Girl from a Dusty Memory

         "You see our good buddy here." The slap on my shoulder causes me to wince and almost spit my sandwich across the table. "See our good buddy here hasn't even dated a chick in like..." I watch his mayo-greased fingers extend as he counts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. "Five months. Five fugging months, man. Can you beat that?"

         No, no one can and I can't blame them. Their laughter echoes and bounces around the diner, where the other customers turn to eye our very loud and eclectic crew. On my left is Tom Price, a chubby kid who plays fullback for the varsity. His meaty elbow digs into my rib each time he rollicks back and forth like a cannon ball while laughing. I worry that he might choke on his steak burger, but he's a pro when it comes to the act of chow and conversation. His only claim to fame, besides running for 200 yards during the last season, was being able to wolf ten hotdogs fewer than two minutes. His girlfriend - who is into arts and crafts - had made a t-shirt for him proclaiming his glory. The green atrocity reads 'I EAT DOGS - FAST' in bold white font.

         Sitting beside him, as skinny as Tom is big-boned, is Clay Murdoch. He's the manager of the basketball team and would have been a player if it wasn't for the freak accident he had last year while driving a tractor on his dad's farm. He's the 'player' of the group, his current girl is some hottie from Las Vegas, in his Communications class. I think she might have worked in a night club as a dancer, but who knows these things? Around these parts, rumors fly faster than a dog on acid. The two have been an item for three months. It's a minor miracle considering Clay's track record, and he's been bragging that this time it might be 'for real'. Whatever.

         Jim Kawalski's into NASCAR. He loves his cars like he loves air or at least appreciates its significance. When he's not busy polishing his '89 Pontiac or '57 Chevy in his driveway, you can find him reading the latest NASCAR stats or planted in front of his big screen, flat-panel television watching a 'TiVo' of the last race he might have missed...while he went for a piss. I mean what the fug? What's there to miss in watching a car go around and around in circles? I remember the day I asked him that and I got a look of pity and mild irritation.

         "It's beautiful, man," he had explained as if speaking to a two-year old. "It's a goddamn art. Peons like you wouldn't understand."

         And I don't think I want to.

         And who am I? I'm just your regular college kid hoping to graduate soon, as anonymously as possible. Except it isn't exactly going as planned. Neither do I play football or basketball nor do I love NASCAR, in case you haven't figured that out by now. What I am good at is...well...studying. Now, before you go screaming 'nerd alert', I'm anything but. I don't fit the mold per se. I don't have dorky glasses or wear geeky clothes. I like to dress well...at least as well as I can with my limited cash flow. I'm not a freaking genius or child prodigy either. I just get good grades and...okay, exceptionally good grades. Being a member of the Honor Society has got its perks and one of them is hanging out with guys who, on any other normal circumstances, wouldn't be friends with me.

         However, the four of us grew up together in the same neighborhood. I mean, literally, we were all neighbors in the same subdivision and would hang out all the time. After we graduated from high school, we figured we'd all go our separate ways - we were sick of seeing each other - but wouldn't you know it? We all ended up enrolling in the same damn college. We laughed about it, but inside I screamed in frustration. I loved these guys, but I needed something new. Something different. Something exciting. Something like my last girlfriend - a hot Gisele Bundchen wannabe - who just dumped me.

         "Dude, I don't get it," Clay's saying as he pokes his salad and then flourishes lettuce in my face. "You're like...I mean...babes crawl all over you..."

         Not really.

         "...and you're like wicked smart. So smart it makes me sick just listening to you talk..."

         Which is why I don't do that a lot around them. I'm more than content to let them talk over, around and under me if possible.

         "...and yet, you bag the hottest babe in school and you can't even keep her for two fugging months. I mean what the fug, man."

         "It's a damn shame," Kawalski says, burping and pounding his chest the 'manly' way. His five o'clock shadow is what some girls consider sexy, but to me it looks like he hasn't taken a bath in days. Probably that would explain the underlying odor of wet socks. "I say we find him a new girl, whaddaya say, guys?"

