Miss Naughtie Two-Shoes and the Rebel

Chapter 12

Darwinism states that evolution is driven by natural selection. Organisms adapt to changes to ensure the survival of their species.

If she wants to survive college, she must toughen up and follow Darwin’s lead. Or the Marines’.

Improvise.

Adapt.

Overcome.

The hardships, both mental and physical. Her fears. And presently, her haters. It’s the most pressing matter right now. And there could only be one reason why she is being targeted, picked up on.

Trae.

She has a strong feeling the sabotage is being orchestrated by a jealous female. Or females. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. So the saying goes. Ever since she and Trae were openly seen in public, she’s been like a walking apparition. There’s a ripple of hush wherever she goes, followed by whispered chittering as soon as her back is turned.

But she has managed to drown out all the voices. Shoved the nasty talks and vile rumors to the deepest pit of her brain where she stores all useless information such as: gnurr is the lint at the bottom of your pockets; you can't sneeze without your eyes open; lyrics to the song I’m Blue, da ba dee da ba daa. By the third day, she can say confidently that she’s fully adapted.

Andy puts on her baseball cap and wayfarers. If she’s to go on like this every single day, she’ll have a deep tan by the end of the semester. A barbequed tan. Or worse, skin cancer. She can’t go on like this. Like a lover going incognito to a secret rendezvous.

Sooner or later, she has to find out the culprit of her misery. Why she is being ostracized for knowing Trae is beyond her. She’s not his girlfriend, she’s out of his league. Way so far out. Plus, she has no interest in him. Not even the slightest.

Sure, she does find him attractive. Akin to how she finds Robert Pattinson or Ryan Reynolds attractive. The only difference is that his level of attractiveness literally takes her breath away. Well, sometimes. Most of the time? Well, pretty sure she’ll get the same effect if she sees either Robert or Ryan in person.

One thing is for sure, handsome or not, Trae is going to pay for putting her in the radar of all those petty, insecure, malicious, delusional girls who thought that the brief encounter at lunch with Trae meant more than a casual conversation between schoolmates. It was blown out of proportion. They’re not snogging in public. She would never PDA a boyfriend if she has one.

She breathes out a loud, exasperated sigh. Pushing away the thoughts from her mind, she tries to think of Iceland instead. Of taking an ice bath in an ice-covered lake. Because, gosh, why is it so freakishly hot today?

It is one of those days she wishes she has her hands on a large glass of cold minty strawberry lemonade. A lemonade is more realistic than an arctic bath. Her skin begins to bead with perspiration. It feels like she’s being roasted alive. Why does it feel like summer already?

Simmering, in a literal sense, she picks up her pace and soon reaches parking. From there, she still has to trek another fifteen minutes to get to her hiding spot.

Among the row of parking slots reserved for school officials, a portly middle-aged man with a belly pouch the size of a pregnant woman’s full-term baby bump stands in front of a silver Mazda with the hood popped open. One hand set on the hip, he peeks into the engine bay, straightens, then scratches his temple. He peeks, straightens, then scratches his temple again. And again. At a loss.

Up close, the man is obviously wearing a toupee. The strands have the synthetic appearance to it, and the way the hair doesn’t touch the skin of his neck gives the illusion that it is floating above his head.

She moves past him, but when she hears a frustrated mumble behind her, she simply can’t ignore him. Her spider sense is tingling. Like crazy. The proximity of the distress signal has to do something with it. It’s not so much about the idea of helping but empathy. It’s innate in her. One time, she stopped in the middle of the road to scoop a gaunt kitten and bring it to safety. In another instance, she helped her neighbor chase her loose chickens back into their coop. Later that day, the neighbor appeared at their door with a steaming bowl of chicken ginger soup with chunks of green papaya. Uncle Chris ate all the chicken, she ate all the papayas.

