyes. “I’m sorry. About today.”

I shook my head dismissively.

“I should have said something sooner.”

“Yeah, like ten years ago,” Frankie shot back.

He nodded and then walked back to his truck, but he was hesitant,
as if he were leaving something unsaid.

Frankie sighed. “I shouldn’t have snapped at him. He seems like a
good kid.”

“He is,” I said, unable to stop staring as Weston climbed up into
the driver’s seat and shut the door.

“That was . . . weird.”

“Yeah, I wonder what that was about?” As I watched his truck pull
onto Main Street, a wide grin stretched across my face.

“I think he likes you.”

The smile vanished. “What about that bizarre exchange brought you
to that conclusion?”

She shrugged. “I was in high school once.”

Frankie and I finished up our shift, and then closed the shop.
She offered me a ride and I refused then walked home. I kept mostly to the
yards of the houses along the way, to keep from being mowed down by the traffic
traveling toward Main Street. That was the main drag, and on Friday nights
everyone congregated at the ball fields that were straight across from the
Dairy Queen.

A block from my house, a familiar engine revved from the other
side of the street. I looked over to see Weston’s red Chevy. His window was
rolled down, and the truck was crawling along next to me. He was alone again.

“Hey,” he said, his elbow poking out as he rested it on the
driver’s side door.

I didn’t respond.

He smiled. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I said, trying not to smile
the way I had after he’d left the DQ.

“It looks like you’re walking home. Do you have plans tonight?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. He knew I didn’t.

“Wanna hang out?” he asked.

“Aren’t your friends at the ball fields?” I already knew the
answer. They were there every Friday and Saturday night if there wasn’t a
party. What I really wanted to know was why he was driving next to me, instead
of hanging with them.

“I told them I was tired and going home.”

“But you’re not?”

“Well . . . more like bored. But then I saw you . . .”

I looked down. “I’m not really dressed to hang out.”

“You’re talking to someone who loves ice cream. You think it
offends me that you’re covered in it?”

I laughed.

“C’mon!” he said with a smile that had been perfected by braces.
He’d only gotten them off the summer before. “I’ll beg if you want me to.”

“You don’t have to beg,” I murmured.

“What?”

I chuckled. “Fine! Just . . . let me change first.”

“Deal!”

I pointed at him. “Park right there. I’ll be out in a second.” We
were still half a block from my house, and I didn’t want the absurdly loud
glass packs of Weston’s Chevy to attract Gina’s attention.

Trying not to rush, I walked to my house, up the two stairs to my
porch, and pulled open the door. Out of habit, I listened for Soul Asylum, but
no such luck. I pushed through the door, to see Gina sitting on the stained,
gold velvet couch in the living room. A ripped-open case of Keystone Light was
next to her feet on the floor. She didn’t even look up.

I went straight to my room, dropped my backpack to the floor, pulled
off my apron, the rest of my clothes, and re-dressed. Everything I wore to work
inevitably smelled like grease, so it all had to come off. I put on a black
T-shirt and a pair of heather gray cotton shorts, slipped on some flip flops
and grabbed my purse. My second pair of jeans was on the floor spattered with
chocolate syrup. It was the day before laundry day, so even though it was a
little chilly, the shorts were the only thing I had clean.

I closed my door quietly and tried to rush past Gina, but she
noticed me walk by and sat up.

“Where the hell you goin’?” she asked.

“Riding around. I’ll be back in a little while.”

She sat back against the couch cushions. “Bring me back some
cigarettes.”

I nodded and hurried out the door. She would be passed out before
I got back and wouldn’t remember that she asked me for anything. Unfortunately
I’d only learned that after wasting over a hundred dollars of my own money
buying her smokes to appease her.

I stopped in the yard, half expecting Weston’s truck to be gone,
but there it was, in the exact spot I told him to wait. His eyes lit up, and he
waved. As I made my way to his truck, he leaned over and pulled the lever,
pushing the door open.

“Climb in!” he said with a sweet grin.

He wasn’t kidding. I had to use the door and climb up via the
running boards to reach the passenger seat. I bounced into the black leather
and shut the door.

“Wow,” I said.

He shrugged. “Don’t be too impressed. It was my dad’s.”

“Better than nothing,” I teased.

“Where do you wanna go?” he asked.

I smiled. “Anywhere.”

Weston sucked on the straw of his enormous cherry Icee, and we
bounced over the potholes and patches of Blackwell’s roads, listening to the
Chance Anderson Band on full blast. Within five minutes, we were outside the
city limits. Weston parked at the peak of an overpass that arched over I-35,
and we watched the headlights of cars and semis flow beneath us, traveling
north and south.