         "Yeah!" Tom agrees, throwing an arm around my shoulder. "Let's find you a hot chick, Justin mah man! You're joining us for a night out of town this Saturday."

         My mouth, before I can control it, runs off with a, "I've got to study...test on Monday," I add quickly, trying hard to ignore the looks of incredulity that come my way. Feeling my cheeks burn with slight embarrassment, I try to taste my sandwich, but I could be eating sand for all the difference it makes.

         "I've got to study for mah test," Tom mimics in a ridiculously girly voice that has me trying to cuff him. "Don't hurt mah frageele emoootions."

         "Shut the fug up," I mutter half-heartedly, but I know I've opened a can of worms and these guys aren't going to let up easily.

         "I'm going to lock up myself in my room and be as emo as possible," Jim adds to my torture, only he picks up two paper napkins to make ribbons in his hair. "I'm going to blog about my being dumped and whine and write PeeUetry."

         "Shut up," I begin again, only to fall silent as Clay slaps his fist on the middle of the table. He removes his hand and staring at me is a crisp hundred dollar bill. The three of us gawk at him, noticing the mischievous glint in his eyes. We know what he's about to do and suddenly I feel like puking. My stomach does its nervous flip flop dance and I can feel the food rising to my throat. I need to get out of here.

         "Double double dare you, Dresden," Clay says. "That you get off your whiny ass and grab the next girl that walks through that door."

         For a moment, there's a deathly silence around the table, and then we all groan simultaneously. Not this old schtick again.

         "Dude. We did that shit like back in grade school," Tom says. "Fugging clichéd, man. Besides, chickenshit here, ain't gonna do it. He's still moping about Gisele..."

         "Gabriella," I interrupt quietly, wincing at the dull ache that fills my chest at the sound of her name escaping my lips. I really did love her, every inch of that curvaceous body that was sent from the gods. However, I think I'll now only associate her with cold rain and chattering teeth, the night she stood in front of Building A and told me that she couldn't continue with us anymore. 'Us' had become such a pain.

         Shit.

         "Whatever, man," Clay says, shrugging and lifting the bill to wave it in my face. "One hundred bucks, Justin. I know how broke you are..."

         Ouch.

         "...and this is an easy way to make a quick buck." He glances towards the door, where a group of giggling freshmen come walking in. Maybe I should have grabbed one of them then.

         "The likelihood of grabbing a girl who's already got a boyfriend, who doesn't give a shit about me, or is already married is pretty high, dipshit," I counter, but darn if that bill isn't looking tantalizing. I do need the cash and my job as assistant to Professor Gifford isn't exactly the best gig on the planet.

         However, there's another slam on the table and it's all I can do to steady my glass of OJ. This time Jim lifts his hand to show off another hundred dollar bill. My heart beats a little faster.

         "Count me in," Jim says with a grin. "I've always been a gambler anyway. So whaddaya say, Dresden. Two hundred bucks to snag yourself a new girl, eh?"

         Cold beads of sweat break out on my brow and my mouth suddenly feels dry. I lick my lips and eye the two crisp notes, my gaze quickly darting to the door watching as a group of men and women dressed in suits come waltzing in. Probably from some seminar or -

         "I'm in!" Tom cries, "But I've only got fifty bucks." He slams his fist on the table too and there I am, staring at two Franklins and a Grant. What the fug? My friends were actually willing to pay me $250 just to talk to a girl?

         "If I have to listen to you whine about Gisele..."

         "Gabriella," I say on autopilot.

         "...or say what a failure you are and listen to you gabble all that relationship shit in my dorm room," Tom continues as if I hadn't said anything. "I'll fugging kill you, man. I'm serious. Get yourself a new babe. Like...yesterday!"

