Page 62 of Rebel Summer

Any other time, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but with my remaining hours at the cafe, every day counted. I had asked the cafe to schedule me out for a few weeks without pay. I couldn’t cry off now. And I didn’t want to. In a small way, it helped knowing Harold and Judy had one less thing to worry about while they were away for cancer treatments.

“Is that something you can do, Ms. Brooks? Or should we talk about giving the opportunity to another graduate?”

My mind raced to calculate.

T-minus 38 29 days to exit

Dax hours remaining: 185

I’d be dead on my feet with no life, but I’d get my hours finished.

“I can do it. I’ll be there.”

There was another pause before Samantha reiterated, “You must report to Kathleen’s office by 9 am on Monday, July 22nd, Ms. Brooks. Or else we’ll be forced to re-evaluate our agreement.”

“I’ll make it work. Tell Kathleen to plan on me.” While my words sounded bright and chipper, inside I was dying.

“Keep us posted if anything changes.”

The line clicked off. I slumped into the desk chair in defeat. I imagined her writing a checkmark on the list next to her phone that said: Call Caroline Brooks and destroy her immediate future.

Check.

I just wouldn’t sleep. Friends would have to come see me. Dax seemed to get along fine with a schedule like that.

This was my chance to stay connected to a university, researching and writing papers and rubbing shoulders with professors who might one day open a door for me. This job held the key to everything I had worked my butt off for the past ten years.

And it all stood to be flushed down the drain. If this postdoc fell through, I would be facing the biggest fear of every graduate student ever—being extremely overqualified and severely out of work.

Later that afternoon, I sat on the cold hard concrete floor of Dax’s lobby. I had actually been looking forward to an evening of mindless Legos until I arrived and remembered that I still, in fact, hated it. I had organized one pile as best as I could, but I could never seem to find what I needed without scouring the ground for at least ten minutes. Beau and Phoenix had helped me find a couple of pieces on their way to see Dax—the Dax who saved me from Lucas and defended me to my dad.

We hadn’t talked about the other night. The following morning, he left my apartment early to work at the shop, and I kept to myself. Sunday was the one day I gave myself time off, so I spent the day walking the beach and playing volleyball with Cat and Holland. But my heart lurched this morning when I found him sitting in his booth, waiting for coffee. He wasn’t pushing me for much conversation beyond teasing, but there seemed to be a more gentle undertone between us now.

Watching Dax say those things to my dad on my behalf both humbled and humiliated me. I wasn’t embarrassed by his words or his actions. It was the fact that it should have been me saying them. Conflict was something I’d been taught to ignore. Keeping my head down and smiling through the pain was the theme of life in the Brooks’ household.

I found it difficult to talk back to my dad when, deep down, I still craved his approval.

And his love.

I knew what he was, but I also knew what he could be, and that knowledge waged a constant battle within me.

I picked up my Lego guidebook, squinting down at the small ball of Legos I had painstakingly crafted over the past few days and compared it to the picture in the book.

Then I looked again.

And again.

To my utter horror, the Lego piece in my hand looked different from the picture. Not a lot different, mind you, but the tiniest microscopic amount different. An amount that shouldn’t have the power to ruin someone’s already terrible day.

I flipped back the pages until I found where I went wrong. Fourteen pages back. Two days of work. TEN HOURS ruined. I threw the book down. It landed with a loud thump.

I didn’t cry. Or scream. Instead, I slunk to the cold floor and lay there, allowing the numbness to overtake me.

Was I the camel? Because this straw was heavy.

The front door flung open. A man in grubby overalls thundered into the room, holding an invoice in his hand.

His stormy eyes landed on mine. “Is the owner here?”

---