Something is clattering, why is there clattering things? My mother hasn't
woken before noon since I was in seventh grade. And a buzzing, an alarm
clock I think. When the hell did I set my alarm clock?
I open my eye and come face to face with a cluttered night table with a man's watch staring at me. Oh yeah. That clues me in as well as the slight knocking on the door. The alarm gets a swipe that seems to trigger something that makes it quiet. The sheet gets pulled up more and I try to mutter a response that's close enough to real words.
"Come in."
I should probably sit up; lying with my face buried in a drooled on pillow probably isn't my most flattering position. The door opens and he pokes his head in like it isn't even his room.
"Morning."
"Mmm, morning," I manage.
"I just need to get some clothes." With that he goes about his business like he doesn't even see a barely clothed me sitting up and watching him. But morning does good things to him. Bending over does good things too . . . Whom do I thank for the fact he keeps socks in the bottom drawer?
No, shake my head, shake the thoughts. Leave it at Winslow High, I have enough problems to deal with. Still, it's nice to look.
**
She's going to burn a hole right through my back. I'm not going to look at her. Just what I need, start the day with her in some little tank top pajama thing. Yeah, that'll help. I would probably have tried to sneak out without even entering this domain of newly 'peachy' smells if I had remembered to take my clothes last night. Not to mention that I have to go through here to get to the bathroom and check if the spring pierced my lung. Good chance. I had tried to position it last night for comfort but in the morning I ended up with a crick in my neck, and a spring in some major organ.
"Mr. Senate?"
Don't talk, don't look, just go.
"Yeah?"
I talked, I looked, and I didn't go. Figures.
She's like one of those 60's centerfold pin-ups, sitting coy and innocent on a bed in something that, while not blatantly showing everything, was meant to pull at your imagination. If I didn't know better mine would be pulling . . . I do know better.
"I just wanted to thank you, for letting me stay here and everything."
"You need help and I'm your teacher, it's my duty," I say with some sense of humor. Some may think I don't know when my jokes are lame but they would be wrong, I know - I just say them anyway. How else would I avoid a suffocating uncomfortable situation?
"You're not my teacher, Mr. Senate."
Like this one.
And now she's pissed, perfect, just the best. I need to get out of here, find another time and place to make her understand that that is how I see her and how I always will, maybe I could just say that . . . that's not convincing - Even though it's true, completely true.
True.
**
Teacher. He is *not* my teacher. He's trying to be so clear, trying to draw that line. Well he shouldn't have glanced at my chest when he turned around, kind of turned the whole statement.
"I was your teacher and it still feels that way."
I guess that's suppose to be an explanation, but the way he says it is like he's trying to enforce it. Not a chance.
"Well drop the feeling, you're not my teacher, Guber is not trailing the halls and Big Boy is not outside the door so don't try to act like we're back in school."
He's just looking at me; I need to think things out before I talk.
"You're right."
I'm right?
"I'm right?"
"Yes, you are. You're not a student." Did I just win? "But that doesn't mean I can instantly stop treating you like one."
So close.
"Well you know what, *Harry*," I start. I can feel the frustration racing through me as I throw off the sheet that was hardly covering me and head for the bathroom. "Get used to it because we aren't in class, we're in your bedroom."
I make sure to slam the door and now . . . and now I have to find somewhere to go after he throws me out.
**
Now I bet she's taken my hot water. She just slammed a door in my face, maybe not my face as I am a few feet away but it's the same effect. She's pissed, extremely pissed. This is more and more like a relationship on the first damn day, she's living with me, I got kicked out of my room, she's pissed off at me, slamming doors, and we have the potential to argue over bathroom time. Maybe it isn't in the right order per usual but I don't think we'd ever have any completely normal interaction anyway. What's the fun in that though?
All right, my options: I can knock on the door and try and work this out or I can run in the other direction.
Thinking.
Thinking.
Run?
Fuck.
**
"Dana?"
