Calling California Page 2

  "And he didn't recognize you from class yesterday?" She asks, her brows raised.

  "Nope," I answer, highly disappointed.

  "So maybe he didn't notice you because he didn't see you, not because he didn't think you were cute." Tabitha encourages me.

  "Maybe. But oh my God, He is just so..."

  Just then, I see him swagger into class, the same tall blonde from the other day following close behind. My heart picks up its pace and my stomach grows warm. When I close my eyes to calm my breathing, I feel a nudge in my left arm. "Cal," Tabitha whispers.

  "The girl from the bank," he sings, pointing his forefinger at me. "You're in this class?"

  I nod, my heart pounding now. "Yup." I try my best to seem unfazed by this perfect creation standing in front of me.

  He places his book on the desk to my right, and sends the blonde up to the back of the room. "Save me a seat," he says to her. Then to me, "You were in this class yesterday?"

  "Yup." I smile, despite the sudden urge to jump out of my skin.

  "How the fuck did I not notice you?"

  My face is now hot. I'm pretty sure I'm the color of a maraschino cherry. "I don't know," I respond, trying to keep my cool.

  He sits in the chair attached to the desk where he placed his book, and boy does he smell good. Like wood and musk and something hot. "How the fuck?" he mutters beneath his breath, echoing his earlier sentiment.

  I look down at his black Docs and my eyes involuntarily travel up his tattered black jeans to his tight black t-shirt and when I get to his scruff, which is more than the shadow he had yesterday, he's wearing a lop-sided grin. Just when I reach his piercing gray-blue eyes, he says, "So, do you always give away your own personal money to customers who can't cash their checks?"

  When he asks this, I realize how stupid I must have come off, offering a practical stranger my last ten dollars. "Well, no, but I did see you in class yesterday, and, well, I felt bad I couldn't cash your check, and you know, us people have to stick together."

  His hand lands on my forearm and he says in all seriousness, "Well I appreciate that. It was really nice of you. But, what do you mean, us people?"

  "Poor people. People who look out for each other, and not, you know, those rich people that have tons of money and never bother to help out anybody."

  "Right. Well, um, my name is Griffin, by the way."

  "Yeah, Griffin Brooks. I know. Your name was on the check." I'm doing my best to keep my voice from shaking, though I'm not sure if it's working. My eyes don't know where to go first - to his eyes, to his long fingers, to the dark tattoo crawling from his bicep out of his sleeve.

  "Okay then. That's right. So what's your name? I didn't see a name plate at your window yesterday." He still hasn't removed his hand from my arm, and I'm insanely aware of his skin touching mine. I'm also highly aware that he hasn't made a move to go to the seat in the back. One quick glance at the blonde he ditched tells me she's none too happy about that either.

  Giving my attention back to the hot guy, I clear my throat, and manage to squeak out, "Cali."

  "Cali? Nice name. What's it short for? California?"

  5

  Griffin

  Cali's face goes from milky white to flamingo pink in mere seconds. The sight of her teeth combing her bottom lip as she lets out a small titter drives me wild already.

  "It's short for Calista," she says, still blushing.

  "Well that's pretty too, but I prefer the way you turn all pink when I call you California." And on cue, her face turns even more red. She suppresses her beautiful smile, but she can't hide it in her eyes. I make her blush. That is so cool.

  When the fucking professor walks in, California turns to pay attention, but I just keep my eyes glued on the pretty girl sitting to my left. Her black skirt is tight, and because she is sitting with her legs crossed, it's hiked up mid-thigh. Though I don't remember her being exceptionally tall, her legs are lean and appear to go on forever. I'm getting a hard-on just looking at them.

  Before I know it, the professor is reminding us of our essay topic that is due in two weeks - a personal experience that has had a significant effect on us - and he is wishing us a great weekend. Not ready to say goodbye to California until class time next Tuesday, I touch her wrist as she stands to leave. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" I ask, calm and collected, but the racing of my heart proves otherwise.

  "What?" she asks, surprised. "You mean now?"

  "Yeah. Right now." Still trying to stay cool, I don't understand why I feel like such a dork.

  "Um, I have class right now."

