So much for my theory that he couldn’t see me.
I watched as he took a final drag on his cigarette, moved his hand to his forehead, and sent me a mocking salute, as if to acknowledge my departure from the roof. My eyes tracked the movement of his hand, unmistakably identified by the dim glow of his cigarette, and I hastily moved the rest of my body inside, locking the window shut behind me.
What a creep.
Back in the safety of my bedroom, my fear quickly faded. Whoever he was, he was clearly pleased with the fact that he’d managed to make me so uncomfortable simply by loitering. It was probably just some stupid fraternity brother, waiting for his sorority counterpart to stumble outside for a late-night hookup. It didn’t have anything to do with me.
At least, that’s what I told myself when I glanced out the windowa minute later and saw that the motorcycle had vanished completely.
***
A few hours later, I perched on one of our kitchen island barstools and sipped my coffee greedily.Ah, caffeine. Sweet nectar of the gods.The weak morning sunshine trickled in through an overhead skylight, illuminating our paint-chipped cabinets and mismatched furniture. My fingers absently moved across the marred countertop, tracing a collection of scratches gouged out by the last decade of tenants.
Lexi shuffled into the kitchen, her red hair still mussed from sleep and her feet stuffed into a pair of hideous green frog slippers.
“Coffee,” she muttered.
Lexi was not exactly what you’d call a morning person.
“Already brewed,” I reported, hiding a smile behind my coffee mug as I took in the sight of her disheveled bed-head and rumpled pajamas.
“You’re a saint,” she said, pouring herself a steaming cup and inhaling deeply as the aroma reached her nose.
“I thought we decided to burn those slippers after seventh grade along with your collection of Beanie Babies and N’ Sync posters,” I observed sarcastically. Lexi simply glared over at me, unwilling to be baited into a response.
“How are you already dressed and perfect? I still have to shower before class at eight. What time is it anyway?” she asked.
“To answer your first question – I’ve been up all night and had plenty of time to get dressed. And as for the second,” I glanced at the digital microwave clock, “It’s 6:57.”
Lexi grimaced in sympathy at the thought of my sleepless night. Then again, that girl could sleep fifteen hours a day and it probably still wouldn’t be enough for her. Her bed was quite possibly her favorite place in the world.
“Wait!Shit! It’s already seven?” Lexi exclaimed, jumping up from her barstool and nearly upending her coffee in the process. “I’ll never be ready in time! Perfection doesn’t just happen, it takestime, Brooklyn. I guess I’ll be late for my first class. Shit!” she cursed again, racing out of the kitchen.
“The professor will probably just go over the syllabus anyway! Nothing crucial,” I called down the hall after her.
Not that it mattered; whether she had five minutes or forty, Lexi could pull together a polished look most of us could only achieve with the help of trained makeover specialists. Somehow, she even made bed-head look attractive. Hell, if Lexi went to class wearing those damn frog slippers, half of the female student body would be rocking them within the week.
It seemed ironic that, thanks to my sleepless nights, I had hours to get ready when I rarely needed more than ten minutes to do my hair and makeup. As for picking clothes, I’d never been one to meticulously plan or accessorize my outfits. I usually just threw on my standard combo of jeans, a tank top, and flip flops. As for the rest, after concealing my dark under-eye shadows, dabbing on a touch of mascara and lip-gloss, and letting my dark waves tumble freely, I was ready to go.
I didn’t understand what could possibly take Lexi so long. Throughout the years, she’d frequently been frustrated by my utter lack of interest in clothes, makeup, and shopping. As per my best friend duties, I’d served as her dressing-room sounding board for many years as she tirelessly weighed the pros and cons of a particular dress or pair of heels. I drew the line, however, at letting her pick out clothes for me. As a fashion-merchandising major, she was constantly trying to get me to deviate from my boring girl-next-door look, but I didn’t see the point. My clothes were just fine, even if they lacked designer labels or avant-garde flair.
I considered pouring myself another cup of coffee, but decided against it. Two cups was my limit– any more and I’d be shaky and on-edge for the rest of the day. Wandering back into my bedroom, I double-checked that I had some empty notebooks and a copy of my class schedule tucked neatly into my backpack.
I’d have three classes today: Criminal Justice, Sociology, and Public Speaking.Joy. The university’s Pre-Law degree track encompassed a widely varied array of courses, most of which were supremely boring and full of brown-nosing, argumentative lawyers-to-be.
Can’t wait.I rolled my eyes.Sophomore year, here I come.
***
Lexi offered a running fashion commentary as we walked the three blocks from our apartment to campus. Mostly I just listened and tried to keep a straight face.
“What is that girlwearing? That’s a plaid skirt!” Lexi whispered, clearly outraged as she unsubtly pointed at the girl walking a few steps in front of us. “It’s like Rory stepped right off the set of Gilmore Girls!” She shook her head in disbelief.
“You’ve been watching reruns on ABC Family again, haven’t you?” I accused.
“Psh, Brooke. Who are you kidding? I own the box set.”
“You have so many issues.”