Ugh, my reflection leaves much to be desired. The little bathroom mirror doesn't hide anything, including the blotchy red eyes I have from crying. He's knocking on the door softly and I have to answer him, it's not like he could think I left already in this one-way-out room. The window is NOT an option I want to explore on the fourth floor.
But it's a room I'm extremely grateful to be in, I'll take this over a box any day.
"Yeah, Mr. Senate?" Okay, scratchy voice shows I'm strong. And, yes, that was sarcasm - but maybe it made me sound fragile and likely to go nuts if I have to live on the streets. That could work.
"Dana, come out please, I need to talk to you."
Sad face, show the sad face and pray it works . . .
**
The door clicks open and she comes out with an expression of complete sadness. Gradually feeling worse and . . . yep, there it is. Immense guilt.
"Sit on the bed please."
She won't even look at me and she doesn't even look mad, just upset, but she does what I ask.
"I . . . You're right."
**
Right? Two times now, this has to be some sort of record, him admitting, or me getting the credit.
"About?" I ask him as I look up. He's all fidgety and it's so cute.
That isn't good. Not from an anti-notice of cute Senate point of view . . . wait . . . whatever.
"I'm not your teacher anymore, I'm not even an authority to you."
"So far *you're* right."
That was smartass but I deserve it. He gives me a look but doesn't get off subject.
"I think we need to clear this up, start new."
"What do you suggest?"
"Call me Harry."
"What?" What?
"Call me Harry, if you don't call me Mr. Senate maybe I won't feel like Mr. Senate."
"Harry. I can live with that, _Harry_."
"Good to know," he says dryly.
**
At least she's smiling; it's that smartass smile though so maybe it's not a great sign.
"Okay. Well, I have to get to work so I'll be taking over the bedroom now." She's less than responsive. "Dana?"
"Oh, yeah. Okay, I'll just go . . . get breakfast."
"Good, okay, you owe me it," I smile as I grab a towel that I have yet to put away as with most of my laundry. I'm really not this messy but with all Lauren's summer courses dumped in my lap in edition to my tutoring classes it's been a little slow around here.
Lauren, I haven't talked to her in about a week. She insisted on being alone for a while, it really isn't my fault I took over her classes, they were practically hurled at my head.
I don't need to think of this now.
I close the bathroom door behind me and think of how happy I am to be out of the line of Dana-wrath. A shower, that's what I need, a shower to clear my head. She wasn't in the bathroom long enough to shower so I won control over the hot water, for now at least. A nice shower, yeah, then it will all be sorted out . . . It's summer and I don't have air conditioning . . . Why was I so worried about a hot shower?
This is going to be a long, confusing day.
**
How am I supposed to cook?
Not that I know how to cook.
Which is beside the point anyway.
The man has minimal groceries, no bacon, eggs, not even bread. I open the cupboards and I do find something . . . Is it even possible to eat that much cereal? Obviously not since there is about ten different boxes complete with dust on some.
Okay, so I'll just get some bowls. Yep, he has bowls and . . . What would his favorite cereal be? Three seem like he actually chooses them from the bunch so . . . I'll set them up nicely in a row. There, nice. Count Chocula, Frosted Flakes, and Cheerios. Mm-mm, good, now . . . instant coffee, perfect. Directions and everything, this could work. An almost well balanced breakfast.
**
A tee-shirt with the Boston Red Sox emblem, jeans, and a hope that Guber doesn't see me in informal clothing. I just don't need it. I need a breath of preparation, okay, good idea. Dana-preparation. Okay, maybe deep breaths aren't good considering the spring dug in my side all night and now I have a bruise there. I need a new couch.
I open the door to the smell of coffee, it's a nice smell considering summer is such an off season it's hell to get up on time let alone have coffee. I'm not saying it always happens but there have been some days that I've been reduced to a spoonful of instant coffee grounds dumped in my mouth. It's not a recommendation; it's not tasty.
