Chapter Five [Flashback]

My first ever college visit, near the end of junior year, was led by a buff and obnoxious university counselor who insisted on being called Brosef, even though his name was Clayton.

Whenever he wasn't talking about Rush week, the Frat boy in him was spilling out of his tight, black, dry-fit polo in every other way imaginable. He constantly tried to connect with us through cliché sports references or by passing a lime green, foam football to us—at random and without warning.

I never once caught the damned thing.

I could imagine Clayton spending his free time lounging around in some sweaty fraternity living room, sunk into the filthy embrace of a moldy, mustard yellow, vintage sofa that had been rescued from the end of a curb. There would be bros all around him reminiscing on high school days, praising past athleticism, then lamenting their inadequacy at the collegiate level.

If only that snap had entered Clayton's hands, laces up, the scouts would've seen him differently. His penance: throwing perfect spirals to a campy teenager without depth perception.

Brosef aside, there were nearly a dozen other prospective students along for the tour who were all wearing different iterations of yellow and black Hawkeyes apparel. In typical Mad-Eye Rudy fashion, I was the lame duck wearing blue jeans and a dark red button-up. If I'd been a rubber duck I'd have been yellow, and in the clear for once. I knew red was the rival school's color, but the shirt looked cute on me and I didn't think sports were that big of a deal. I couldn't have been more wrong.

By lunchtime, we made it over to the University Library. After having been the butt end of one too many rival unfriendly jokes, I was finally ready to trek over to the Memorial Union to buy a freaking yellow shirt. As I started to scurry away from the group, an eye spasm burned through the left side of my face.

That was the one thing I hadn't the capacity to deal with right then. I was forced to anyway.

Falling out in front of the group would've ruined all hopes of a fresh, Mad-Eye Rudy-less start to college. I couldn't let that happen, so instead of walking around the library with them, over to a field for a pizza picnic (seriously), I started hopping up the steps in hopes of taking refuge inside. I ground my teeth with clenched fists, intent on suffering through silence.

I cleared the top stair, above the group's line of sight and jabbed my thumb knuckle deep into my left eye socket, but I never stopped moving. That was precisely when and why I bumped into Martha—who was wearing a beautiful wine red dress by the way.

It was frilled, it sparkled with rhinestones and was tasseled along the edges. I knew this look couldn't have been for work. Regal Evans was no dummy—my best Juice impersonation.

Before I could react, she let out the most marvelous, throaty laugh as we collided. She caught me in an ample bosom embrace. I squirmed around uncontrollably because I felt the creepy crawly feeling flood to the front of my eye. Martha released me, I blinked hard right away and my spasm ended.

She inadvertently saved me from torment.

I was desperate to show gratitude in the only way I could. I'll at least make sure she's safe. I scanned the parking lot where I assumed she was headed, in case I needed to lead her away from any particular route. I spotted a gray fleck and inverted spire hanging over a red Camaro.

The car looked too small for her, but I wasn't above taking a shot in the dark, not then. It wasn't the cool bumblebee, transformer one either. It was the Camaro from the Eighties that couldn't decide whether it was a coupe or a convertible. The one with bars of metal as the roof. They looked as out of place as it did ugly.

"That beautiful red Camaro out there wouldn't happen to be yours, would it?" I asked, pointing to it, lying my ass off.

"Oh, yes!" Martha made car engine noises. Yes, she actually made them, and I was smitten. "Do you like it?"

"I love it! Will you please eat lunch with me?" I asked, in my kindest and sweetest voice. I was determined to save Martha, if only to keep someone else wearing red on campus.

"Oh, my! You're so precious," Martha said without a hint of condescension, "But I'm sorry sweetie. I gotta date. Wish me luck!"

She blew a trio of loud, wet kisses at me and took the first step. I went after her. I grabbed her meaty arm as I widened my eyes to adopt a frenzied expression.

"Don't go! At least... not for an hour. Trust me!" I swallowed hard, sensing her aggravation growing. Kindness and patience could only extend so far to a stranger. I had to offer her more. "How else could've I known the Camaro was yours?" Her lips moved, but nothing came out. I was a cobra to uncertainty. "Come on! There's easily a hundred cars out there!"

Martha stumbled, but I caught her this time and pulled her up the top step. It was a good thing for both of us that she'd stumbled upward. She went pale, completely pale, an incredible feat for her naturally ruddy face. Her eyes traced down the length of my arm to my hand and I let go of her, fearful she could've taken my conduct as an assault.

