Freckles ... part three
by Thalia
Rating: PG-13
Life hadn't changed too much. Not really. Theresa still had that stick
up her ass. Raye still emasculated an average of one frat boy per week.
Amy still fended off the advances of that pretty boy whore Zach
something-or-another from her Orgo discussion group, and... well, okay.
I'm not sure quite what to make of Nick Steller these days.
I remembered him from the simpler days... back when Mom was still alive
and I had a lot of freckles and wore those stupid Pippi Longstocking
pigtails and he still had a squeaky boy voice. He used to make me cry.
Moron.
Though if I had a choice, I probably would've preferred crying... like
back then. Not crying now, of course. Like I needed any more crap to
deal with-- have I mentioned that my BritLit professor is an anal-
retentive prick? But... back when I had nothing real to cry about.
Nothing more important than some stupid boy pulling my hair and giving
me obnoxious nicknames, anyway.
Not much can make me cry any more, which is probably a good thing. God,
I hate those sappy girls who whine and angst at the drop of a hat. They
get all ecstatic when some dumb jock winks at them and then drop to the
depths of despair when it turns out that the dumb jock had a speck of
sand in his eye or something and was already dating a cattier, ditzier
version of Mina Adams. But... I somehow wish things were a bit
different.
Well. No use to wonder the what-ifs and the had-beens, right? And it
could be worse, I'm sure. I've heard horror stories about foster homes.
Theresa could have abused me or sold me into prostitution or butchered
me as a virgin sacrifice or something. But she really needs to stop
trying to get me to call her Mom.
I don't think that most people would understand that. Not... not really.
But there's no time for this train of thought right now. I've an English
lecture to sleep through.
~*~
Once again, the professor confirms what we already knew-- that a poor
instructor could make even Shakespeare intolerable. If this class
weren't required for graduation, I'd so be taking Women's Studies 220.
I have no more classes today, but it's nice outside. Still warm, and sun
is shining but not too hot. The frat houses are all but trembling in
suppressed excitement. There will be drunken frisbee tonight. I can feel
it.
And then the unmistakable sound of beeping happy music-- a brightly
coloured ice cream truck drives down the road at a leisurely pace, and
really, it's no surprise. The campus is a block away from an elementary
school, and it's still warm enough that business is bound to be good.
It stops not too far away, and a little boy clambers up to it to check
out the selection.
Whatever he says to the ice cream truck driver is out of my earshot, but
the child's posture tells everything. The way his hand reaches into his
pocket and digs. The way his shoulders slump when he hands a fistful of
coins to the ice cream truck driver. He must not have enough, poor
thing. The ice cream man hands him back his coins, and prepares to drive
away, and... what in the world is Nick Steller doing?!
That's certainly him. No mistake about it. He's one of a very few guys
I've seen who can wear hair as long and wavy as he does and not look
like a hippie or a transvestite. Not that most drag queens I know have a
body like that. Not that that was meant to be a compliment or anything.
All right... he's talking to the little boy. Better not make another kid
cry, Steller. I can so kick your ass, and I will do it too.
Okay. Kid's not crying, but... what the?!
I blink, and he's still there. All right. So I'm not really still in my
dorm room curled up with my old teddy bear and my biology textbook
forgotten and spread open on top of the covers fast asleep and DREAMING
that I just saw Nick Steller buy that kid a Sponge Bob popsicle. It
makes no sense, though.
Since when did dumb jocks in general buy ice cream for little kids they
didn't know?
And since when was Nick Steller in particular even nice to little kids?
"You just bought that kid ice cream."
Add another 'since when', since we're on a roll here. Since when did I
walk up to talk to him?
They MUST have put something in that coffee I had at lunch.
Steller, to his credit as a Big Tough Football Player (tm), looks almost
chagrined. Scratching the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably, dare
I say blushing, even. "Well, he looked so sad that he couldn't get it,
and it was just a dollar. It probably would have gone towards pizza
delivery or beer anyway..."
"That's not the point," I told him. "You... being nice to a kid. You
were never nice to kids."
"Things change. People change," he says seriously, and gravity changes
his whole face. For a moment, it's almost impossible to tell that he's
really just a hotshot football player who used to pick on me once upon a
time.
'Things change. People change.' Too true, that. But I won't dwell on
that now. Just because he's apparently less of an ass than he was when
he was a kid doesn't mean that I'm going to get all emotional and tragic
on him. "You know, you never bought me an ice cream when I was a kid."
All right, so that came out TOTALLY wrong and I did NOT mean it that
way. I suck at this whole making light banter thing. I should start
taking lessons from Mina. But then I'd be Miss Mary fucking Sunshine or
something. I'd annoy myself to death a moment before Raye decided to
murder me for being too chirpy.
But it's just Nick Steller, and though he looked surprised for a moment,
he nods and smiles in comprehension. I didn't expect him to understand.
"I'd buy you one right now, but I just gave my kid that last dollar, and
as far as I know, the ice cream truck doesn't take debit cards," he
quips.
"Rain check on that, then." I'm relieved and oddly touched. Forget most
dumb jocks... most men, even the supposedly decent ones, wouldn't empty
a wallet to buy ice cream for some kid he doesn't even know.
He's damn good at marketing himself as something more than some meathead
quarterback. A few people could take lessons. But I can tell that he
wants to talk and ask questions and... it's not the time for that. Just
because he's done his little Good Samaritan act doesn't mean that he's
some sort of empathic kindred spirit. Nothing of the sort.
So we talk for all of twelve minutes and forty-three seconds according
to the clock over the door of the drug store, not that I'm counting or
anything. And then he says that he has a class and excuses himself, and
I think I'll go to the library a bit, because this makes no sense and
there's no point in thinking about this because it won't make any more
sense no matter how much I think about it. I might as well go and get
started on the History paper due next month.
I get back to Beverley Hall in time for dinner, and afterwards, go up to
my room to find Raye sitting on her bed, holding something and giving me
one of those patented eyebrow-raises of hers. It's her mild version of
the "What the fuck is going on" stare.
"A guy just stopped by about five minutes ago," she says evenly. "Tall,
long dark hair... I think he's on the football team, but you know I
don't follow those things. Said he owed you this."
She hands over something cold, and I stare at it. It's a tub of Haagen
Daz's Peaches and Cream. All right... I'd not been serious when I spoke
to him by the ice cream truck. Surely he knew that?
There's a note stuck to the top of the pint with a rubber band, and I
unfold it.
"It's the closest thing I could find to your mom's homemade creamsicles."
I give up.
I won't try to figure him out any more.
I will, however, try my damnedest not to have a girly freak-out over the
fact that he remembers that.
-end part three
(
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