"That smells good." And the award for obvious and unoriginal things to say goes to me, thank you very much.
"Yeah, I'm a bit of a cook," she tells me. When I sit down she sets a cup of coffee in front of me and I can't help but look a little suspicious. She catches me and quickly grabs a box of cereal and offers it to me with a smile.
Dana Poole, a nervous smile, some barely there pajama set, and my favorite cereal. There is something I'm supposed to be getting at this moment. Not that. No, not that, and I even shake my head to knock out the idea. I mean, generally, there is some idea I'm supposed to be picking up here, maybe that I never thought this scene would occur in a million years.
Make that two million.
Three.
"Mr. Senate?"
"Yeah?" I ask as I get back on focus and reach for the box.
"I was wondering if I could talk to you about something."
No. I already know what it is and NO.
She takes a seat across from me and has her nervous/anticipation eyes glued to my hands as they pour milk and strangely enough it isn't the worst feeling I've ever had. Just her eyes . . . I clear my throat and she looks at me with a little tweak of her mouth.
"Good coffee?"
"I haven't tasted it yet."
"Right, um, I can make coffee really well . . . And I'm usually up to make it so someone who wakes up while I go to bed will already have a ready made pot."
No, no, no.
"Dana--"
"Don't you think that's a good thing?" she asks softly while her eyes are glued to me.
I shake my head and look at the wood of the tabletop because maybe I don't want to see her face when I tell her --
"Please, Mr. Senate - Harry. Please, I need somewhere to stay."
And with that pleading tone all my 'no's are quickly wussing out.
"How about we talk about this later?"
I didn't say that. I couldn't have said that . . . That was my voice though. Shit.
"Later it is." And she's smiling. Okay, now I have to crush her later rather than right now, I'm just prolonging it. This is a *bad* idea.
"Dana--"
"I'm going to get dressed."
She had to know I was going to say something because she up and gone.
All this . . . I couldn't just have slept through the knocking on the door, nope, I had to get up.
Idiot.
**
Talking later is a good thing, an EXCELLENT thing as long as he doesn't talk right now. I know what he wants to say but I'm going to change his mind, I have to change his mind because the truth is I have no banking problems. Monday will come and go and it won't help because I don't have enough money to last more than a week in a crappy hotel if I want to make tuition and books and . . .
And I have to have somewhere to stay for about two months. I hope it's here.
Talk about Mission: Impossible.
But I have to make it. Half of my missing bank account tells me that. My mother saw to it. She ran out of whiskey and found my purse instead, with my bankcard and the scrap of paper I wrote my account number on. In four days she drained me from seven different ATMs . . .
But what can I do? I can't send her to jail.
She's my mother.
All I could do was get the card back and change my number. Afterwards is when she wondered where that money had come from, not before when she was spending it. I don't know how she found out but my only question is did she throw me out because I worked at a strip club or because I wouldn't give her any more money?
And now I really need funds for school, I really need a place to live.
I really need to choose my clothes carefully today. If I wear something that makes him want to look than he's not going to want me to stay. Who'd thought that there would be a day that I wouldn't want Harry Senate to take a look? I think a pair of jeans and a plain white shirt, it's a little fitted but I think it will do okay. I definitely need a bra today.
I'm just finishing up my hair when I hear his knock on the door.
I am not letting him in, if I do he'll want to talk and we are NOT talking right now.
"Dana?"
"I'm, I'm getting dressed." That'll keep him out . . . course now if he thinks of me half dressed it will be exactly the opposite what I wanted. Simplicity in any situation is always impossible for me.
I sigh and secure my ponytail before I stand next to the door.
"I'm going to be late for work so I'm going to leave now," he says through the door.
"Okay, see you after. Bye, have a good day." And go away please before you realize I can't be taking this long to throw on something to open the door.
". . . Bye."
I have to press my ear to the door but I hear him go and sigh with relief. Talk later, later, later. I lean against the door and hope he'll change his mind, hope he'll let me stay, and hope I forget how incredible he looks in jeans.