  "Cal," the girl sitting next to Cali addresses her. "I'll talk to you later, I have to get to ethics class."

  "'Kay, Tab. Call me."

  I'm not going to let Cali go off to her class without trying to get her to get a cup of coffee with me. "I'll walk you to your next class."

  "You don't have a class right now?" She leads the way out of class and her ass is divine - tight and high and bite-able.

  "Nope. Lead the way, California." Watching her face grow flush eases my nerves a bit. "So do you have a class after this period?"

  She shakes her head, her face returning to its natural color. "No. But I work at two."

  "At the bank?"

  "Yeah."

  "Cool. Can we get a coffee after this class?" I ask, even though I'd be missing my first Engineering and Rapid Prototyping class. But I don't care. I need to get to know this girl. The sooner, the better.

  Shrugging her shoulder, her teeth graze that bottom lip again. "I guess."

  "Good. 'Cause I'd like to repay you for your kindness yesterday."

  She chuckles. "But you didn't take it."

  "But it was the offer that counts." We reach her next class. I touch the top of her arm momentarily and I say, "I'll wait here. What time does your class get out?"

  "Eleven-fifteen."

  At eleven-sixteen, my heartbeat picks up where it left off an hour and fifteen minutes earlier - racing for the finish line. I have to slow it down. With my heart going this fast, I'll never be able to keep my cool. "Hey, good-lookin'." I can fake it though.

  Yet again, her dimple gives away a suppressed smile. "Hi."

  She hikes her backpack further up her back, but I reach for it and say, "Let me get that for you." Dork. Dork. Dork.

  California swings her body away from me, "I'm perfectly capable of carrying my own books." But then she adds, "Thank you anyway."

  I respect her wishes and let her carry her own backpack. Which I'd never have attempted to carry if I could keep a calm exterior. Boy, this girl affects me big time. And I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I’ve developed butterflies, and I think, what fucking guy gets butterflies in their stomach?

  After a mostly uncomfortable walk, when we finally reach the cafeteria, I ask her how she'd like her coffee.

  "Just milk, thanks." Her smile is gone, and I wonder if she'd lost interest already or if maybe she's just nervous like I am. Maybe she is having second thoughts about getting a cup of coffee with a complete stranger. She rummages through her purse, and her mouth is turned into a frown. "I, uh, I thought I had change. My mom borrowed my last ten this morning," she mumbles. "Um, you know what, you can cancel my coffee, thanks," she says to the lady behind the counter.

  I wave my hand at the lady. "No. I got it. Two coffees, just milk." Turning to Cali, I say, "I intended to buy you your coffee. I was the one that invited you."

  Her eyes gravitate to the floor. "Thank you."

  So if she gave her mom her last ten dollars this morning, then that means she actually offered me her last ten yesterday. Who does that?

  At the table, I notice that Cali's demeanor has changed. Her eyes stay cast downward, and now she's biting on her upper lip. Something tells me that biting her upper lip has a whole other meaning than biting her bottom lip. "What's up, California? You okay?"

  No blushing, but she does look me in the eye. "Yeah." Holding up he
r coffee now, she says, "Thank you again."

  While she takes a sip, I tell her, "Anytime."

  Her eyes follow her coffee cup as she puts it back down on the table.

  "So...Calista." I get her to look back at me. "That is a really pretty name."

  "Thank you."

  "What's your last name?"

  "Parker."

  Though she doesn't look back down at her coffee cup, she's still not smiling and still giving me clipped answers.

  "What's up? Your smile disappeared." Her lips quirk up on one side, so I continue. "And that's a shame, because it's such a beautiful smile."

  Now the corners of her lips rise on both sides. "I'm sorry. I just feel bad that I had to let you pay for my coffee. I hate that."

  "You hate people buying you coffee?"

  "I hate owing people money," she says with another frown.

  "But you don't have to pay me back. I offered to buy you coffee when I invited you to come here. You have a problem with money or something?"

  Tilting her head, she says, "The problem is, I don't have any."

  "Oh." How do I respond to that?

  "I mean, it's cruel sometimes, to know how hard you work and at the end of the day, there's no money to show for it. Doesn't that make you upset sometimes?"