But no, that wasn't it.

Martha was looking at me as a true believer. I was Criss Angel and I had pulled a freaking quarter out of her liver with the date signed on it in cursive. Somehow, I'd managed to sign numbers in cursive. I was too stunned to move, but this was easily the best I had ever felt about my power. The world's dumbest superpower.

Martha gave me a stern nod and hooked my arm with hers, as if my premonition could never be spoken aloud. "You won't mind the IMU?"

I nodded and she led the way. We walked along the riverside path to the Iowa Memorial Union. Martha pulled her phone out of a white leather purse with tassels dangling below its golden zipper. No doubt she was canceling her date.

I felt guilty. It was clear she'd been all-in on it prior to our encounter. She was beautiful, but I wouldn't dare insult her hard work by calling it effortless. She had big feathery hair like a Southern pageant gal; long, wispy eyelashes and a well beaten face that held, despite the humidity.

The only thing missing was heels, but they weren't actually missing. Martha was wearing flats that matched her dress like a color card to a gallon of paint. She was the sort of woman who wouldn't be uncomfortable for anyone, least of all a man. Preach. Heels never made sense to me either. Martha wasn't some circus animal on stilts waiting to balance a beach ball on the tip of her nose.

Guilt aside, I felt chipper during our walk, like a real superhero. To deflate my inflating ego, I had to remind myself that choosing her car—the only reason any of this had worked out—was a stroke of luck that had nothing to do with my power and would never work like this again. Moreover, I wasn't in the clear yet.

There would be a moment of reckoning within the next hour, or there wouldn't be. Both scenarios frightened me.

I followed Martha and her soundless shoes into the building, which was flooded with a sea of black and yellow shirts. I'd have felt much better if someone had lied and told me there was a dress code, but no, it was run-of-the-mill school pride. We weaved through the crowd until Martha joined the line at the Java house.

Since it lacked seating and looked like any other food court stall, it was 'house' in namesake alone. I was surprised Martha hadn't asked if I wanted food, though I'd have said no. It seemed we were both too nervous to hold anything down.

"Frappe, right?" Martha asked—like she'd known me my entire life.

She wasn't wrong. My lanky figure in uncomfortably tight clothes, my soft facial features and curiously long and shaggy black hair weren't exactly subtle. Besides, our meeting couldn't have been more flamboyant if it had been one of RuPaul's acting challenges. Still, we don't all drink the same thing, honey, I thought. I nodded and flashed a smile. I dug a crinkled ten out of my slit, or sewing mistake, of a pant pocket and handed it to her.

She swatted my hand. "Grab us a table and we'll call it even."

Of course, I didn't believe her, but I strode off anyway. I understood that I'd paid twice what it was worth. For each sweet sip, there would be a probing question that I'd feel too ungrateful to leave unanswered. Since I was street smart, I grabbed a fistful of napkins before searching for empty tables.

I found an absolutely filthy two seater directly underneath two flat screens. Missing out on Nile Kinnick's greatest football moments was the least of my concerns, so I was on a roll for the day. I used the napkins to brush off bits of sandwich and stray french fries onto the floor, then plopped down in triumph.

The surface of the table was sticky, so I instantly regretted setting my elbows down on it. Since I had time, I spread what remained of my napkins over it. The result looked trashy, but at least Martha's forearms would be safe.

Martha gave me a strange look when she arrived, then set down a large mocha frappe in front of me. Hers was something milky with swirls of cinnamon. I hoped she wasn't going to ask about the napkins, and she didn't.

"Want to trade?" she asked.

I considered it, if only because her spot-on selections were making me feel like less of an individual. "No. This is gr—fine."

I coughed and beat a fist against my chest. I was inexplicably strange sometimes. Nerves had a way of compounding my natural borne awkwardness. I threw myself together with an arm waving, breathing technique that culminated in clasping my hands together in front of my face, real zen-like.

"I'm Regal Evans. Nice to meet you."

"Martha. Martha Rogers."

It took everything inside of me to resist the obvious tease. I wondered whether it was the same for old men who walked through stores dying to ask 'working hard or hardly working?'. I nodded as I took my first sip. Oh my! This has java chips in it. Who is this demon and how do I give her my soul. I tried to conceal my delight, but Martha was an attentive woman.

