Fall From Grace (2 page)

Dad smiles widely picking up his fork, "You deserved it Stella. You don't seem to have a filter on your verbal rants even though I completely agree with you," he takes a big mouth full and continues, "well, you'll be happy to hear, they're divorced,"
 
he mumbles.

I laugh, choking on a stick of bacon, not expecting
that
revelation. "Really? Sorry to here that," I blurt, pausing for a swig of coffee to roll down the meat. "Actually I'm not. She was a cow and needed to loosen her bunched up panties. In fact, we should thank them for their statistical contribution; now it can remain at my favourite 4 out of 5 marriages that fail. For a second I thought that people might actually start staying together. The horror!" Once this leaves my lips I realize what I've done. I've broken the unspoken house rule of never saying ANYTHING that reminds him of HER.
 

Dad clears his throat and leans over his breakfast as if a weight is crushing him into the counter. His smile instantly fades and a dark cloud descends over him. He tries to cover it up by immersing himself in his fascinating breakfast, but I know better.

When will I stop blabbing and keep my trap shut? In the last few years I've learned to avoid the dreaded topic and steer clear of this intense mood shift altogether. I got really good at avoiding anything and everything that would trigger this reaction. If I would accidentally mention HER, or do anything that reminded him of HER, if I would friggin' burp like HER, he turned into a sad sack of despair.
 

Oh he tried to act normal, but failed miserably. Everything changed in an instant and he shut down completely. I have a bit of a sixth sense on gauging a persons mood. Knowing he was turning into a train wreck I would ask him to go fix something, or book it out of the house myself; let him work through his laundry list of issues and return when it passed. And I'M the one in therapy. Go figure.

I'm sure you can tell by now that I really don't get the warm and fuzzies over 'falling in love'. Maybe that's why I'm so picky. My mom left us 17 years ago and we haven't seen her since. I guess something like that really changes you. Well, it changed my Dad, which is glaringly obvious. I was trying to be a smart ass and I guess now it turns out I'm a dumb ass. I shut my trap and slam in four slices of bacon.

Gratefully composing himself in record time, Dad trudges on, "Well he moved a few months ago and now works at Columbia; great science department there."

Aha, wait for it, here comes the segway for the next business trip. Relief floods over me as the conversation turns to something I can fix.

"Anyways, he's dying for me to come and do a lecture in his class, which I would love to do but it would mean a few days away... "

Bingo. I interrupt him before he can start to guilt bargain with me.

"Dad, you know I don't mind you traveling for these trips. You love your job, I'm proud of all you've done and giving these lectures is a great outlet for you. I really don't mind being alone. Truly. Now, stop fussing and tell me all about it, I think it's great."

With a sigh, Dad turns towards me and launches into the 'I think I leave you alone too much' and the 'I don't want to miss out on these few months we have left together before college' spiels. I smile and pat him on the back and reassure him that I am fine and that I have a lot of school work to do in the next few weeks and that I would barely be away from my computer at all. Yada, yada, yada, all is well and he'll be gone on Wednesday with just a small topping of guilt. Whew, crisis averted. We finish our plates in companionable silence as I make a mental note to never mention divorce stats again.

After we've eaten our fill, well perhaps more than my fill, Dad and I lounge in front of the Discovery Channel with our second pot of coffee brewing knowing I need to get up and change these tights pants on the A-SAP but finding no smidgin' of energy to do so. God I wish I could stay home today, rent a bunch of movies and veg out in some extra wide gym pants. Sigh. But I am Ms. Responsible and Dad would kill me if I called in 'fake' sick to work.
 

My phone chirps loudly, snapping me out of a surprisingly riveting shark week. It's Gabriella.

BIG party tonight! Dig out your spandex!

Smiling at her obscurity I glance at the time, crap I'm late. Gotta book it, overpriced jeans await.
 

