The Girls of My Dreams

There's a difference between having eyes on you and being watched. I'm used to having eyes on me. Being a preacher's kid, someone has always had an eye on me. My teachers. My parents. My older brother. My English tutors. Watchful eyes monitored my safety, my learning, my whole life. But being watched isn't the same. It's invasive. It was how I felt when I was popular. When people cared about me. Back before people started avoiding me like the plague. And it is how I feel now. I feel her cold green eyes burning into the back of my head. Only I know they aren't cold at all. They're warm and inviting, a sun-kissed patch of grass asking to be laid in. They're the ruffling of leaves, when a summer breeze whispers through them. At least they are normally. Right now, they're ivy colored daggers, poised to strike. They're poison ivy and it’s making me itch. I close my eyes and pray for class to be over. For the clock to move a little faster. Right on time, the bell rings and I jump, slamming my notebook closed and rushing out of the class, relieved, if only for a moment. Because, now it's lunch time. Only lunch time is hard when your alleged best friend isn't doing anything but giving you dirty looks. And when all of you friends took her side. And when the entirety of campus seems to think you're nothing more than a pariah. Did I say best friend? Maybe ex-best friend is the better term? I make it to my locker and rifle through it pointlessly, trying to think of a plan. Maybe I can stand here all lunch, pretending to need something for thirty minutes. That's only two fifteen minute halves. Three ten minute quarters. Six five minute--- "Hey," My boyfriend, James Petrakis, appears next to me, having made his way over from the boy's wing. His green uniform jacket stands out starkly in a crowd of khaki. He smiles, all dimples and perfectly straight teeth, "Where to for lunch my love?" he asks. "I was going to study in the library," I lie. He picks up my backpack, slinging it onto his own shoulders. "You? Studying?" he laughs, "Babe please-- It's the end of the semester. And the Natalie Baker I know doesn't study." He's got me there. He brushes his hand over my uniform, "I know you're hot in that stuffy old jacket." He reaches for me, trying to unbutton it. "Hey!" I move away from him, laughing. "I'm trying to save you!" He moves in front of me, grabs me, wrapping me in his arms, before letting me go. I allow him to carefully undo my jacket and remove it, from my shoulders, "Better." I smile. What James Petrakis lacked in height he made up for in personality. He was only a half inch taller than me. He flips his mocha curls from his other worldly eyes, a swirl of blue and green circling his pupil, "So what are you in the mood for? Mexican or Chinese?" I try to turn him down again, not wanting to be in more trouble, "James---" He closes my locker and grabs my hand. Clearly 'no' is not an option here, "Guess I get to pick today. Come on!" Left with no choice but to follow him, we make our way against the crowd headed to the atrium for lunch. Outside, the sun warms my face and I inhale the spring air. It's not like I can get myself into any more trouble than I'm already in. We rush to his blue convertible, and climb inside. He starts up the car, his alternative rock music blasting out from his speaker's. As we speed out the parking lot and onto the main road, his mass of curls fly in the wind, as Imagine Dragons plays. He pulls into the lot of a Korean grill and parks. Sliding across the hood, he opens my door for me, helping me out. "I know this is one of your favorites," he leaves our jackets in the car, loosening his tie and tossing that in the back too, "And I figured you'd need a break right?" "Thank you," I smile at his consideration. James Petrakis is truly my knight and shining armor. "Anything for my love," he throws his arm around my waist and plants a kiss on my forehead. We walk and claim a table in the back corner of the mostly empty restaurant. He orders for both of us and the waitress walks away, before returning with a bottle of soju. The first time he brought me here, I was skeptical. "Aren't you sort of young to order that?" I'd questioned. He flashed me his dimples and replied, "Did you hear me order it?" Which is true. He never orders it. When you're the son of New York's DA, you have perks like that. And when you were dating the DA's son, you got all the privileges too. Our waitress lights our table grill before reassuring us our food will be out in a few. He pours me a drink before handing me the bottle so I can do the same. He turns away to drink, unnecessarily so, but I appreciate him keeping up with my culture. I sip my own drink slowly, the citrus flavor cutting the traditional almost vodka like taste. Our food arrives--- raw bulgogi and chicken waiting to be cooked by us. "I heard you and Angela are into it again?" he piles meat onto the grill and it sizzles at the contact. The sweet smell of the marinated beef floats into my nostrils and my mouth waters. "You know how it is with us," I leave my answer vague. Angela and I were best friends allegedly--- That is when we aren't fighting. For the most part we got along perfectly. But being friends with your spiritual twin was revealing, and that meant seeing parts of yourself you didn't want to see. "Yeah, I do. After all, she's my sister," he pulls a piece of meat from the grill and blows on it before feeding it to me. "But she's not coming with us this summer so two weeks and BOOM! It's just us." I chew slowly, the beef having burned my tongue a little, "Just us." "Us in the open air, seeing the world one port at a time," he continues to muse, "A great way to start our senior year, yeah?" "Yeah." He