My Mafia Boytoy

Chapter 2 - Drive By

'I think it's time we go.'

Quill & Quiche hasn't turned their lights on yet, so the evening drenches everything into the blues of chlorinated pool water. Yasmin has her spoon entrenched inside her cyanotic bisque.

'Stay like a minute more at least. I'm almost done,' she says.

I flick the bell inlaid on the table to call our waitress over. 'We'll pack it as takeout.'

'Can't you catch up later?' Derek chomps into his garlic bread ball.

'No.' I pick a tissue from the table dispenser and hand it to him. The rosemary stuck on his cheek bothers me.

'I wish I had your motivation, Samara,' he says.

Freddy smears his fry in ketchup. 'Do you even need to study?'

'Exactly. Missing your genius sesh won't kill you.' Then Yazmin turns her head to her boy and says, 'Do you know what her GPA is? A four. And she's worrying like this. My GPA? Can't even say it out loud.'

'A four?' her boy echoes.

'I know. She's my little Einstein.'

My eyes drift to Oliver, stabbing the toothpick through his olive over and over again. I rip my eyes away from him. 'Move, Freddy. I need to get out.'

He stands and I shift past, almost slipping on my platforms. I don't want to share the place with Oliver. In the first place, I didn't want to see him at all. The things I do for Yazmin. On the ride back, I swear to everything I'll tell her.

'Hello—'

I jump, knock into someone behind me, and they topple. Again, I backstep, entering another slip on my platforms. My gut catches like safety rope and my hand launches for the table edge. Avery steadies Freddy's drink before I spill it. I spin and face whoever I body-slammed.

'Holy s**t, Samara,' Freddy says.

The Quille & Quiche waitress lays on the ground, sprawled in front of me. They always carry these perfect buns, like someone fixed a sphere on the back of their heads. Thanks to me, hers has a tumour-like lump fighting out its elastic. She gapes her pink-stained lips at me and I gape back.

'Ma'am, are you okay?'

I should say that, but the waitress does before me. Should have told Yazmin I was sick and dealt with her at my place trying to disprove me. Derek takes a noisy sip of his tea.

'Sorry.'

I extend my hand. She takes it. Stands up. She looks winded. I reach into my pocket, grab my wallet, and hand her the twenty dollar bill I have. Though, I hadn't bought a thing, I don't want to wait here any longer, checking in on her, pretending to care, when she's not on my mind at all. The tip will suffice.

'I need a takeout box,' Oliver calls, 'please.'

She frowns at the bill, nods, then takes off.

Yazmin asks, 'Sammy? You good?'

'Yeah. I'm good.'

'Are you sure?' asks Derek.

I bob my head. 'More than. Yaz, can we...?'

'Haven't you had her enough?' her boy says it like a joke, but it's not. I can tell there's more behind it. An undertone of your time with her has run out: go find someone else.

'I can't get enough of her.' I force a smile. Yazmin doesn't look convinced. 'Let's go. Now.'

'This early?' she asks.

'It's eight P.M.'

'Buzz kill,' says Avery.

I ignore him. 'You said you'd drive me home.'

'I know, but...'

'But?'

Her eyes fix to her boy like an answer. During the dinner, they whispered amongst themselves like conspirators, and I recollect her hand on his shoulder and him leaning back to kiss her ear. She hadn't paid me an ounce of attention. I was her friend, her companion, more than him.

'I can pay for your Uber.'

'But...'

She whips out her phone and navigates to the Uber app.

'Sam?' My head pops to Oliver. 'I can drive you home. I'm going now, too.'

Freddy groans, saying something like, no, don't go, or stay right now, as he cleans his area. Nothing ever goes the way I want. Avery dramatizes the waitress' fall and brings a clucking laugh out of Yazmin's useless man, and Yazmin's communicating to me with her dollish eyes while I control my hand so it doesn't slap her.

I should slap myself for coming at all.

'I got it deepcleaned yesterday, too,' Oliver adds.

From a build-up of dirt or a body? A touch skims across my hand. I almost lurch, thinking it a bug at first, till I recognize Yazmin's finger stroking my knuckle.

'See? You have a ride. Go study and get those hundreds for me, little Einstein. And get some sleep while you're at it.'

If I had waited, if I had stayed, would he have stayed with me? Maybe, he wanted me to go first. He could've seen me that night and planned to stake me out. The back of my head won't burn in anyone's memory forever, but had it his?

