Earlier this year I read an interview with JE, where she seemed pretty happy to get rid of the number centered book naming thing. It made me wonder about coming up with 27 number themed titles, and then pairing up story ideas with them. In the end, I came up with 31 story ideas (more, if you count the multiple ideas for several of the numbers), and The Number Series was born. Some stories are longer one-shots, some are short, and some developed into multi-chapter offerings. All have the title somewhere in the story. I have no set posting schedule for them.

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All recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich, I'm just playing.

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A/N: Loosely based on the lyrics to I'm Eighteen by Alice Cooper.

Eighteen

RPOV

"And that concludes our class for the day. Next time we'll start diving into marketing strategies. Read the chapters listed in the syllabus. I'm not saying there's going to be a quiz over the material, but you might want to be prepared."

Most of us were gathering up our shit and not really paying attention to the prof, but the words filter through, anyway. Another freaking quiz. We're not quite a month into the semester and my life is a never-ending parade of lectures (both on campus and at home), quizzes, and pretending to care about any of it.

I lived in Miami with Abuela Rosa for almost four years after my exile from the Manoso home for bringing dishonor and embarrassment to my parents. Good kids do not steal vehicles for a joy ride, especially not with gang members. I'd given up on being a good kid by that point, but it didn't matter. Once I got caught and sent to juvie, my role in the family was set.

As the oldest, I was supposed to set a good example for my brother and sisters. As Papa pointed out more than once, the only thing I was accomplishing in life was showing them what not to do. Anything to help the cause, I think sarcastically as a hot blonde spilling out of her tank top tries to catch my attention.

My return home to Newark to attend Rutgers University has not been smooth. While I've pulled out of the self-destructive spiral I was on, I'm still not ready to embrace the life Papa has laid out for me. School, white-collar job, home in the suburbs away from the gangs, wife, family. I'm not sure I want any of it, now or in the future.

School in Miami was monetarily of reach, and scholarships here are enough to pay my tuition, but not housing, so I'm stuck living at home for at least this year. That means toeing the line and sitting in class, wishing I was somewhere else. With the look that blondie is sending me, I'll get the chance to pretend for the afternoon while she takes a walk on the wild side, something to brag to her sorority sisters about.

It's annoyingly easy to get her to invite me back to her dorm room; less than ten minutes later she's on the mattress on her hands and knees and I'm balls deep inside her. It's good, but a fleeting escape. As happy as she was to get me here, she seems equally as happy to see me go. We don't even bother to exchange phone numbers when I zip up and leave.

Walking across campus, the cooler air of late September washes over me. It's nice to have seasons again, even if I miss the sunshine and humidity of Miami. I think I'd like to eventually settle there, maybe close enough to take care of Abuela. She ran a tight ship, but without the rules and discipline, I'd have probably fallen in with another gang and been dead by now.

Crossing through the student union, I notice a group of guys clustered around a table off to one side. When one steps back, I see a soldier with a pressed uniform pointing to something in a brochure. I'm not sure what makes me walk over, hanging on the fringe of the group while we listen to him point out pay scales and benefits that the Army offers. I've never thought about the military, but I'm listening now.

The other guys wander off, and the recruiter, P. Jones, pulls a few more brochures out and hands them to me. "Are you thinking of enlisting."

I shrug. "Don't know. Never thought of it before. Why should I?"

He chuckles, taking no offense and I wonder how many days he stands on campuses, hoping for a bite on his hook. "We'll administer the ASVAB test, if you haven't already taken it, and assess your skill areas. When you enlist, you get a bonus. You'll head to boot camp, and after that, they'll slot you into a program. You'll get a base salary as a Private, but you'll also get a housing allowance and medical care courtesy of Uncle Sam. And that's before you factor in the on-the-job training and the GI Bill that will pay for school when you're done serving."

"What kind of things would I be doing?"

He grabs a few more pamphlets. "Depends on your interests and proficiency. In general, we have six job areas: mechanics and engineering, science and medical, signal and intelligence, support and logistics, ground forces, and aerial and aerial defense. Some things you would need a degree for, but there are plenty of jobs that you could match to that will provide training right away. What's your major?"

"For now, business."

I'm not married to the idea, and flipping through the pamphlets, a million and one thoughts are racing through my head, the chief one being that it's a legitimate option for me. We talk for another half an hour, and he gives me his card. "Think about it. College is a good option, but only if you want to be here. Lots of kids drop out because they just don't know what they want. Who the hell does at eighteen? Both vocational training and military are valid and honorable choices."

I'm thinking about what he said the entire way home. He hit the nail on the head. I really don't know what I want to do. Mama and Papa expected me to come home, behave, and walk the path they've always dreamed about for us kids. I just don't know if it's the best choice for me.