It’s not like she doesn’t eat them at all. In fact, she loves them fried, roasted, buttered, stewed and curried. Her all-time favorite though is the fast-food staple Jollibee Chicken Joy. Truly, it's hard not to feel joyful when sinking your teeth into the perfect mix of crunchy and moist. It hits her hard with nostalgia every time, transporting her back to the time Uncle Chris picked her up at the Child Welfare Center. It was the first thing he fed her. For a time, she wouldn’t eat anything else. Uncle Chris had only stopped buying her Chicken Joys when she developed eczema. She outgrew the eczema and went back to gorging on the favored happy food. Because she loves chicken. She’s not just used to eating chicken she’s familiar with, especially when she thinks of them as pets. You don’t eat your pet.

Shoving her hands awkwardly in her teensy front pockets and suppressing a groan, she treads backwards and clears her throat.

“Excuse me, sir,” she says, her tone friendly and polite. “Any problem?”

When he lifts his gaze, the man looks quite pissed. Maybe because her female intrusion comes untimely. But when he sees her profile, his eyes glint and the expression on his face morphs from irritation to satisfaction. He clicks his tongue then flickers his eyes up and down her body, making her flinch and slouch her body instinctively. Her first instinct is to flee but then the man says, ”My car won’t start and I’m at a loss. I’ve just replaced the battery.”

She sucks in a fortifying breath. “Maybe I can help. I've a little know-how,” she says, purposely undermining her capability. “My family runs an auto shop. You sure you have gas in your tank, sir?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I gassed this morning,” the stout man says, then runs a tongue along his blackish-blue lips, causing her skin to crawl. She purses her lips tightly to prevent her disgust from showing in her face. Still minding her manners in her innocence. Ignoring the man’s insolence, she parts her hair from the back of her head and toss each half in front of her, effectively covering her chest.

“Can you start the car, sir?”

“Oh, sure.” The man hastily climbs into the car, and the Mazda sinks under his weight with an obvious lean to the driver’s side. He turns the key in the ignition, but she can only hear repeated clicking. The starter just won’t crank after trying a few more times.

“Not enough electric current coming from the starter motor to turn over your engine, it seems," she says. She deems the explanation unnecessary because it seems the man is totally clueless, and she only made herself look like a know-it-all. It’s a developed habit because at work they are supposed to discuss the job order with the customers, much like how a doctor communicates the diagnosis and treatment plan to the patient.

Lifting the red protective covering on the positive terminal of the battery, she instantly knows the problem. “Do you have a socket in your car kit, sir?” She makes it a point to emphasize the word ‘sir.’

“Well, let me check.” The man struggles to get out of the vehicle even if he’s hoisting himself up from the grab handle. She can see the wide girth of his waist clashing for space with the steering wheel. After several agonizing seconds, he’s able to get out and the car bounces up to form. One day, his seat frame will break down and the suspension is going to cave in, she thinks to herself. He reappears by her side with a socket wrench and a few attachments.

She carefully takes the tools from him. Averting his unabashed leering, she focuses her attention to the matter at hand. As she reaches over the battery, she becomes suddenly aware of the top of her boobs peeking in front of her shirt and shifts her body away from the man’s disconcerting stare. After tightening the loose screw, she puts back the covering and says, “Can you try again?”

A flood of relief washes over her as the engine roars. Anxious to get rid of him, she unhooks the hood prop and shuts it close. The man gives her a thumbs up, and she regards him with a wry smile. Without throwing another glance at the man, she darts off, doubling her pace to make up for the holdup.

The lecherous man with the belly pouch stares at Andy’s diminishing outline with one hand on his crotch. The Mazda pulls forward and the low metal signage post reads: Reserved for the College President.

Her bike is exactly how she left it in the morning after she takes off the tarp. Pulling a rag from her compartment box, she begins to dust off the seat and the handles.

“Andy!”

She jumped to her feet like a startled cat. “Jesus Christ,” she groans, placing her palms on her chest, her heart pulsating. “I almost had a heart attack. Where did you come from? Have you been sneaking up on me? How did you find me?” Peppering him with questions, she notices the sullen expression written all over his face. Vertical lines form between his eyebrows.

Disregarding her questions, he steps closer to her. She takes a step backward and closes her eyes when he suddenly raises his hand to her face.

With her eyes squeezed shut, she feels the light dabbing of a cotton cloth on her forehead, temples, cheeks and nose. When she opens her eyes, Trae is glancing down at her face while patting her skin dry with a white, cotton handkerchief.