feeds himself some of the meat, chewing loudly, "You're really quite today, you know?" "I didn't get a lot of sleep last night," I lie, adding in some extra information to pad, "Me and my mom were into it." "Ah," after a year together, he knows to stay out of things involving my mother, "Tell her I said hi." I chuckle. My mother can't stand James. And my dad doesn't even know he exists. Even with my silence, James is able to carry on a conversation during our lunch. He's good like that. I try and lose myself in his voice, sweet and dark like coffee with just sugar. If Jesus is said to be one of the best public speakers ever, then I believe James could easily be second. He never seems to run out of things to say or jokes to make. And his voice is smooth enough that you don't even want him to. We eat our fill and then return to school. James follows me in, walking me to my locker, keeping me in his bubble of privilege. "Natalie Baker to the front office. Not now~~~ But right now. Natalie Baker to the front office. Not now~~~ But right now. Thank you." I pause at the sound of my name over the school's archaic speaker's. Through all the crackle and feedback, I almost try to convince myself that it’s not me. Natalie Baker. Catalie Maker? Catalina Caker? Natalie is a common name... Could be anyone. But it's not. I look around, checking to see if anyone else heard them say my name. I immediately wish I hadn't have done that. I catch several of my schoolmates staring at me, whispering to each other. "Babe?" I turn to James, who'd been casually leaning against the locker next to mine. I have his full attention, or as much as I can have with his fancy noise cancelling headphones hanging from one ear. "You okay?" "Yeah," I grab my books and close my locker, "I think I just got called to the office." I know I just got called to the office. "When aren't you being called to the office?" he teases, wiggling his thick brows at me, "My girlfriend, Ms. Popular." I smile at his attempt to cheer me up, "More like, your girlfriend, about to get her fifth demerit." "Natalie there's two weeks left of school," he chuckles, "Maybe today is the day they start going easy on you? I mean--- what have you done recently?" he questions, then smirks, "Aside 'inappropriate relations' with me?" Inappropriate relations. He's just teasing, but my stomach lurches at the thoughts that rush to my head. God, what have I done? "You're right," I plaster on my signature smile, "It's probably nothing." "Well do you want me to walk you?" he suggests, "I've got a little time." Only my boyfriend will offer to escort me to the office when he isn't even suppose to be on this side of campus anyway. "It's okay," I brush a piece of dust from his blazer, "I don't want you to be late." "Okay," he drops a quick kiss on my forehead before I take off down the hall. I know my way to the office so well I could make the walk blindfolded and backwards, from anywhere in the expansive private school. I close my eyes, whispering prayers to God. Please don’t let this be what I think it is. And if it is, don’t let Umma be here. And if she is, don’t let her over react. Please God. Amen. I enter the office and the secretary motions for me to take a seat. Headmaster's door is closed when I enter, but as it opens I see my mom seated. "Umma?" I greet her, surprised. In all my trips to the office, she's never been here. Normally I’m able to talk everyone down before there’s a need to call her. "Don't 'Umma' me," she stands, "Grab your things. Come on." Her tone is sharp, not that it’s ever soft when it comes to me. To the outside eye, my mother seemed nice. Long red hair framed her attractive face, which was familiar at all the PTA meetings, bake sales and town halls. Her warm brown eyes comforted the old folks that she visited with on Thursdays. Only now they held nothing but contempt for me. I open my mouth to question her, but the look in her brown eyes advise me otherwise. I wordlessly follow her out to our family car, a Subaru. I purposely get into the back seat, which I know she hates. It makes her feel like a chauffeur and not our mom. Then again, she told me not to call her 'Umma' so it's kind of her fault. She should be lucky I'm not calling her 'Becky.' "Wait!" I remember the school's rules about cellphone usage, "I forgot my phone." "I have it," she fishes it out of her purse and flashes it to me, "Not that I'll be letting you have it back any time soon." She begins the drive home in dead silence. And without my phone, I can't escape into my music. However-- Like mother like daughter. My mother turns on the radio, the local christian radio blaring. A generic song comes on, every other line about our faith and our hope being in the Lord. We can trust our God... He knows what he's doing.... I hope that he knows too, cause I surely the hell don’t. We arrive at our house, an earth tone, brick, two-story that looks exactly like all the others on the street. In fact, our entire neighborhood looks like a Google stock photo of 'posh suburban neighborhood.' I enter the house, quiet without my brothers. I remove my shoes at the door, still the soft pad of my socks on the floor echos through the house. I place them next to my brother's basketball shoes, my school shoes pristine next to his worn out one's. My mother comes in behind me, and places her sandals next to mine before breezing by me like I'm not there. "Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" I huff, knowing better than to raise my voice at her. "Am I going to tell you what's going on?" She mocks, me, only it loses its effect since she fixes my English. Finally, she turns to me, scoffing, "You know, what?" she takes a deep breath, "I'm gonna let your Appa handle this."