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Abby
Harvard. I’m sitting across from a bastard from Harvard. I’m going to drop kick Logan the next time I see him. Fucking Harvard.
Me and Mr. Harvard have been in the library conference room for thirty minutes though, way past the maximum of fifteen allowed per student. His tie is loosened, the first button of his white shirt undone, and he’s grinning because he doesn’t know what the hell to think of me.
He leans forward in his seat and rests his arms on his thighs. “Let me get this straight, you’re able to create an 80-percent markup on the items you sell, most are aware of this, and none of your fifty-plus client base care?”
This guy is going back to my opening line of: I have my own business with an 80-percent markup. I have a client base where I have to turn people away and I have sales that on average triple yearly and I possibly make more than most college grads do so wow me on why I should attend your school.
He forgot Logan pretty quickly.
I shrug. “I’m sure they care, but the key is to act like I don’t care. That’s wrong. I’m all about customer service, but people often mistake customer service with people pleasing and that’s not the same thing. My customers ask, I provide. They tell me when to show, I do. I keep my word, which is important, but at the end of the day, I have a product they want and the beauty of capitalism is all about supply and demand. I’ve got the supply and I demand the price. Succeeding in capitalism is not for people pleasers. It’s about my clients receiving what they want and it’s about me making money.”
“I’ll ask you again, what do you sell?”
I widen my eyes to mimic annoyed and a tad crazy. “I’ll tell you when you offer me a full ride.”
He laughs. “You’re different, Abby. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes that’s bad. In the end, it’s always refreshing.”
“But I’m not Harvard material, am I?” I’m bold with the question and hate the little twinges of hope that he’ll disagree with me.
He flips through the folder he requested on me after the fifteen-minute marker. The teacher in charge of this area freaked out. Freaked. Couldn’t believe I was in here. Couldn’t believe Logan wasn’t. She was red-faced, flustered, apologizing and this guy asked for my student record.
“Great test scores and grades. Aptitude tests are impressive. But your attendance is sketchy and you have no outside activities.” He closes my folder. “You sell yourself well, but I need to be able to sell you on paper.”
Besides junior college, the story will always be the same. “Paper kills trees and I like trees. Creates oxygen and all that.”
A sad smile on his end. He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a card. On it is his name, his number, and his address. “Email me. Send me a list of schools you’ll be applying to. Maybe I can help you, give you a word of recommendation if it should help.”
I accept and push past the defeat and focus on the golden pass in front of me. That’s another thing about running a business. You don’t let emotion get in the way of an opportunity and that’s exactly what this guy is offering.
“Your loss.”
He stands with me and shakes my hand. “I agree. Good luck, Abby. I have a feeling I’ll be hearing about you someday.”
Probably. On the six-o’clock news and not in the good way. “You better believe it.”
I walk out the door and in front of me is the principal, guidance counselor, and the flustered teacher. Before any of them can say a word, I flash his card. “Anyone else walk out with this? I believe it reads Harvard.”
Only the guidance counselor smiles a knowing “No.”
“Didn’t think so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”
Gotta admit, all of that, including turning my back on them felt really good.
I’m down the hallway, heading toward the exit and sitting on the steps near the exit to the school is Logan. He’s resting his arms on his thighs, his hands are clasped together. The baseball cap pulled down keeps me from reading his emotions, but then again, it’s Logan and he’s always a tough read.
The urge is to go to him, to show him the card, to smile at what I accomplished while he smiled along with me. To act seventeen. To make up a story and listen as he played along. To tease him and have him tease me back. To let him hold my hand again and revel in the butterflies that hatched in my chest the moment his fingers first touched mine.
In my back pocket, my cell vibrates. Logan’s still staring at me and I’m still staring at him. Every time I see him, it’s like two paths emerge. One that calls to me...another that feels inevitable. Either path leads to someone I love. Both will hurt the other person I’m protecting and myself.
It stops vibrating, then begins again. I pull it out and sigh when I spot Linus’s number. The two paths narrow back into one as I’m reminded that any road to Logan only brings him trouble. I circle away from Logan, answer my phone and hold on to the idea that I’m at least saving my grandmother—that I’m at least dying on the inside for a good reason. “I sometimes wish a dragon would appear and eat your phone. Sometimes I wish it would eat you.”
“Stop daydreaming. We’ve got work to do today.”
Logan
The elevator doors open. I enter, then Mom, then Dad. Elevator rides after doctor visits have always sucked, especially when Mom’s in attendance and there’s no one else but the three of us in the box. Dad’s brewing, Mom’s seconds from peeling her own skin back, and I’m worried about Abby.