         "Do it," Jim says in that low voice that's the prelude to a chant. Soon enough, the three of them are leaning closer to me, their voices in harmony, 'Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.' You'd think I was about to down a shot of tequila for the first time.

         "All right, all right, stay the fug away from me," I cry out as I push Tom away. He was at kissing distance and I think we are beginning to get more than a fair share of unwanted looks coming our way.

         "That's our boy!" Clay cries out with a clap. "Now go for it, buddy. In one..."

         "Hold on," I interrupt, rubbing my hands together quickly. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and try to recollect what I had read in The Three Pillars of Zen - something about seizing the moment and trying to -

         "Don't think," Tom says as he all but shoves me to the floor. "Just do, man. You think too much, that's why girls run away from you."

         "That's not true," I begin to blubber, trying to regain my balance, but in my haste to steady myself, my hands reach out to grab something ... soft and definitely not hard enough to be wood. My gaze travels up the tight black tee-shirt, the bare but dark-hued skin and up into Tyra fugging Banks' face.

         Well not really. But close enough.

         "Uh..." Nice one, Justin Dresden. Smooth. Real smooth.

         "If you're done copping a feel of them," she says and darn if I don't feel like I've been pole-axed down there...somewhere in my groin, enough to take the wind off my sails. I pull my hand back as if struck by electricity and take a step back, now taking her in completely. She's tall, just about Gabriella's height, and although she did bear a little resemblance to Tyra, that was about it. Her eyes are dark pools of amusement or anger, I can't be sure, and the last thing I want is to be slapped by an angry female.

         "Look, I'm not a pervert or anything," I begin quickly, aware that 'my boys' are watching this little episode with interest. "My friend pushed me and I stumbled and..." And I'm fugging rambling and I can't stop staring at her rack, which to be honest, is pretty damn impressive. It's been a while since I've really appreciated a nice set of -

         "Justin Dresden," she says causing my attention to flicker back to her face. Pretty...

         "That's me."

         "Don't you remember me?"

         I blink in bemusement, my mind running through its file cabinet of names and faces in its storage center. I had made a few black friends growing up, but darn if I remember ever knowing a girl...

         "Summer camp...'02...girl with the buck teeth and glasses with the nappy hair?"

         My internal file cabinet races back in time, shifting through a series of uninteresting folders until it opens to the one labeled 'Camp Summerall 2002'. I was sixteen at the time - sixteen and full of myself. I had just gotten the scholarship to some prestigious university and I had the opportunity to start college at that age or wing out the last few years of high school and enjoy it as much as I could. I chose the latter. Camp had been my Guidance Counselor's idea, except this was no ordinary camp, but the place where 'smart' kids went to get even...well smarter. Mom had jumped at the opportunity. Anything to get her little boy out of the house to enjoy the world. It's tough being the son to a single-mom. Nothing comes easy.

         My mind runs through faces and names and finally comes to a stop. There she was, the quiet one who always sat in front because she couldn't see well even with those bottles over her eyes. Her name was a blur because I never really talked to her...well, unless you consider the time we had to work on some bug hunting experiment together. I did the writing, and she went bug hunting. She got the scrapes and bruises, I sat back and bitched about lunch and dinner. We barely spoke throughout the ordeal and I think I wanted nothing more than to be with Barbara Kingford, the blond with eyes as blue as -

         "You don't remember me, do you?"

         "Oh, I remember," I say quickly, trying to smile although I feel it's a grimace. Who am I kidding? She rolls her eyes and shifts her books from her left to her right arm. Again, my gaze travels to her generous bosom at the gentle motion. She's definitely filled out since the last time we saw each other. The glasses are still there, but they are much nicer specs, cool ones that make her look like a sexy librarian or something. Her hair is done in really tiny braids and a part of me wonders how long she sat down to -

         "Then what's my name?" she asks, smiling a little as if knowing I won't know the answer.

         "Don't tell me. I know the answer to this one. Is it...Belinda?"

