“No problem.” I shove my hands in my back pockets. The applause from the dweeby poet types inside bounces over the quad. The fight ebbs out of the shoulders of the girl next to me, like steam rising into the humid night. A firefly winks in the trees beyond.
A female voice asks Constance where I am, and I hear the cook’s gruff reply to the negative. I’ll owe her big time; I do not want to deal with Danielle right now. I look to see if Memory heard, but she’s staring at my clothes.
“What’s this?” She grabs the bottom of my apron.
“Trying to give me a makeover, too?”
“Shut up,” she says. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing a line of black across her cheek. Her voice shakes when she says, “I was just trying to help Faye find herself a little. Show her who she could be on stage. It’s a performance. Like Julian said, a costume. Why did he have to be such an asshole? What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. I get it. It’s like your makeup and clothing are war paint and armor. Sometimes you need your gear before you can go into battle.”
“Exactly.” She shifts over so I can sit next to her. “Why can’t he see that?”
“You’re his sister. I don’t have one but I can imagine a guy wouldn’t really be keen on her showing quite as much... skin, as you do. You look like sex, Memory. Guys don’t want to think about their sisters having sex. Ever.”
“Ugh, why do you all have to think like this? Always so freaking perverted.” She punches me on the shoulder and I grab her fist. She doesn’t pull away this time. “And what does that have to do with Faye, anyway? She’s not his sister.”
“We can’t help it. We’re programmed to think about it. And Faye? No.” I laugh. “I don’t think he sees her like a sister, but I doubt he wants every other guy checking her out.”
“You’re all jerks,” she mutters, bottom lip pouting out. She hasn’t pulled her hand from mine yet.
“You know what you’re doing, with those legs of yours.” My voice comes out rough.
Her eyes are everywhere but meeting mine, and her mouth moves, parting a little. My chest feels heavy and strange. There’s a male voice in the kitchen now, demanding, and Constance answers, her voice short. She bangs a pot, rattles a lid. I can’t tell if it’s in irritation or warning.
“Memory?” Jeremy calls. Dammit. I can’t seem to shake this guy. She pulls away from me again, and I stare down at my empty hand. The door opens behind us. “There you are,” he says, standing over us. “I’ve been looking all over. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just needed to cool off,” she says. “Ethan dragged me out of there.”
“Good thing he did,” Jeremy says, frowning at her. She nods. There’s a little dimple in her right cheek, and all I can think is that this is the first time she’s smiled at me without sarcasm. “Thanks, man,” he says to me, as though he has a reason to thank me. As though Memory is his responsibility. I fight the flare of anger boiling in the pit of my stomach. “I couldn’t get through the crowd. I was sure she was going to end up in Dean Burnett’s office.”
“That would’ve sucked,” Memory says.
Awkwardness looms over the three of us. Two guys, one smokin’ hot girl. An image of dogs marking their territory comes to mind and I should find it funny, but instead it makes me even angrier. I wait, hoping Jeremy will go back inside or that he has something he needs to do, but he offers Memory his hand like some kind of chivalrous knight.
She ignores it. “I think I’m just going to go back to my room. Julian and I’ll work this out in the morning. We always do.”
“I’ll walk you back,” Jeremy states.
“I think I just need to be alone,” she says.
“Oh, sure,” he says, stepping back. His eyes shift to me. I’ve made no effort to move. I may not be marking my turf, but I’m sure as hell not walking away. “You still working?” he asks.
I stiffen for a moment, hearing the implied threat. He knows my secrets, or enough of them. “Yeah, I’m about done.” I turn to the girl. “You okay?”
“She’s fine,” Jeremy says.
Like a submissive dog with its tail between his legs, I go back through the screen door, leaving her out there with him. I walk through the kitchen, kicking a mop bucket on my way to the sink. The plastic container overturns and murky water spills across the floor.
“Jesus,” I bark, kicking the now-empty bucket against the wall. I kick it again, cracking the side. I’m about to pick it up and toss it across the room when a voice stops me.
“What is that language?” Constance has her hands on her hips. “No one takes the Lord’s name in vain in my kitchen.”
I grimace and pick up the bucket. “Sorry.”
“Clean up that mess. And do it without the attitude.”
I want to be pissed at her, too, but she has this little understanding smile on her face. “Yes ma’am.” It takes a while, but I mop up the mess and go back to my station. The rest of the kitchen help is gone, except for Constance, putting up the last of the food. A tall stack of plates and cups waits for me. I turn on the faucet and let the hot water fill the basin, steam rising into my face. I’m rinsing coffee mugs when she comes up next to me.