I frown. She picks my hand, puts it to her warm cheek, and mouths, Sorry. I'll make up for this, okay? My frown lessens.

'Okay,' I murmur, and I squeeze her cheek, let go, before the waitress returns with the takeout box. She patters her heels this time to alert everyone she exists, but mostly for me.

Oliver waves at her, and reaches across the table for the cardboard. 'Thanks.'

Her hand rushes consciously to the tumour in her bun and her eyes spark. She would not react like that if she knew what I did. 'Anything else?'

'No, we're good.' She slumps, briefly, as he puts an untouched sandwich—he ordered two, ate one—into the box, and clasps it. 'Alright, Samara. Let's go.'

He steps past Derek, that boy, and Yazmin. I stare at him and wonder. The waitress clacks away behind me. If need be, I can communicate S.O.S in morse code. But who would read S.O.S in morse code for me?

'I can Uber.'

'And you want to at this time?'

'I don't want to bother you.'

'When have you cared about being a bother?' Avery asks.

'Shouldn't be coming from you,' Yazmin says, 'Zip it.'

'Sam, it's better than Uber.' Freddy shaves the tip off his fry. 'Plus, that service is...'

'It's cheap and gross,' Derek finishes.

Yazmin mimics a retching noise and both Avery and her guy snort.

'I can walk,' I repeat.

'As if,' says Oliver, and he jerks his head towards the door. 'Come on.'

He bounces his takeout box as he leads me. I don't have money to give to uber; all the cash I took out I gave to that waitress. Yazmin promised she'd drop me off and I poured my trust in her. But why would she pay if Oliver offered? Maybe, if I pleaded, she would.

When I turn, she is sharing googly eyes with her boyfriend. I hold down a retch.

After a moment, I follow Oliver out.

-

I sit in passenger lest the back seats have child lock enabled and I find myself stuck, fighting the door. Oliver turns the key. As the Ferrari hums to life, he tosses his jacket into the backseat, and sets the takeout box on my lap like I'm a living tray. He twists the AC knob and blasts us with cool air. At least I can say I'm shivering instead of shaking.

'Is it too cold?'

I don't answer.

'Okay. Well. You can start eating, you know.'

I glance down at the box. My stomach feels concave.

'You don't order food when we go out,' he continues, 'so I ordered you that.'

I was meant to avoid him.

'But I also don't know your tastes that well. Sorry if I didn't nail it.'

I don't expect him, someone who owns a Ferrari, to understand, but it flickers in my head that's what he's doing: understanding. They're legacies. I'm here on a scholarship. We know our differences well enough.

'Wasn't hungry.'

'Are you never hungry, Samara?'

I hesitate. 'Not today.'

'Sure.' He shrugs, resting his back into the leather upholstery. 'Eat a little at least.'

'Might be sick.'

'Then it's more important you eat.' He reaches over the console and undoes the tuck tabs. Same hands probably killed someone. One slips away after opening the box to rest on my shoulder. 'Are you okay?'

Am I allowed to say no? I defy him by jerking my shoulders, till he remembers himself and draws his hand back. 'Yeah.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. I'm sure.'

'You don't have to eat if you don't feel like it, but take it home.'

'Did you buy this for me?'

He faces forward. 'Mm.'

'Why?'

'Do you want to starve?'

'No.'

'Eat, then.'

He rolls his head towards the window. I pick it out of the box and dare a bite. The bread's buttery crust crunches between my teeth. Spiced, shredded turkey collapses on my tongue. That sixty-five dollar price tag almost makes sense now. When I open my eyes, he's smiling at me, head not to the window, and the bite turns radioactive in my stomach. My hunger, gnawing at me now, keeps me in place.

'Thank you.'

'Yeah. Of course.' He pauses. 'Hey, if you're still embarrassed about the waitress thing, it's alright.'

I forgot about that. 'Oh.'

'That wasn't on your mind.'

I shrug and eat more.

'Is it about something else?'

Again, I shrug, chewing.

'Why are you acting so differently?'

'Mind your business.'

'There it is.' His eyes brighten, and I tuck myself back into the seat. He leans closer, denying me the right to disappear. 'That snappiness.'

'I'm not snappy.'

'Did it again. You even snapped at Yazmin. When did that happen?'

'I didn't snap at Yaz.'

'Oh, yes, you did.'

