Page 20 of A Class of Her Own

Here’s the thing about me and games: I’m out to win. Iwillread the rule book, Iwilladhere to every single printed word, and Iwillcall you on it if you try to deviate. I’m totally unwilling to use shortcuts or give up after several consecutive hours because others are bored. The game must be played to conclusion.

Yes, I have enough self-awareness to understand that I can be rigid and suck the joy out of game playing. Ash knows this about me, and she still challenged me to a game. This is because Ash is the cutthroat of the family and likes to try to bring me and Willow to our knees. Between the two of us games aren’t good fun—they’re more like military matches. Still, the blame lay firmly on her shoulders, which is exactly what I told Willow when I slipped through the doorway separating the back of her shop from the sales floor and found her at the register.

I was dressed in a sweatshirt and leggings, which did not fit the shop’s aesthetic, and I was expecting to hear about it, so I headed it off with a shrug. “Yeah, I know,” I said, gesturing to my outfit with a quick, jerky movement. “Not Willow Wood dress code.”

“You’re late,” she said with a fake smile in case customers were watching. “I thought we said seven.”

I smiled back, as plastic looking as her. “Ash made me play Monopoly.”

Willow rolled her blue eyes in the same exact pattern I always did. “She should know better. Jake will never stay with her now that he’s seen her in evil mode.”

I shrugged. “Her own fault. She knew what she was getting into.”

Willow tugged at a green and red-checked headband that was slipping down her forehead. “You know, just once you could have called the game and gone to bed.” I pressed my lips together and slitted my eyes. She threw up her hands, bright silver rings sparkling on every finger. “Fine, fine. I know.” She sighed and smiled when it caught the attention of a shopper nearby. “Anyhow, can you clear out the dressing rooms? They’re already sloppy.”

“At 7:45 in the morning?”

“Happy Black Friday,” she chirped before moving toward a pair of women who seemed to be arguing over a tote bag in the corner.

I moved to the side of the store where two makeshift dressing rooms had been created using curtains. Sure enough, there were heaps of flowing tunics and breezy pants dotting the floor. Skirts and dresses in patterns I’d never agree to wear were dangling from hooks with their hangers on the floor. Scarves of every color were thrown over the curtain walls. Basically, people can be the worst sometimes. All my life I’d heard the phrase, “Their mother surely raised them better than that” and I’d thought to myself, I only had a mother until I was six, and I’m not lazy or messy. My point? People control themselves. Their mothers aren’t to blame. (Okay, some mothers are, but that’s not the majority.) I maintain that people should take responsibility for their own actions.

I started by wrapping the scarves in layers around my neck until I could barely move my head and their extra length dangled down each side of my body. Then I grabbed clothing items and hung them over my arms until I could hardly waddle. I completed the look by gathering hangers in my empty hands and holding onto them as I headed toward the back of the store, where I could spread it all out on a big table, sort it, fold or rehang, and then bring them back into the main area. As I was walking I felt a tug on the end of one of the scarves. I barely had time to register that one of them had slipped and someone was standing on it before I was pitching forward. I reached out my hands to break the fall, which only ended in a pile of nice, pointy hangers covered by all the clothing on my arms creating a seriously sharp nest for me to land on. Sadly, the scarf was pulling at my neck, and so while I was on my hands and knees, I was looking straight up. It was not a comfortable position to be in.

I tried to turn my head to call attention to my predicament because clearly the person responsible for my torture was oblivious to the fact that they were standing on the scarf.

“Hey, can you move your feet?” I called over my shoulder. Nothing happened. “Hello?” I called louder. “I’m being slowly suffocated here.”

“That seems to be a slight exaggeration,” a mellow, deep voice replied as the scarf loosened and I was able to let my head fall forward. “No loss of color, your lips aren’t blue, and you’re still yelling at people.”

I sat back on my knees and yanked the offending scarf toward me as I turned, already knowing I’d find Brooks standing there. I was sure it was my imagination, but the temperature in the store seemed to heat by several degrees, and I fought off an unwanted blossom of warmth as he looked down at me.

“Why?” popped out of my mouth without forethought.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve been paying attention, though, and yelling seems to be your primary communication method.”

I struggled to my feet and shook my head, tugging the scarves free now that I knew they were a literal death trap. “No, I mean why are you here? This isn’t the type of place I’d expect you to shop,” I said to him. “But if you’re in the market for lounge pants, I think black would be a good color for you. You know, to match your heart.” His face remained expressionless, but I noticed a spark in his eyes that I wasn’t sure how to read.

“Can I help with that pile of clothing and hangers you dropped?”

“Absolutely not. But it’s nice to know you can be so helpful in an emergency,” I said as I bent to scoop the pile.

“In an actual emergency, I’m very helpful.”

I wrestled the outfits and hangers, giving up on separating them, and held them in a bundle against my chest as he disregarded my instructions and bent to pick up an armful himself. In the small store we were sharing a miniature space, and I noticed the smell of spice and mint coming off him. I whipped my head around, not wanting to know what he smelled like, and a piece of my hair got stuck in my mouth. I blew at it, but it was lodged, and he chuckled as I fought with it. The sound reminded me that others were probably watching our little interaction, so I cleared my throat and turned to walk away. I blew at the hair in my mouth again, and it didn’t want to budge. Aggravating.

Brooks followed me through the door into the back of the shop.

I slammed the clothing/hanger pile onto the table and spun to face him as I tugged that blasted hair out of my teeth. “You can’t be back here.”

He set his armload of things next to mine and leaned a hip against the table. “Is this where you come when you aren’t polluting young minds?” he asked.

He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, giving me a flash of a forearm tattoo that I was suddenly ravenously curious about. His jeans were wet around the ankles as though he’d walked through some slush this morning, and his hair seemed a little damp. He looked . . . relaxed. Completely at home here, maybe even entertained by the situation. To borrow an old phrase of my grandmother’s—may she rest in peace—it got my dander up. This was my world, and he did not get to find it a comfy place to be.

I scowled, folding my own arms, which made the big sleeves on my sweatshirt puff out oddly. “Polluting young minds? Please. No one cares more about those kids than I do. I don’t know where you get your ideas.”

“I’ve been wondering when you’ll bring your little ten-year-old army to one of the HOA meetings and stage a coup.”

He was smiling. It wasn’t big, and his lips had barely shifted, but his eyes were dancing a jig. He was enjoying this. Why? Men didn’t usually react this way to me. In fact, they typically ran, accused me of being a harpy, or fought back twice as hard. I didn’t know what to make of him. He raised his eyebrows as I continued to analyze him. It was as though he didn’t realize that we had an unspoken ‘avoid each other at all costs’ understanding. I was baffled by his continuing to hang around and by the fact that this interaction, while annoying for sure, wasn’t exactly terrible.

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