**
I open my eye and come face to face with a cluttered night table with a man's watch staring at me. Oh yeah. That clues me in as well as the slight knocking on the door. The alarm gets a swipe that seems to trigger something that makes it quiet. The sheet gets pulled up more and I try to mutter a response that's close enough to real words.
"Come in."
I should probably sit up; lying with my face buried in a drooled on pillow probably isn't my most flattering position. The door opens and he pokes his head in like it isn't even his room.
"Morning."
"Mmm, morning," I manage.
"I just need to get some clothes." With that he goes about his business like he doesn't even see a barely clothed me sitting up and watching him. But morning does good things to him. Bending over does good things too . . . Whom do I thank for the fact he keeps socks in the bottom drawer?
No, shake my head, shake the thoughts. Leave it at Winslow High, I have enough problems to deal with. Still, it's nice to look.
**
She's going to burn a hole right through my back. I'm not going to look at her. Just what I need, start the day with her in some little tank top pajama thing. Yeah, that'll help. I would probably have tried to sneak out without even entering this domain of newly 'peachy' smells if I had remembered to take my clothes last night. Not to mention that I have to go through here to get to the bathroom and check if the spring pierced my lung. Good chance. I had tried to position it last night for comfort but in the morning I ended up with a crick in my neck, and a spring in some major organ.
"Mr. Senate?"
Don't talk, don't look, just go.
"Yeah?"
I talked, I looked, and I didn't go. Figures.
She's like one of those 60's centerfold pin-ups, sitting coy and innocent on a bed in something that, while not blatantly showing everything, was meant to pull at your imagination. If I didn't know better mine would be pulling . . . I do know better.
"I just wanted to thank you, for letting me stay here and everything."
"You need help and I'm your teacher, it's my duty," I say with some sense of humor. Some may think I don't know when my jokes are lame but they would be wrong, I know - I just say them anyway. How else would I avoid a suffocating uncomfortable situation?
"You're not my teacher, Mr. Senate."
Like this one.
And now she's pissed, perfect, just the best. I need to get out of here, find another time and place to make her understand that that is how I see her and how I always will, maybe I could just say that . . . that's not convincing - Even though it's true, completely true.
True.
**
Teacher. He is *not* my teacher. He's trying to be so clear, trying to draw that line. Well he shouldn't have glanced at my chest when he turned around, kind of turned the whole statement.
"I was your teacher and it still feels that way."
I guess that's suppose to be an explanation, but the way he says it is like he's trying to enforce it. Not a chance.
"Well drop the feeling, you're not my teacher, Guber is not trailing the halls and Big Boy is not outside the door so don't try to act like we're back in school."
He's just looking at me; I need to think things out before I talk.
"You're right."
I'm right?
"I'm right?"
"Yes, you are. You're not a student." Did I just win? "But that doesn't mean I can instantly stop treating you like one."
So close.
"Well you know what, *Harry*," I start. I can feel the frustration racing through me as I throw off the sheet that was hardly covering me and head for the bathroom. "Get used to it because we aren't in class, we're in your bedroom."
I make sure to slam the door and now . . . and now I have to find somewhere to go after he throws me out.
**
Now I bet she's taken my hot water. She just slammed a door in my face, maybe not my face as I am a few feet away but it's the same effect. She's pissed, extremely pissed. This is more and more like a relationship on the first damn day, she's living with me, I got kicked out of my room, she's pissed off at me, slamming doors, and we have the potential to argue over bathroom time. Maybe it isn't in the right order per usual but I don't think we'd ever have any completely normal interaction anyway. What's the fun in that though?
All right, my options: I can knock on the door and try and work this out or I can run in the other direction.
Thinking.
Thinking.
Run?
Fuck.
**
"Dana?"