         A look of disappointment crosses her features for a moment, and I feel sick to my stomach. I kick myself inwardly and open my mouth to say something quickly - not even sure what I'm going to say, but she glances at her watch and interrupts me.

         "I have a class. It was nice seeing you."

         We both know it's a lie, but that was that. She turns and walks away, leaving me staring after her like a complete and total fool. A hand falls on my shoulder and I barely turn around to acknowledge Jim, who's shaking his head and whispering like a pastor at a funeral.

         "She was hot, man. Hawt. I want a piece of that..."

         "Can it, Jim," I cut in sharply, now feeling a little pissed for some reason. For all of five minutes, one woman finally managed to make me forget about Gabriella and my misery at being dumped, only this time it came at the cost of $250 - which suddenly didn't quite have the same appeal to me as before.

_____________

         "Stephanie!" I cry out in the middle of a Chemistry class, and in my excitement a tinkering sound lets me know that I've broken the beaker containing a mixture of yellow liquid that smells like ammonia.

         Amidst the snickers and giggles, I suffer Professor Kazan's look of disapproval before he speaks up, "We know you're eager to be with your girlfriend, Mr. Dresden, but could you at least stop daydreaming about her in the middle of an important experiment? At least for two minutes, if that's not too much trouble."

         "Sorry," I mumble, shuffling my way to the back of the class to get some napkins to wipe up my mess. It's been three days since I saw her, and believe me, I've spent every waking moment thinking about that blasted and elusive name. That's one of my 'problems', you know. I never tend to quit on something until I find a solution to it. It's why teachers call me 'smart and gifted' because I work extra hard on things to make them all fit, to find the missing puzzles. It's why I want so hard to find out why Dad left Mom and me to fend for ourselves when I was just a baby. It's why I work hard to make my girlfriends like me, giving them no reason to find fault with me, and yet it fails over and over again. It's trying to figure out why girls are attracted to me, enjoy the way I make out with them, and after an evening of intellectual conversation, call up the next day to say that I was fun but it wouldn't have worked out. It's why I spent five months pining after Gabriella, unable to function properly since she was the only girl who managed to last with me for over three months without calling me distant, aloof or introverted. She was smart, funny, sexy as hell and just...perfect, until she broke my freaking heart.

         "Stephanie," I whisper again as I wipe the table carefully. I roll the name on my tongue and have to smile a little. I'll search for her today and hope she'll listen to me. I can't wait to see the look on her face when I reveal her name. Well, that sounds pretty stupid. Of course she knows her own name, why would me knowing it make any difference?

         Class couldn't end fast enough, and ignoring the buzz of my cell phone - Tom's calling me to join him for lunch - I race towards Building C. I noticed that she carried a lot of English Literature books the last time, so it would only make sense for her to be around....bingo.

         She's sitting on one of the stone benches outside the building, a pen in her mouth as she struggles to close up her books. She looks nice today, wearing some long flowery dress with sandals that show off pretty toes. She could fit in perfectly on a beach in the Bahamas, but this isn't the time to admire her slender figure. I have to make this quick.

         Clearing my throat, I take a step forward, hands shoved into the pockets of my pants to control the sudden trembling. Geez, what the fug's wrong with me? I'm acting like this is my first date ever!

         "Ste...Stephanie?"

         "What?" she responds automatically, before looking up to stare blankly at me. I think I'm smiling but she doesn't respond, and although it's a relatively cool day, I'm getting hotter than a whore in church. "Ah. So you finally figured out my name, Dresden. What did you do? Google it?"

         Okay, that stung. "I didn't," I say quickly. "I remembered it in Chem class today."

         She shakes her head, but I can see the hint of a smile on her lips. "That's nice. A beaker reminded you of my name. Ever wonder why?"

         "Sure," I reply quickly. "You caught the bugs in a beaker like...jar thing."

