I’m not talking about him any more.
For now, let’s concentrate on me. (Hey, what twenty-two year old doesn’t want to do that, right?)
I’m a college dropout, something my university-professor father is horrified about. By the way, Professor Douchebag is not my dad, I should make that clear. Professor Douchebag is the reason I’m a college dropout, but no one apart from he and I know that.
Of course, Dad thought I’d dropped out to irritate him and I happily let him go with that.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my father. I really do. He’s just . . . a perfect example of academic pretentiousness wrapped up in over-protective righteousness with a safety-harness of elitism attached for good measure.
So I’m a college dropout who’s deaf in one ear, partially deaf in the other, who drives a metallic purple Volvo station wagon with a neon green Chinese luck dragon painted along each side. My hair changes color regularly (it’s currently an awesome aqua-blue) and until last week I wore it in dreadlocks. Now it’s short. Short and aqua-blue.
I’ve got a tattoo of Buddha eating pizza just above my right butt cheek, but don’t tell Dad. I’m pretty certain I’d get kicked out of the house if he knew.
Currently, I’m working in a pet store that specializes in exotic animals, which isn’t anywhere near as exciting as it sounds. No matter what part of the world the animals come from, their poop still smells the same. Cleaning out the terrarium of an Australian bearded dragon is no different from cleaning out a terrarium of your common, garden variety Green Anole lizard, and no matter what the movies tell you, macaws from Rio are not anal-retentive germophobes, but rather big-ass birds who drop their shit wherever they happen to be perched. Oh, and they don’t sound like Jesse Eisenberg.
Despite all that, I genuinely enjoy working there. My boss is more anti-social than I am (who knew that was even possible?), leaves me alone most of the time (win!) and the customers on the whole know what they want.
I’ve only ever had to put my bitch hat on twice since working there, once to stop a stupid parent buying her child a snake, a gift that would have inevitably resulted in the child, or the mother, in the morgue.
The second time I had to convince a father that the Sydney Funnel Web he’d illegally smuggled in from Australia did not make a “cool” present for his son’s graduation from elementary school.
Safety tip for future reference: Sydney Funnel Web spiders are the most deadly, venomous, dangerous spider on the planet. They are not like tarantulas. They are not suitable for young children as pets. Yes, they look cool, all shiny and black and hairy, but they can kill you. In fifteen minutes. Like most things from Down Under, America is not physically, medically, psychologically or emotionally prepared for them.
The same warning goes for that country’s Taipan snake, Eastern Brown snake, Red-bellied Black snake, and Caden O’Dae.
Shit. I didn’t mean to say that.
Back on track.
More about me (that’s what you’re here for, right?) . . .
So, college dropout with unconventional hair, awesomely talented artist doing little but doodling nowadays, second daughter to parents with parenting issues, totally dedicated and fabulous aunt, proud Volvo owner (FYI, I call my car the Speeding Dragon) and exotic pet shop worker. I’m a card-carrying geek who would run away with Loki at the drop of a hat. (Google him if you don’t know who I’m talking about. Tom Hiddleston . . . sigh) I still live at home (yeah, that one needs some attention), love movies but really don’t like going to the movies, generally want very little to do with most people, and have zero plans of ever being in a relationship that requires any kisses except the Hershey kind.
You still with me? You haven’t decided to dump me yet?
Okay, that’s good.
So Caden O’Dae, Brendon’s cousin, comes back and forth to San Diego as often as his studies will allow. Usually those visits are only short trips. I can deal with that. But this next trip he’s staying for three weeks.
Three weeks. How am I meant to deal with him being around for three weeks?
He was planning to spend those three weeks with Amanda and Brendon, true, but I doubt I could avoid him for the entire time. I also knew he was going to be bringing all manner of gifts for everyone, and try as hard as I might, standing in the Arrivals section of LAX waiting for him, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was bringing me.
The first time he came back, after Tanner’s successful bone marrow transplant, he’d presented me with a bright purple and green sock puppet dragon. He’d made it himself. He does this weird thing where he makes sock puppets. I will never tell him this because then he might get the stupid opinion I actually like him, but they are adorable. If his intended career as a veterinarian fails he could make a living selling sock puppets on Etsy. Not a good living, I’m sure. Not compared to what he could make as Dr. Caden O’Dae, Animal Doctor, but a living all the same.
The last time he visited, he gave me a Thor sock puppet. Except Thor wasn’t wielding his mighty hammer, but a can of Foster’s beer. And he was wearing board shorts covered in flowers.
“Cause he’s actually Australian,” he’d said as I stared at the puppet in my hand. “Not Asgardin.”
That was one of those moments where, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t help but laugh. Our eyes had met for a moment. My tummy did one of those unsettling tightening things. Thank God he said something low enough that I couldn’t quite make it out, something that was probably lovely and sweet, because it gave me a reason to get grumpy and stomp off.
(By the way, I’m sure most people think I’m a brat. Given how anti-social I am, I’m fine with that. I am guilty, however, of sometimes behaving less than exemplary to cover the fact I’m feeling awkward. I’m not a fan of feeling awkward. Who is?)
I didn’t see him for the rest of the time he was here.
I didn’t take him back to LAX, which was my normal routine. Instead I sat at home, glaring at the clock in my room when his plane was due for takeoff.
My phone pinged at me once five minutes after, but when I grabbed it out of my bag, my heart beating faster than it should, I discovered it was a text from Professor Douchebag.
The text –
No, let me start that again.
The professor.
Professor Douchebag was my Art History professor when I was still a college student. Insanely sexy and hugely popular, he had this amazing ability to make students feel like they were the most important thing in his world with just a look.
When I joined his class, he’d commented about my hair (purple at the time) and suggested my father – who he knew quite well – was probably not a fan. Straight away I’d felt like he understood me.
After just one month I lived for his lectures. Hurried to them, eager to see his face. To have him see me.
Those classes . . . oh wow. He’d hang on every word I said. He’d call on me to answer questions, ask my opinion on the topic at hand. That may not seem like a big deal, but when you’ve gone through the education system with teachers who handled your hearing impairment by either pretending you didn’t exist in their class, or shouting the most basic of questions at you just so you can feel like you’re included, to be treated like a normal student is huge. And I so desperately wanted to be treated like a normal student back then.