Most of us are at the table for dinner that night. It's a rare night that both Mama and Papa are at the table; Mama's job as a hospice aide frequently has her working nights. Celia, Maria, and Miguel are here; only Consuela is missing. We start to pass the Picadillo and grilled corn around.

"How was school today?"

Mama's simple question is met with silence. It's the same things she asks every night, and every night she gets a shrug or a begrudging answer. Consuela and Celia are the only ones that actually like school. It might be a good time to test the water. "I talked to someone today."

"Who."

"Army recruiter. They were on campus—"

"No."

The table is silent as the food continues to be passed around. Mama shakes her head, trying to tell me to not bring it up again. As usual, I ignore the safe and smart path and head down the one sure to bring me another lecture. "Joining the Army gives me a paycheck now, and I can use the GI Bill to go to school later."

"No."

"Papa—"

"I said no! Mi papa and mi tios made their way here for a better life for all of us who came after. Despite your insistence in messing around, you have scholarships that pay for most of your schooling. You squandering that opportunity is an insult to their sacrifices. I won't allow it!"

His tirade is punctuated with a fist banging on the table, making the silverware rattle. Celia and Maria hunch down, making themselves smaller. Papa would never raise a hand to us, but he wouldn't think twice of turning on them and letting them know exactly what they were doing wrong. Miguel smirks at me, happy to no longer be the sole focus of Papa's disappointment.

Dinner continues on in silence as my resentment grows. They came here for a better life, and that included getting to choose for themselves what they did. As much as I want to, I don't say that out loud.

Celia and Maria do the dishes while Miguel walks the mutt that showed up one day and never left. Once I have the garbage cans down at the curb, I lean against the porch stoop and really take a look around. Our street is typical of the neighborhood. Not the best, but not the worst, either. I don't really remember it, but I was four when we moved into the house from an apartment over towards the interstate. Papa, and later Mama, worked hard to come up with the down payment and to keep up with repairs.

Back upstairs, I pull out my textbook and flip to the section with the assigned reading the prof was talking about. I try and read through it, but it's just not holding my attention. Even in college, I have a curfew, and I'm thinking about bailing out the window when there's a knock on my door to the room that I once again share with Miguel. He, at least, was smart enough to make himself scarce after chores were done.

"It's open!"

Papa comes in and looks around the room before settling himself on the end of Miguel's bed. He spies one of the Army pamphlets and grabs it and starts reading it. I've learned that not saying anything gives me a better chance of getting through the conversation with the least amount of arguing as possible.

His voice is gruff when he does speak. "Are you interested in this Army stuff?"

"Maybe."

"You are smart, Carlito. Why would you want to break your back to work with your hands instead of using your mind? You have a chance for a different life."

"What if your life is what I want?"

He waves his hands like he's waving away the idea. "Why would you want to struggle to put food on the table for your family? Why would you want to worry every day about them being safe when they step a foot out the front door?"

I understand his position, it just feels like the walls are closing in a little every day. Papa wants me to go into business, but I can't imagine spending my life sitting behind a desk, pushing papers. I need to be outside, moving, doing. The thought of a lifetime of watching the world from an office causes a weird tightening in my chest.

"Do you like being a mechanic?" I've never asked him about his work, or why he chose it. It's just what he's always done.

His shoulders come up. "It's something I'm good at and it provides. Don't you want to be able to provide for a family?"

My lip curls back at that. I'm eighteen, and nowhere near ready for a family and all the shit that comes with it. Looking at the glossy glimpse of another life that he's clenching in his hands and thinking about the view of my world when I was taking the garbage out, I can admit for the first time that I might want something more than what I was told I should want. Miami felt like a different life with the same expectations, but Newark somehow felt even smaller.

"I'm just not sure that business is what I want to be doing. And if I'm not sure, I'm wasting the scholarships and the extra money we had to pay. Maybe you should set it aside for Celia. You know she's going to become a doctor and that shit takes money."

He grunts out something close to a laugh. "That girl, always a dreamer. But she's putting the work in. She's still in the running for salutatorian."

I have no doubts that Celia will manage to keep the grades necessary to get the scholarships to pay for school and get her into a med program. She's known since she was twelve that she wanted to be a doctor and a summer of following around our pregnant neighbor has her convinced she wants to be an obstetrician. That will take money; money that Papa might well be wasting on me right now.

"Will you do something for me, Carlito?"

"What, Papa?"

"Give it some time. You're barely a month in; how can you judge your path already. The Army's not going anywhere, but your scholarships will."

He's not wrong, and as he pats my shoulder on the way out, I know he's right. It would be stupid to throw away free money just because I'm bored. Picking up the brochure and smoothing out the creases that Papa put in it, I tuck it away in the back of my desk drawer. Papa's right. The Army's not going anywhere.