Ugh, my reflection leaves much to be desired. The little bathroom mirror doesn't hide anything, including the blotchy red eyes I have from crying. He's knocking on the door softly and I have to answer him, it's not like he could think I left already in this one-way-out room. The window is NOT an option I want to explore on the fourth floor.
But it's a room I'm extremely grateful to be in, I'll take this over a box any day.
"Yeah, Mr. Senate?" Okay, scratchy voice shows I'm strong. And, yes, that was sarcasm - but maybe it made me sound fragile and likely to go nuts if I have to live on the streets. That could work.
"Dana, come out please, I need to talk to you."
Sad face, show the sad face and pray it works . . .
**
The door clicks open and she comes out with an expression of complete sadness. Gradually feeling worse and . . . yep, there it is. Immense guilt.
"Sit on the bed please."
She won't even look at me and she doesn't even look mad, just upset, but she does what I ask.
"I . . . You're right."
**
Right? Two times now, this has to be some sort of record, him admitting, or me getting the credit.
"About?" I ask him as I look up. He's all fidgety and it's so cute.
That isn't good. Not from an anti-notice of cute Senate point of view . . . wait . . . whatever.
"I'm not your teacher anymore, I'm not even an authority to you."
"So far *you're* right."
That was smartass but I deserve it. He gives me a look but doesn't get off subject.
"I think we need to clear this up, start new."
"What do you suggest?"
"Call me Harry."
"What?" What?
"Call me Harry, if you don't call me Mr. Senate maybe I won't feel like Mr. Senate."
"Harry. I can live with that, _Harry_."
"Good to know," he says dryly.
**
At least she's smiling; it's that smartass smile though so maybe it's not a great sign.
"Okay. Well, I have to get to work so I'll be taking over the bedroom now." She's less than responsive. "Dana?"
"Oh, yeah. Okay, I'll just go . . . get breakfast."
"Good, okay, you owe me it," I smile as I grab a towel that I have yet to put away as with most of my laundry. I'm really not this messy but with all Lauren's summer courses dumped in my lap in edition to my tutoring classes it's been a little slow around here.
Lauren, I haven't talked to her in about a week. She insisted on being alone for a while, it really isn't my fault I took over her classes, they were practically hurled at my head.
I don't need to think of this now.
I close the bathroom door behind me and think of how happy I am to be out of the line of Dana-wrath. A shower, that's what I need, a shower to clear my head. She wasn't in the bathroom long enough to shower so I won control over the hot water, for now at least. A nice shower, yeah, then it will all be sorted out . . . It's summer and I don't have air conditioning . . . Why was I so worried about a hot shower?
This is going to be a long, confusing day.
**
How am I supposed to cook?
Not that I know how to cook.
Which is beside the point anyway.
The man has minimal groceries, no bacon, eggs, not even bread. I open the cupboards and I do find something . . . Is it even possible to eat that much cereal? Obviously not since there is about ten different boxes complete with dust on some.
Okay, so I'll just get some bowls. Yep, he has bowls and . . . What would his favorite cereal be? Three seem like he actually chooses them from the bunch so . . . I'll set them up nicely in a row. There, nice. Count Chocula, Frosted Flakes, and Cheerios. Mm-mm, good, now . . . instant coffee, perfect. Directions and everything, this could work. An almost well balanced breakfast.
**
A tee-shirt with the Boston Red Sox emblem, jeans, and a hope that Guber doesn't see me in informal clothing. I just don't need it. I need a breath of preparation, okay, good idea. Dana-preparation. Okay, maybe deep breaths aren't good considering the spring dug in my side all night and now I have a bruise there. I need a new couch.
I open the door to the smell of coffee, it's a nice smell considering summer is such an off season it's hell to get up on time let alone have coffee. I'm not saying it always happens but there have been some days that I've been reduced to a spoonful of instant coffee grounds dumped in my mouth. It's not a recommendation; it's not tasty.
"That smells good." And the award for obvious and unoriginal things to say goes to me, thank you very much.
