ruby.ocampo:
Yeah, it’s his high school reunion too!
A familiar irritation climbs up my spine, like Mom is giving me her classic stink-eye as I slink in the front door. How can I reframe this to give her maximum peace of mind?
ruby.ocampo:
I’m pretty sure Eddie Ortega was flirting with me? You won’t believe his take-home pay!
She doesn’t say anything for a while, and I can just picture her, hair up in curlers, arms crossed, chewing over what I just said.
ruby.ocampo:
Do you feel any different?
Do you see a light??
sampaguita72:
Why should I be any different?
What are you talking about?
It was silly to think one night of being slightly more charming and standing up straight could be enough to convince her she can rest easy. Maybe I have to do something she can see—something in Slack, in front of her. Of course! How dumb could I be?
My head lolls back, and over my shoulder I see Greg at the top of the bleachers, holding his hand up in a little wave. So Iclamber up there in my precarious heels and sit next to him, relaxing into my usual slouch.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, taking a drink of his beer and tilting it toward me.
“Mostly numb?” I accept the green bottle, condensation cool between my fingers, and it tastes so refreshing that before I realize it, I’ve polished off the whole thing. “I feel bad for her.”
Greg’s shoulders shake, laughing at me. “You were thirsty.”
“It’s stressful trying to please a ghost, you know?” I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and burp. “Ugh, God, my feet are killing me.” I wrench off my strappy heels and wiggle my liberated toes.
Greg leans forward and stares at me wistfully, like I remind him of something that makes him sad. “Do you really think changing your life is what she wanted?”
I scoff, hackles up in an instant. “I’m not exactly living well right now.”
“But shouldn’t you…move in a direction that you wanted? I’ve been thinking—the list you made…it’s all…”
“What’s your point?” The spinning colored lights are making me motion sick.
“Like you’re doing an impression of someone else.”
“Don’t they say fake it till you make it?” I snap, standing too fast, instantly lightheaded. “We can’t all be naturals at everything!”
“Ruby, wait—” Greg reaches for my arm, but I’m already running barefoot back onto the shiny wooden gym floor. I could use another drink.
I’m standing in the long line for one when somebody taps my shoulder.
“Hey, no shoes, no service.”
Somehow, this time it actuallyisMark Winterson.
“Hey, Ruby.” His face lights up, open and boyish. My favorite unserious distraction.
Every minor encounter with this dude is super unnerving. The way he lets me get away with being totally bizarre to him, reacts like it’s some kind of admirable quality, even—it gives me a buzz. It’s addictive.