  Um. "I guess." I really never had that thought at all, since lack of money was never an issue for me.

  "I'm sorry. I get paid today, so..." she trails off.

  "So. So tell me, California," I watch her blush again, and it builds up my confidence, "what's your major?"

  "Child Psychology."

  "Very cool. You like children?"

  "I do. What about you? What's your major?"

  "Engineering. I want to design and build cars."

  Her thick, shapely eyebrows rise. "Wow. That's pretty cool. Like for Ford or something?"

  "Or something. Maybe own my own line of cars one day. The sky's the limit, right?"

  She laughs. "There are always limits, Griffin."

  The sound of my name floating out of her mouth distracts me momentarily from what she is telling me. After a pause I say, "Wait. You don't shoot for the moon?"

  "No. What's the point? It's not like I have money to buy my way there." Calista is back to looking at her coffee cup.

  "There's always a point, California. And you don't have to buy your way to the moon, you can work hard and earn your way there."

  Now when she laughs, I hear the scorn dripping beneath it. "You can work hard all your life, it doesn't mean you're gonna get the things you want."

  It's obvious that she and I were brought up in entirely different worlds. But that wasn't going to stop me from getting to know her. Or her world.

  "I'm sorry," I say, for lack of anything better to say.

  "For what?"

  "That you feel that way, I guess. It's a sad way to think, don't you think?"

  Both her lips disappear inside her mouth before she says, "It's sad I guess, but I don't know any other way. Both my parents have worked so hard all their lives. Worked overtime. Extra jobs. Yet we still struggle to pay the bills each month."

  "I get it. It is hard. But you gotta believe, Cali. You can't let reality bring you down." I feel bad for California. She doesn't know how great life could be. I need to be the one to show her. I need to be the one to keep that smile on her face at all times.

  Her large charcoal eyes suddenly look a thousand miles away, somewhere in her own thoughts. "Um, I better get going. I need to run a few errands before going to work, but thank you for the coffee. I owe you one."

  As she stands and straps her backpack on, I say, "No. You don't owe me. I can buy you a cup of coffee without you owing me one in return."

  "Right. Thanks."

  Crashing back down in my chair, I don't even bother going after her. Yes, I want to be the one to keep her smiling, but something tells me she doesn't really want to smile.

  6

  Cali

  "How was work, Cali?" my dad asks in his soft rasping voice.

  "It was okay, Dad." I toss my purse onto the couch and lean over my dad's bed, situated in the living room, to give him a kiss hello. "How are you feeling?"

  "Not bad, Cali-bear."

  "You hungry?" I ask, sitting down on the couch next to his bed.

  "No, babe."

  "Did you eat today?"

  "He had a grilled cheese sandwich." I turn to see Millicent, my dad's nurse, compliments of Mom's fight with Hospice to send him a caregiver when she was at work, standing in the dining room. "But I couldn't get him to eat much more."

  "Daddy, you have to eat. That's the only way to keep up your strength."

  "Don't worry about me, kiddo." He stops talking to cough up a storm. It kills me to hear his cough - the manifestation of his dying, tumor-ridden lungs. When his cough finally quiets, he says, "When I'm hungry, I'll eat."

  "How 'bout I make you some chocolate chip cookies, Daddy? I have some batter left over in the refrigerator."

  "Sure. That sounds good." His eyes flutter, and I know he's struggling to stay awake. Kissing him on the forehead, I tell him, "I'll go get changed and make those cookies. Why don't you rest, and I'll send Millicent home."

  After changing into my navy gym shorts and a white tank, I take the bowl of cookie batter out of the fridge and preheat the oven. Finding solace in a good cup of coffee, I fix a pot and drop teaspoonfuls of batter on the cookie sheet while the coffee brews. By the time it is finished, I pour myself a cup and stick the pan in the oven.

  And cry.

  Silently of course. I can't let my dad hear me, but I am dying inside knowing he is down to his last days. Trying to hide my pain is getting harder and harder, but for Daddy, I have to be strong. Sometimes I wonder if he notices that I spend less and less time with him. But the more time I spend with him, the sadder I get. And I don't want him to see me so sad. Maybe it's selfish of me. Maybe it's not because I don't want him to see me sad, but rather, I don't want to be reminded of what's to come.