"Yeah, I'm a bit of a cook," she tells me. When I sit down she sets a cup of coffee in front of me and I can't help but look a little suspicious. She catches me and quickly grabs a box of cereal and offers it to me with a smile.
Dana Poole, a nervous smile, some barely there pajama set, and my favorite cereal. There is something I'm supposed to be getting at this moment. Not that. No, not that, and I even shake my head to knock out the idea. I mean, generally, there is some idea I'm supposed to be picking up here, maybe that I never thought this scene would occur in a million years.
Make that two million.
Three.
"Mr. Senate?"
"Yeah?" I ask as I get back on focus and reach for the box.
"I was wondering if I could talk to you about something."
No. I already know what it is and NO.
She takes a seat across from me and has her nervous/anticipation eyes glued to my hands as they pour milk and strangely enough it isn't the worst feeling I've ever had. Just her eyes . . . I clear my throat and she looks at me with a little tweak of her mouth.
"Good coffee?"
"I haven't tasted it yet."
"Right, um, I can make coffee really well . . . And I'm usually up to make it so someone who wakes up while I go to bed will already have a ready made pot."
No, no, no.
"Dana--"
"Don't you think that's a good thing?" she asks softly while her eyes are glued to me.
I shake my head and look at the wood of the tabletop because maybe I don't want to see her face when I tell her --
"Please, Mr. Senate - Harry. Please, I need somewhere to stay."
And with that pleading tone all my 'no's are quickly wussing out.
"How about we talk about this later?"
I didn't say that. I couldn't have said that . . . That was my voice though. Shit.
"Later it is." And she's smiling. Okay, now I have to crush her later rather than right now, I'm just prolonging it. This is a *bad* idea.
"Dana--"
"I'm going to get dressed."
She had to know I was going to say something because she up and gone.
All this . . . I couldn't just have slept through the knocking on the door, nope, I had to get up.
Idiot.
**
Talking later is a good thing, an EXCELLENT thing as long as he doesn't talk right now. I know what he wants to say but I'm going to change his mind, I have to change his mind because the truth is I have no banking problems. Monday will come and go and it won't help because I don't have enough money to last more than a week in a crappy hotel if I want to make tuition and books and . . .
And I have to have somewhere to stay for about two months. I hope it's here.
Talk about Mission: Impossible.
But I have to make it. Half of my missing bank account tells me that. My mother saw to it. She ran out of whiskey and found my purse instead, with my bankcard and the scrap of paper I wrote my account number on. In four days she drained me from seven different ATMs . . .
But what can I do? I can't send her to jail.
She's my mother.
All I could do was get the card back and change my number. Afterwards is when she wondered where that money had come from, not before when she was spending it. I don't know how she found out but my only question is did she throw me out because I worked at a strip club or because I wouldn't give her any more money?
And now I really need funds for school, I really need a place to live.
I really need to choose my clothes carefully today. If I wear something that makes him want to look than he's not going to want me to stay. Who'd thought that there would be a day that I wouldn't want Harry Senate to take a look? I think a pair of jeans and a plain white shirt, it's a little fitted but I think it will do okay. I definitely need a bra today.
I'm just finishing up my hair when I hear his knock on the door.
I am not letting him in, if I do he'll want to talk and we are NOT talking right now.
"Dana?"
"I'm, I'm getting dressed." That'll keep him out . . . course now if he thinks of me half dressed it will be exactly the opposite what I wanted. Simplicity in any situation is always impossible for me.
I sigh and secure my ponytail before I stand next to the door.
"I'm going to be late for work so I'm going to leave now," he says through the door.
"Okay, see you after. Bye, have a good day." And go away please before you realize I can't be taking this long to throw on something to open the door.
". . . Bye."
I have to press my ear to the door but I hear him go and sigh with relief. Talk later, later, later. I lean against the door and hope he'll change his mind, hope he'll let me stay, and hope I forget how incredible he looks in jeans.
**
