Memphis's Interview
1547 Words
Gray's POV
I really wasn’t planning on enjoying this assignment.
I mean, come on. Alexandria girls? They’re the worst of the lot. Rich, preppy, bitchy, and obsessed with Lancaster boys. Us Seacoast boys are too blue collar for the likes of them.
(I’m the exception, with my parents having more money than everyone else at Seacoast and Lancaster combined. But we’ll get into that later.)
When I heard that I was to meet my interviewee not in a private classroom, but in the courtyard with “witnesses,” I resolved to loathe her, no matter what. After all, whether it’s her or one of her two friends who made the request, it’s still blatantly offensive. Is that really what they think of us—that we’d just attack them in the middle of school if we got them alone?
At first glance, the girls were about what I expected. The blonde basically looks like a female version of Ezra Finnigan, who is one of my least favorite people on the planet, and the brunette looks like she might start posing for Lululemon ads at any moment.
The redhead, though…
Well, she’s hot, but it’s not just that she’s hot. It’s the oversized Clash t-shirt she’s donned over a pair of tight, ripped black jeans. It’s the combat boots. It’s…
Well, it’s not exactly what I was expecting from an Alexandria girl.
She seemed nervous at first, but not the way I’d expect a prep school girl to act nervous around a guy like me. She almost seemed genuinely scared.
Which made me think maybe she was the reason we were put in this courtyard.
Unfortunately, she ignored that question when I asked it.
So I diligently answered all but one of her questions in the hopes that maybe I could circle back to it during my interview, and, well, that about catches us up to now.
“Where are you from?” I ask her.
“Brooklyn.”
Odd. No one here is from Brooklyn. “From Brooklyn to Alexandria? That’s a weird jump.”
She shrugs. “Not everyone at Alexandria comes from money.”
“News to me.” Though not exactly bad news. I’m quite tired of people who come from money—myself included. “Aspirations?”
She taps her pen against her lips, which, by the way, look very soft and pink and kissable. “I want to be a drummer.”
I do my best not to gape at her. She seems to surprise me more with every answer. “A drummer?”
“Yeah. Preferably I’d join the Killers, but I’m not picky.”
I laugh. “I think Ronnie Vannucci might have a thing or two to say about that.”
A tiny grin comes to her face for the first time. “I have nothing but respect, admiration, and a bit of a crush on the guy. I wish him no ill will. It’s just, you know, if he chooses to retire, or die, or something.”
I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but I feel strangely jealous of Ronnie for the crush. This has certainly escalated quickly. “You’re good, then? You can actually drum?”
“I’m not bad.”
How has she gone from being an Alexandria prep school t**t—excuse my language—to one of the coolest girls I’ve ever met over the span of maybe twenty minutes?
“Hobbies?” I ask when I've recovered from my amazement. “Besides the obvious?”
She continues to tap her pen against those very distracting lips of hers as she considers this. “I’m not good at much else. Legend of Zelda, I guess. Being absent. Drinking. Rolling.”
Rolling? “Hold on. You’re not allowed to be more of a badass than me.”
She laughs. “Good, because I don’t want that making it into your article, anyway.”
I consider telling her that I’ll probably never write this article, as I rarely turn in any class assignments, but decide against it. If ever there was an assignment I’d do, this would be it.
“Fears?” I ask instead.
Her expression shifts then, just as mine must have when she asked it of me. She likes it even less than I do.
“Pass.”
Well, that just won’t do. I’m far too intrigued by her already; the idea that she’s keeping something to herself is oddly hard to accept.
“What if I answered the question you asked me?” I push. “The one about what got me kicked out of my last school. Then would you answer?”
“I guess it would depend how good your answer was.”
Well, I’ve probably got her there. It’s a damn good answer; it’s just not one I share with the masses.
“I’d appreciate it this didn’t make it into your article,” I tell her. “Not for my sake, but for the sake of the girl it involves.”
“Right.” She sounds strangely disappointed—as if she’s jealous of the girl I’ve just mentioned, the same way I was jealous of Ronnie. Or is it just wishful thinking? “Okay.”
“A friend of mine got drunk at a party, and an asshole took advantage of her.” Even just talking about it now, years later, my blood still boils. “She told me about it, but refused to blame anyone but herself. So, I did the blaming for her. You know… with my fists. And feet. And knees.”
She’s quiet for a long time. I wish I could tell what she was thinking, but I can’t. All I know is that I want to stare into those forest-green eyes of hers until the end of time.
Until the end of time? What the hell is the matter with me? Get it together, Gray.
“How bad was it?” she finally asks.
I shrug. “They say I pierced his spleen. Not exactly sure what that means for his quality of life. Hopefully it’s terrible. They kicked me out before I ever saw him again.”
“And your friend? Did she thank you?”
I laugh grimly at that. “No. She never spoke to me again.”
“Do you regret it?”
I think this is more questions than she asked me during my entire interview. Why is she so interested in this? “No. Not for a second. He deserved it.”
She nods, then, to my disappointment, looks away from me.
“Boys,” she says suddenly.
“Boys?” I repeat, confused.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Boys.”
It’s amazing, how much goes unsaid with that one, simple word. She looks back into my eyes, and I see more pain in that moment than I think I’ve ever seen in my eighteen years on this planet. And suddenly, it all makes sense.
She is the reason we couldn’t do this interview alone. But it’s not because of prejudiced assumptions she made about Seacoast boys; it’s because of something real that happened to her with a Lancaster boy.
“I never beat one up,” she says quietly. “But I did take a baseball bat to a boy’s McLaren once.”
For the second time during this interview, my jaw drops. “Seriously?”
A tiny, humble smile creeps onto her face, and she avoids my gaze in the most adorable way possible. “Yeah.”
Jesus Christ, she’s cool.
“Mem?” asks a voice from behind us.
I turn to see the blond girl she came in with standing next to Kai, my buddy from class. They must have been paired off together the way we were. Good for the friend; the third guy we shared the courtyard with, Ezra Finnigan, is the biggest douche on the planet, but Kai is cool.
“Hey, Bridge,” Memphis says to her friend. “You done?”
The girl nods. She has sort of an intense, prickly energy, though not altogether unlikeable. “Yeah. Just wanted to check on you.”
I like her for that. I don’t know what exactly this Memphis girl went through, but I’m glad to see that she’s got friends looking out for her.
“I think we’re about done,” Memphis says, glancing at me. “Did you have any other questions?”
I have about a million questions for her, and I’m not at all ready to let her leave. But I can see her other friend gathering up her things from her meeting place with Ezra, and I can tell that, like it or not, my time is up.
“Maybe I could see you again,” I say, forcing myself to man up. “Take you out sometime?”
I’m not sure what I expected in her response. Fear, I suppose, after what she confessed to me just a few minutes ago.
What I get, though, is something else entirely.
“Send me your article,” she says, scribbling down her email onto a slip of paper. “And then we’ll talk.”
And with that, my mystery woman leaves.
- Writer
