This question was not new to me – year after year of elementary school teachers had wondered the same thing. Somehow, I just assumed I’d escaped it when I got to college. Then again, I also thought I’d escaped bubbly, mothering teachers. Was this simpering woman seriously an accredited professor?
“Oh, yes, I guess there is,” I shrugged, uncomfortable under the weighted stares of the entire class. “My mother named meBrooklyn because that’s where she and my father met.”Translation: that’s where he knocked her up.
I purposefully gave her as few details as possible, knowing it was best to discourage any further questions about my parentage. Disappointed, she frowned slightly before turning to interrogate someone else. I relaxed, looked at the clock above the door, and proceeded to count the minutes until the end of class.
***
Back at my apartment that night, John Mayer crooned through my speakers as I danced and sang my way around the kitchen, gathering ingredients for dinner. The front door opened and Lexi strolled in, a Starbucks cup in each hand.
“Oneventi nonfat chai tea latte, as promised,” Lexi said, smiling as she handed me the steaming cup. “Forgive me?”
“Forgiven,” I agreed, happily sipping my chai.
“What’s for dinner?”
“How do you feel about veggie lasagna?”
“Sounds perfect. How’s your head?” she asked, grimacing slightly.
“It’s fine, I took some Advil and I can barely feel it anymore.”
“Great! Because we’re going out tonight,” Lexi announced.
“It’s Monday night. I havetwo classes tomorrow, Lex; I’m not going out.”
“Pleeeease,” she whined, making puppy-dog eyes, “There’s a band playing at Styx tonight and they’re supposed to be amazing! Wehaveto go.”
“You don’t even like going to see bands, and you definitely don’t like Styx,” I noted, remembering her reaction to thedark, crowded club the first and only time we’d ever gone there. “So who is he?” I inquired casually, between sips of chai.
“Who’s who?” she asked, playing innocent.
“Whois the guy who talked you into going out tonight?” I said, calling her out on her bullshit. I knew I’d hit my mark when her cheeks flamed to match the exact shade of her hair.
“Okay, fine! You got me,” she admitted, not meeting my eyes. “There’s this guy in my American Lit class. He may or may not have mentioned being there tonight.”
“But why do I have to go with you?” I complained.
“Brooklyn Grace Turner! You know I can’t just go alone! You’re my wing-woman. Plus, you don’t want me walking home by myself, do you?” she begged, batting her lashes at me. “I’ll owe you big time!”
“You almost killed me this morning! Youalreadyowe me, Lex,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, but you already forgave me for that!Pleeeease come with me, Brooke.” Her baby blue eyes were practically glistening with fake tears.
“EvenifI agreed to come – which I haven’t – there’s still the matter of the giant bruise on my forehead.”
“The swelling has completely gone down and I’ll work my magic on your hair and makeup. No one will even notice, once I’m through with you,” she promised.
“Fine,” I muttered, knowing I was only prolonging the inevitable by holding out. Once Lexi made up her mind about something, it was nearly impossible to deter her.
“Yes! You are the absolute best,” she squealed, throwing her arms around my neck. “You won’t regret this, I swear!”
“I know,” I agreed, smiling as a thought occurred to me. “Cause you’re buying every round.”
Chapter Three
Small Packages
“What’s this guy’s name, anyway?” I yelled in Lexi’s ear, trying to be heard over the thumping bass.