I pull into the parking lot behind Grant's and kill the engine. My trusty old black Jetta, Murrie, whom I named as a term of endearment so that he would know he was loved and wouldn't crap out on me in the middle of a snowstorm, settles with a few gurgles as I give him a little pat on the dash. Grabbing my messenger bag, I hop out and jog over to my part-time torment. I suppose Grant's is a good job to have, I mean I
could
be working at the dinky grocery store or slinging burgers, so I count myself lucky. It's your basic run of the mill clothing shop that actually has a good variety of some cool brands and I get a discount so not a total loss.

We're located about two blocks west from Alessa Square, in the heart of downtown, you guessed it, Alessa Heights. The square is as close to a bustling metropolis we'll ever get, but its ok, I actually don't mind it. Coming from me, a smart lipped teen, that says a lot about its cool factor. It feels very European and really comes alive in the warmer months.
 

The plaza includes a beautiful cobblestone walking path with no street traffic, surrounded by quaint little shops, and a large stone fountain at the heart of it all. During the summer months, kids love to run around like wild animals while parentals perch themselves on surrounding benches sipping really great coffees and taking in the local foot traffic. This is as close to an entertainment district as Alessa will ever get.
 

The fountain was built by the towns people a super long time ago, during the depression I think, to boost morale and solidarity during a really crappy time. It holds a lot of sentimental historical significance to the older folks. I often hear them regaling tourists about how they rallied together and built it from conservation rocks, hauling them all by hand, miles and miles in a snow storm with no coats, no shoes - Blah Blah Blah, totally exaggerated story, but I give them kudos as it's a beautiful fountain regardless of how the rocks actually got there. They did a fantastic job on the little ornate details and the water feature really is cool. I dare say that kids today wouldn't give a rats behind to build a lovely fountain if we didn't have enough money for pizza and beer.
 

A large old clock-tower, built from the same stone as the fountain, sits high on the east side of the square and still bongs every hour. The most frequented spot, The Grind, is found on the south side where you can plop down on the little outdoor bistro tables and people watch for hours. Mrs. Castillo did a great job with this place, fixing it up to be a lovely addition to our mini village. She also just so happens to be my best friends' mom. Ka-ching, did I make a good friend choice or what?

As I make my way into the store, I automatically switch to defensive maneuver mode. Rob is laying in wait for me behind the Lucky jeans and pounces as soon as I walk through the door. I mean I like Rob and all but I already said no to a date with him (actually I should say that I said no to dates, plural, with him) and he just can't seem to let it slide. As if wearing my resolve down will win him that privilege. It isn't like he's ugly or creepy stalkerish, well maybe a little, but he's just not for me. It might be that he smells a little like he took a bath in Drakkar Noir, or that he over-gels his hair to a shiny hard mass of spikes. Or that he wears a lot of pink t-shirts so tight I can see his nipple ring popping through like a pulsing orb saying 'Look at me! I'm a vapid attempt at making myself seem bad ass!' Nipple rings are just gross. Period. And wash your hair.

I think he has good intentions and I feel sorry for him, but I wish he would 'intend' to pursue someone other than me. I think he needs to get laid.
 

"Hey there Stells! Whoa, you're looking delicious today, how's it goin'?" he says, casually placing his elbow on the shirt rack beside him, blocking my path and staring at my boobs.
 

I shift my bag to my back, crossing my arms in front to conceal any hint of cleavage that he can leer at. Please God, have Kim magically appear and ask him to fold something.
 

"Just peachy Rob, you?"
 

"Can't complain ya know."

No I don't know.

"Went for an early run around 6 and got up to two hundred on the press today, so feeling pret-ty good!"

Lord help me.

"Oh and I made this new protein shake that really got me pumped. I can give you the recipe if you want?"

Are we on Venice Beach? Do I look like I eat protein shakes or need to get pumped? I prefer sitting on my arse and eating corn chips thank you very much.

"That's good man, you on cash this morning?" I ask.

Change the subject, talk about work, avoid the pulsing ring, avoid the veiny bicep. Crap I looked at the ring. Noticing my glance, he flexes his chest, jiggling the jewelry against his tight graphic tee. I gag a little.