I pushed open the passenger door and walked over to the edge. The
rural overpasses didn’t have rails. It was just concrete up to your belly and
common sense. A chilly breeze kissed my face, so I turned around, not exactly
surprised to see lightning crackling across the clouds gathering to the north.

“I love how the storms always suck the wind into them,” I said.

Weston’s door slammed shut, and he was standing next to me. He
drank the last of his Icee, and the straw against the Styrofoam made a loud slurping
sound. “I just love storms.”

“So . . . are you going to tell me?” I asked.

Weston could barely pull his eyes away from the storm. “Tell you
what?”

“Why you brought me out here?”

He shrugged. He was chewing on his straw, which I found oddly appealing.
“Why not?”

“There are a hundred reasons why not. I was asking about the one
reason why I’m here.”

“Because I asked?”

I laughed once and looked down. “Okay. If that’s the way you want
to play this.”

“I don’t want to play this at all. I just want to sit up here and
watch the storm roll in with you, without all the gossip of who’s doing who,
and where so-and-so is going to college. Is that okay?”

I nodded. “I can live with that.”

Weston let the Chevy’s tailgate down and climbed up, reaching for
my hand. “Well? C’mon.”

I let him help me to the bed of his truck and sat next to him,
letting my legs dangle off the edge.

He nodded behind us. “I have stuff to drink in that cooler.”

I shook my head. “I don’t drink.”

“No, like, Fanta Orange and stuff. I think I have a few Cherry
Cokes and one Mountain Dew.”

“How could I possibly choose? Those are all my favorites.”

He smiled and reached back. “Mine, too. I’ll just grab ya one.”
His hands fished around in the melted ice, and he pulled out a green can. “And
the winner is . . . Mountain Dew. You must be lucky.”

I popped the top. “Not so far. Thank you.”

“Maybe that’ll change. For both of us.”

“You don’t feel lucky?” I asked.

He thought about it for a moment. “You’re the last person I
should be talking to about my problems.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just mean that you’ll think I’m being stupid. Because they’re not
even close to the kind of hell you go through.”

I shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”

“If I had to endure that every day, I couldn’t do it. You’re
pretty damn tough, Erin Easter.”

He rested his arm on his knee and his chin on his fist as he
stared at me. His jeans weren’t pulled all the way down over his cowboy boots,
and his hoodie was worn. Suddenly he didn’t seem so out of reach.

Lightning from the north sky flashed in his eyes, and we both
gasped.

“That was a good one,” he said. “Too bad it’s going to miss us.”

“Good. Bad. It’s all the same.”

“What does that mean?” he said, smiling.

“There’s an old Chinese proverb Mrs. Pyles told me once about an
old Taoist farmer. I think about it a lot.”

“Tell me,” he said, nudging me.

“I don’t remember it verbatim.”

“Paraphrase then.”

I took a breath. “One day, the only horse the farmer owned died.
It was the only way he could plow his fields. Everyone in the village came to
offer their condolences for his bad luck. The farmer said, ‘We’ll see.’ A week
later, his son came across a heard of wild horses and managed to bring home
two. The village was amazed at their good fortune. The farmer said, ‘We’ll
see.’ While the son was trying to break one of the horses, he fell off and
fractured both of his legs. The village doctor said he would never walk again.
Villagers came to console the farmer, because this was his only son. The farmer
said, ‘We’ll see.’ Soon after, war ravaged the land. All of the able-bodied
sons of the village were collected for the draft. The farmer’s son was the only
one left behind. None of the boys who went to war returned.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. She told me that in ninth grade. It’s always stuck with
me.”

“I like it. It’s . . . applicable.”

I arched an eyebrow.

He chuckled, and I did, too. Thunder rolled, grumbling all around
us, and the wind picked up.

Weston lifted his chin. “Smells like rain.” His cell phone
chirped. He took one look at it and stuffed it back into the front pouch of his
hoodie.

I took a sip of my Mountain Dew. “Erin?”

“Yep.”

“You’ve never seemed like . . .”

“Her type?”

“No,” I said, chuckling and shaking my head. “Not at all.”

“I guess I’m not. My parents sure like the idea of it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. They like the idea of a lot of things.” He leaned back,
using his arm as a pillow as he looked up at the sky.

I did the same, noticing that the only patch of clear sky was
directly above us. “Will they want you home any time soon?”

“Nope. Do you need to be?”

“Nope.”

Weston took a deep breath, and we just lay there for the longest
time. Neither of us felt the need to fill the silence as we watched the storm
clouds slowly close in on the stars above.