         "So they wouldn't escape."

         "Yeah."

         "You wouldn't help me."

         I flush in embarrassment. "Hey, I was just a kid - "

         She continues as if I hadn't spoken. "Do you know I twisted my ankle climbing that slope? Of course you didn't. You were too busy thinking of Barbara."

         I gasp. "You knew?"

         "Every boy was thinking of Barbara," she says with a light chuckle, rising to her feet to tuck her books beneath her arm again. "But it's okay. I wasn't a very pretty girl. You wouldn't have noticed me anyway."

         "Hey, that's not," I begin but clammed up immediately because it was the truth. There had been nothing remarkable about Stephanie Fisher at the time. She was just another statistic, another nameless face to add to the dusty files in my storage cabinet. But for some reason, I wanted to polish this particular folder, to make it shine, to make it last a little bit longer in my mind. I didn't want to tuck it away again.

         "So...eh...do you want to have lunch with me?" I ask, a bit stunned at my daring. She looks surprised as well, but then begins to giggle. I wasn't aware I had said anything funny.

         "You're inviting me for lunch?" she says almost incredulously.

         "Well...yeah, I mean...what's the big deal?"

         She snickers. "My boyfriend won't like it."

         Ouch. Double ouch. That familiar sensation of being kicked in the stomach or in the balls fills me again and it's all I can do not to double over. A boyfriend. Figures. A girl like her would have guys lining up to -

         "... is what I'd like to say."

         Huh?

         "The truth is, Justin Dresden," she begins and I find myself bracing for it, for the words of derision, the 'us won't work' line. I plan for that sensation of falling into the pit of darkness, of the world closing in on me, the heavy pressure on my chest as if her words will squeeze the life out of me. I remember weeping in the safety of my room the night Gabriella dumped me, and for some reason, I know I'm going to do it again if Stephanie does the same. Perhaps I'm still raw from the break up, perhaps I'm not really ready for another relationship after all. I can deal with the guys and their laughter, the playful jabs at my 'emo' state, but what I can't deal with is rejection. There. I've said it.

         "...you can be a douche bag when you set your mind to it. You don't really consider your partner's feelings. It's all about you, you and you..."

         "Wait a sec...who told you all this? I'm not that self-centered."

         She smiles and darn if my heartbeat doesn't skip a beat. "It's because that nappy-haired girl with the buck teeth and glasses paid a little bit more attention to you back then."

         I grow warm, trying not to drop my jaw in disbelief. If she's saying what I think she's saying then -

         "You...eh...like me?"

         "Don't flatter yourself."

         "Okay, I'll shut up now."

         She takes a deep breath and glances at her watch again. "Look, I have..."

         "Class, I know. That seems to be your excuse when you're sick of talking to me."

         "Seems like you know me already."

         "I'd like to know you," I say, a bit surprised at how sincere that sounds. I do want to know her better, to know if Poe or Emerson is her choice read for casual reading, if she enjoys concerts or a quiet night alone, if she enjoys long walks along the beach or a ride around town. "If you'll let me," I finish with a smile.

         She eyes me carefully, and I'm sure she's blushing although it's hard to tell. She really does have beautiful dark skin. It's definitely going to be something new, something exciting and something different. Was I ready? Could I change and become a better person for Stephanie? You betcha.

         "Oh hell," she mutters and then extends a hand to me with a winning grin. "I so know I'm going to regret this, but let's start from the beginning, okay?"

         I have to laugh. I can't help it. "Sure. Why not?"

         "Okay. Hello, my name is Stephanie Fisher."

         "Justin Dresden," I reply with a matching grin, grasping her hand in a firm handshake with hopeful promises to come. "It's a real pleasure."




______________________


Notes: The term 'fug' is in homage to the American writer Norman Mailer who used it in his book The Naked and the Dead (1948) as a 'rebellious' gesture to his publishers who wanted him to eliminate the other spelling of it.