"Not sure. Kim hasn't arrived yet. Hopefully we can be on the floor together though," he says, glancing back at my boobs.

Rob loves to work the floor. His ability to suck up to soccer moms is legendary; slathering compliments as they giggle like tweens and cream in their spanks. Reels them in hook line and sinker. I don't get it but they certainly want it. Although the job is OK, I don't consider it a good fit for me. I'm a solitary person; I don't like people all that much. I especially don't like seeing thin girls saying they look HUGE, bigger girls saying they don't understand why these sizes are so much smaller than other stores (they aren't), and rich kids who look at you like their Daddies paid you to specifically hand them sequinned tank tops all day.

"Ya, hope so." Except I don't.

"Well I'm a little late so I'd better get moving to the back to drop my stuff off," and hide, "and get ready for the morning pow wow. See you in a bit." I flash a weak smile and see his wasted efforts turn to disappointment. He looks like I kicked him in the nuts, poor guy. Hopefully Marla is working today; her sluttiness will draw his attention away from me.
 

Kim arrived a few minutes later for her daily pep talk and org chart. As luck would have it, I AM on the floor today, but Rob's on cash, score! Kim is your typical retail store manager; a little bit high on herself because she gets to boss around a bunch of snot nosed teenagers, but not high enough to remember that us little jerks are going to be leaving in a few months and she's a lifer. She's fair though and doesn't ream into me when I get a little 'extra witty' to bitchy customers.
 

I was even granted front store display - the best job ever - dressing the mannequins. It keeps me busy sans customers and immersed in the fashion aspect, which is my main reason, aside from a wee pay check, for taking the job.
 

A few hours into my spring display, while struggling to cover the left breast of my life sized barbie, I spy Gabby shimmy-ing up the street. Of corse Gabs is sporting the cutest little floral dress and wedge heels you would
never
be able to buy around here (must be nice to have family still in Paris) and looks fan-freaking-tastic. She walks down the street as if all eyes are on her (and they are), like a slo-mo montage in a movie, the wind whipping her hair in a sexy fashion and the sun shining directly on her and only her, flipping her dark wavy locks and smiling like she owns the town. She's a stunner and she knows it. God I envy that sometimes. I check out the time on my cell, almost break time. Maybe Kim would let me go early if I promise to bring everyone lattes?
 

I emerge from the back room with my wallet in tow as I hear Gabs peel out a very flirty laugh to some guy in sector seven (hoodies). How does she do that? I was out back for what, four seconds? She spies me, beckons me over and leaves Mr. Great Hair behind with a wink and a smile. I'm sure he has her number already.

Gabs threads her arms through mine and starts our commentary as we head outside, "So, mi encantador, how many times did Rob try to hump your leg today?" She likes to use terms of endearments (or insults) in foreign languages to keep me guessing whether to be flattered or annoyed. She's fluent in French from her Moms side and Spanish from her Dads. My Dad was born and bred here in Alessa, 'nuff said.

"You're one to talk dude. Who was that metro princess panting all over your designer shoes back there? You're acting like a tramp you know," I smirk and playfully tug on her arms.
 

"Gasp! Tramp! Why Miss Stella, are you jealous? It doesn't flatter you truly. Take my advice, no one likes a frigid old maid," she says giving me a mock pity pout.

"Ah forget it," I say holding up my hand, "I know you aren't interested in him, I mean he is no Miguel Silvestre right?" (Insert TERRIBLE Spanish accent here with an emphasis on rolling my rrrr's) "Say, has he returned your tweets yet? You must be feeling pretty rejected."

This gets Gabs in a fluster. She is SO into this guy. For those of you not in the know (and why would you be), he's this hot Latino actor whom Gabs has been stalking since she saw him in some weird foreign film a few years back. The rest of us were watching Hanna Montana and she was drooling over a older guy with sub-titles. If you have a chance though google him, you won't regret it.