  The ding of the oven timer startles me out of my thoughts, and as I routinely take the cookies out of the oven and lift them from the tray, my mind slips back to earlier today. Griffin says the sky's the limit. He doesn't know how wrong he is. If that's the kind of thinking that gets him through the day, he is in for a slap to the face. He says that working hard will get us what we want, but that isn’t true. My parents are proof of that. My dad gave one hundred and ten percent every day of his life, and what did he end up with? Lung cancer. From all of the chemicals he worked with at the plant. He never even had a chance to reach the stars, never mind the moon. Life isn't fair, and Griffin doesn't realize that. But who am I to burst his bubble? I just wish my emotions weren’t so apparent on my face when we talked about it. I'm not good at hiding my feelings, something I really need to work on.

  While the cookies cool on the rack, I hide out in my bedroom and begin working on my Oral Comm assignment. The moment Professor Anderson explained that we had to write about a defining moment in our lives, I knew exactly what I would write about - the day another child showed unprejudiced kindness, just because he wanted to. Though my parents raised me to be respectful, I don't remember them teaching me to be kind. The kind of kind that didn't expect anything in return. But that little boy did. He taught me by his own example, and though he'll never know it, he had a big part of making me the person I am today. And I need to write about that.

  Staring out my window in search of the right words to put down on paper, I notice my dead plant. Why the heck it's still sitting on my windowsill is beyond me. It's brown, lifeless, and just plain ugly. Yet there it sits in all its unsightly glory.

  Dad's coughing interrupts my thoughts and again causes pain deep in my chest. I can only imagine the pain his coughing causes him - both emotionally and physically. He knows he is dying, and there is nothing any of us can do about it. How do we live with that knowledge? But as I said before, I have to be strong for Dad, and that me
ans swallowing my fears and spending as much time as possible with him.

  Before I no longer have the chance.

  "Hey, Daddy." When I reach him, he is struggling to sit up and cough at the same time. "Whoa. Wait. Let me help you."

  While I prop him up on extra pillows, my father says, "Thanks, kiddo," but his voice is so hoarse that it's unfamiliar.

  "It's no problem, Daddy. How 'bout those cookies? They're done. I'll make you some tea with them?"

  He coughs and nods in lieu of an answer.

  Tossing the sad thoughts to the back of my mind, I bring Dad the cookies and tea with a huge smile on my face. The table next to his bed is covered with tissues and water and Daddy's crossword puzzles, but I push them to the back to make room for his tea and cookies.

  "Aren't you having any..." his coughing interrupts his question.

  "Of course," I say, trying not to let him hear the cry that is threatening to overcome me. Choosing a cookie from the plate, I hold it up to show him.

  Though his smile causes him pain, he does it anyway. He'll always put me first before his discomfort. Before anything.

  I watch my father exerting himself just to bring the cookie to his mouth. I break a piece off my uneaten cookie and bring it to his lips. His tired eyes turn wet. No father wants his daughter to have to feed him, and I wonder if I did him a favor by feeding him the cookie he couldn't get into his own mouth, or if I made things worse. The cookie he tried to put in his mouth but never made it has fallen to his side, and he closes his eyes and turns his head slightly in the other direction. I've embarrassed him. And now we're both crying. Unsure of what my father wants, I take the cookies and tea back into the kitchen and leave him to cry alone. It's probably best if I leave Millicent and Mom to do the feeding, while I stick with just sitting with him.

  I pour myself another cup of coffee and go to my room to finish working on my essay. But the words don't come now. I'm too distracted by my thoughts about Dad. Should I have stayed in there with him? Should I go back? Does my sitting with him bother him, or does he want me there? I'm a grown woman...well, nineteen anyway, I shouldn't feel this scared to be with my father. Yet I am frightened to death. What if he dies while he's with me? What if I have to watch him take his last breath? What would I do? Who would I call? All of these things go on in my mind, and they just confuse me more. Uninterested in my coffee or my assignment, I turn off my lights and go to bed before nine pm on a Friday night, praying to God that He makes my dad's illness go away.