“Might, depending on where the floor joists are if the weight’s not evenly distributed and how old the house is.”
Nerd alert. “Are you an architecture major?”
“No, it’s just basic physics.”
I think we’ve established that I’ve been botching up all things basic lately, so I’m no help when it comes to physics. Math. Science.
Not my strong suits.
“What is your major if it’s not architecture?”
“Tech.”
Oh.
That’s boring—everyone is a computer science major. He probably wants to create apps and stuff.
“Tech for what?”
The eyebrows above his glasses quirk up and down. “Automotive or aerospace.”
“Like—programming cars and stuff?”
Beside me, he nods. “I haven’t decided, but yes, something like that.”
Oh.
That makes what I’m about to say sound lame and juvenile.
I sigh. “I’m an English major with a business minor. My parents wouldn’t let me major in art, so I had to settle.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this; he’s a stranger and does not give a crap. “I like to craft.”
When Roman looks over at me, the lenses of his glasses catch the light from downstairs and I can’t see his eyes against the glare, but I can almost hear what he’s thinking: An English major with a business minor? What the hell are you going to do with that?
I know this because my father has asked me that question a million times, and I never have an answer for him.
“I’m sure you’ll find something you’re passionate about. We make our own destiny.”
I nod slowly.
We make our own destiny.
Those are some pretty profound words for a freshman guy at a kegger.
“Is that what you’re doing? Creating your own destiny?” I’m teasing him but I’m also curious—I’ve never heard a guy say something like that before, and it’s intriguing.
“Sure. I mean, every decision we make today impacts what happens tomorrow, don’t you agree?”
Um.
Yes?
“Of course I agree.”
Roman has his eyes trained on the action at the bottom of the stairs, where a small group of girls are congregating and whispering, their heads pivoting every few seconds to watch whatever—or whomever—is across the room.
Probably some hot dude one of them has a crush on but is too afraid to approach.
Roman is watching the girls intently before clearing his throat and glancing over at me.
“Are you seeing anyone?” I finally ask him. He doesn’t strike me as the type to be dating; I’m certain his course load will keep him as occupied as I expect to be during the school year, but you never know—maybe he has a cute little girlfriend hidden away somewhere.
“No.” He chuckles.
“Did I say something funny?”
“You honestly think I’m dating someone?”
“Why are you saying it like I insulted you—are you too good to date? Is no one smart enough for you?”
It would make perfect sense that he wouldn’t want to date a dullard; guys like him—ambitious ones with their lives planned out—rarely find time for a person who doesn’t possess the same drive and determination.
I would know because that’s how my dad is.
Roman is silent again, eyes trailing back to the girls at the bottom of the stairs.
I recognize one of them as Kaylee Sheffield; she’s a cheerleader, too, but she’s a flyer and we don’t practice in the same groups so I rarely have the chance to talk to her.
“They’re pretty,” I say. “Do you want to go talk to them?”
He snorts. “As if any of those girls would give me the time of day.”
Ahh.
I get it.
Roman doesn’t date because he doesn’t have the self-confidence. I’ve seen plenty of people like that before, not just guys but girls too, doubting and second-guessing themselves because they don’t think they’re good enough—the same way I’d never feel smart enough to date a guy who wants to work at NASA and program spaceships.
“I don’t think you should judge them based on their appearances. Everyone has a type.”
His neck swivels. “We’re on Jock Row at a baseball party—I’ll give you one guess as to what their type is.”
Fine, he’s got me there, but only on a technicality.
Still.
He’s stereotyping them the way he’s probably stereotyping me, but guess what?
I’m used to it.
Cheerleaders may not be considered the studious type, and sure, I’m no brainiac so some of the stereotypes in my case may be true—but I’m kind and determined and give everyone a chance. I try not to judge, and I try to give people the benefit of the doubt.
I fiddle with the bracelet on my left wrist, the one I braided a few nights ago in front of the television, sitting my bum on the floor while I watched a reality matchmaking show. It’s made of my favorite colors—green and pink—in an intricate pattern I learned one summer at camp.
I rub the soft yarn between my thumb and index finger.
“So, you think if you went down and talked to those girls, you’d get rejected?”
Roman doesn’t look at me. “Um, what do you think.”
“I think you shouldn’t doubt yourself.”
He’s silent, but in the dim shadows, I can see his lips purse; he wants to respond but isn’t going to.
Then, finally—
“What about you? Why aren’t you down there flirting and having a good time?”
My head gives a tiny shake. “I don’t have the energy—I have to be up early tomorrow, but since everyone was coming out tonight, I also didn’t want to sit in the dorms by myself.”
Plus, I didn’t want to be there when the new roomie arrived.
“Why do you have to be up early tomorrow? It’s Saturday.”
“Practice.”
“Practice for what?”
Oh god, he’s going to make me say it.
I sit up straighter, stiffening my spine. “I’m a cheerleader. We practice six days out of the week.”
I brace myself.
Wait for whatever sarcastic, biting remark he’s going to sling back about airheads or blondes or cheer—but none come.
“You must be good if you made a college team.”
I blush.
Golly gee. “I guess.”
“Why are you being so modest? You should be proud of yourself.”
“I am proud of myself.”
I am.
I’m proud. Like he said, it’s not easy becoming a collegiate cheerleader; I’ve busted my ass for the past five years, cheering for my high school, cheering on a competitive team, doing camps, workshops, training. And that doesn’t include working out to stay fit and strong.
It’s been brutal and certainly hasn’t been easy.
Not everyone can do it and not everyone does, but I’ve proven myself over the years.
“You look like a dancer,” Roman comments.
I look like a dancer? What do dancers look like? Is that a type?
“How can you even tell?” I laugh. “It’s dark up here.”