'I didn't.'

'Did.'

'Didn't.'

'Did. You were loud, whether you knew or not.'

I go quiet. Had I? 'I didn't mean to.'

'But you wanted to. What a good day you've had. Gotten two things you wanted.' He counts on his fingers. 'Food and snapping.'

'God.'

'What?' he asks, like I'd called him.

Before now, I rode in his Ferrari with Yazmin and the others—never in the passenger alone. I never stopped to consider he could've been absorbing anything about me.

'We don't talk often, but I think we're friends.'

'Since when?'

He paves on. 'So, I've got our dynamic nailed: I'm the audience, and you're the comedy show. Beneficial on all sides.'

'A comedy show,' I mutter.

'Not in a bad way. You go to stand-up often?'

I shake my head. 'No.'

'How about I take you?'

'I'm busy.'

'Always?'

'Forever.'

'Not on Friday. You don't have classes on Friday.'

'Going out with Yaz.'

'You mean Yaz whose boyfriend is driving her out of town to glamp on Friday?'

I turn to him. 'And she told you this?'

It's Oliver's turn to shrug. 'They talked about it during dinner. Guess you weren't listening. I'll pick you up Friday?'

I regret all the other times he dropped me off at my place. 'But why?'

'Cause comedians watch other comedians when they're running low on ideas.'

'I'm not a plagiarizing comedian.'

'It's a metaphor, dear.' He drops a hand on the steering wheel as I lower my empty takeout box. 'You cleaned that up nicely for someone who isn't hungry.'

I'm stuck on dear. When my brain catches up, he's backed his Ferrari out and is on the main road. 'You're not picking me on Friday.'

'It'd help. Get out of your house for once.'

'Stay in yours.'

'Where was this energy the whole day? In your stomach? Did the burger find it?'

'You're not funny.'

'Which is why you're the comedian in our relationship.'

'There is no relationship.'

'Speaking of relationships, whenever Yazmin gets into one, you're always alone.'

'That's not true.'

'Yeah? What about Eman?'

'I don't learn their names.'

'The tall one with the long dreads.'

'Oh. Him.'

'Yeah, him. Remember the beach fiasco?'

'That was funny.'

'Funny isn't the word I'd use, but I won't question the expert on funny.'

He has one hand on the steering wheel. A tattoo stretches from beneath his sleeves. I never noticed that about him. It could be new.

'Do you have something against Yazmin?'

'You sound so serious,' he says, 'if I say yes, will you make me crash the car?' I don't respond. He bends to a right street. We close in on the edges of campus. 'The answer's a no, though. Yazmin's nice.'

'Why do you still remember the beach fiasco?'

'It rubbed me the wrong way. That's all.'

Soon, the architectural campus buildings rise for us. I watch the Lloyd Wright Architect Institute float past the window. Stuff like architecture, the arts, and education crown the campus. They built their dormitories as the heart, instead, the science complexes close, and the law ones off-right of sciences. That's how I met Yazmin, searching for the Legal Studies complex, I bumped into her. She was frazzled, racing for her genetics course, then she mentioned Derek and we hit it off.

'It wasn't your business.'

'Nope. It isn't.'

'She made up for it.'

'So, it wasn't all funny, then.'

'Shut up.'

'Of course.'

He doesn't speak the rest of the ride. I fit myself against the door as far away from him as possible, and wait for my building to appear. Part of me expects him to drive off-course, but he stops in front of my dorm as promised.

On my way out, he gives me a two-fingered salute. 'See you.'

As he cruises away, I don't think I ever convinced him not to come on Friday. So upon entering my dorm, I lock all my doors, shutter the windows, and call my mom so she hits me up with her spiritual mantras. She worked as a kindergarten teacher, before the divorce and the rehab afterwards. Now she scams people by divining their futures from cards she thrifted.

I never ask her to divine me unless I need it. She always says stuff like, Samara, your future will be abundant. You will flourish as a corporate lawyer. Companies like Apple, Google, Microsoft will fight tooth and nail, bone and blood, for you. Also, you'll get a soul and give me grandchildren, but please don't get married because men are awful creatures.

At least, if nothing at this part of the world makes sense and Yazmin's not available, mom always is. I like falling asleep to her speaking in a sing-song voice and telling me so certainly that the best is in store for me, that I will reform justice.

Justice.

I doze off on call and the thought runs away from me.