The corners of her lips curled to reveal a toothy grin. "So, are you going to make me ask?"

I knew she wasn't talking about the drink, but I was in a tricky situation. My superpower couldn't be summoned at will. The delay between crossing a spire made it impossible to prove. It was worse than being terrible at card tricks. At least two-bit magicians could improve. They could earn more bits over time, not me.

"Can you get me a job on campus?" I asked.

I had no idea why. It could've been her stare. I regretted it though. She was certain to think I was up to a sleazy scam or shakedown. She plopped her forearms down on my bed of napkins and leaned in toward me, narrowing her eyes. "I have a good feeling about you, Regal Evans."

Strangely, Martha didn't follow up her assessment with a job offer or further questions on the matter. She was pleasant and we engaged in thoughtless small talk while we slurped our drinks. She never seemed angry or impatient, but maybe she was good at hiding it.

I had this sinking feeling that she was biding her time until our hour expired, so she could explode all at once. What else could she have been waiting for? I considered running off. I had saved her whether she knew it or not. I was under no obligation to see this through.

My curiosity didn't agree, so I stayed and sat on pins and needles across from the fine Martha Rogers, hoping for a tragedy. That part was excruciating. Hoping for misfortune, to prove myself, made me the furthest thing from a superhero.

At the very end of the hour, nearly down to the minute, Martha's cell phone started playing the Friends theme. Oh, Martha. She shot up from the table like a snake had slithered onto her lap and left to take the call in private. Or at least that's how I would've, had there been a snake, given my loathing of snakes. My eyes followed her until she was out of sight while I tried my best to hide my excitement. I hated myself for being excited.

While she was gone, I practiced sympathetic looks and polite phrases like 'God works in mysterious ways' and 'fate brought us together', knowing I'd use neither. No matter how relieved I'd feel if I was right, I couldn't look satisfied when she returned.

She'd undoubtedly need a friendly face, not some smug asshole with an 'I told you so' smirk plastered across his. I bit down hard on my lip. A real one, the kind that commanded attention back to food when it strayed too far to Netflix.

Martha reappeared around the corner and I stood up right away. I stared hard at her, but her expression gave nothing away. She was Maury and I was... not the father.

She scooped me up in her bone-crushing embrace, although I'd been certain she was going to bowl over me at first. I wiggled one of my dainty arms out from beside her and gestured to sit down, but she had other ideas. She took my hand and led me outside. It was clear she needed air and a less crowded space for our next words.

She found a relatively quiet and peaceful place to sit down at a stone bench in front of large fountain with a fine view of the river. The water was still, but there were birds swooping over it constantly. I'd always wanted to see one pluck a fish from the water, but I wasn't sure those were the kind that did that sort of thing. They were the black ones seen everywhere, unremarkable like my superpower. I'd have traded mine for angling skills in a heartbeat, so long as my lazy eye was part of said exchange.

Martha was a foot tapper, her legs were maracas and it was Cinco de Mayo. It was clear she didn't want to be the first to speak, but neither did I, nor would I be.

"Why did you choose to save me?" she asked, finally. It wasn't the question I had been expecting. "And what happens now?"

"Now you hire me," was what I would've said if I had an ounce of smooth talking stowed away in my bone marrow. I actually said, "I felt terrible about wearing red, then I saw you and you seemed nice."

I nearly gagged as the words left my lips, hoping they didn't come across the way they easily could have. She didn't respond right away and who could've blamed her? I'd given her nowhere to go from there.

"Do you want to know what happened?" Martha asked. She smacked herself on the forehead. "Duh, of course you already know, but how?"

I started feeling antsy. I knew where this road led and had no intention of traveling down it. I stared off in the distance at the side of campus across the river. The stone buildings were much older over there and had much less space in between them. The side we were on was for undergrads. I laughed thinking about how new students were lulled in with grassy fields and shiny new buildings made with glass facades while graduates were sucker punched with mounting debt. They really were doomed to their fate. College was an elaborate casino and a loan was a bet on red. Once you bought in, you were stuck there, trying to break even.

Martha must've taken exception to my laughter. She chose then to stop waiting on an answer. "What now?" she asked, wiping away tears that had formed at the bottom rims of her eyelids. "My sister used to vet my terrible choices in men, but she's..." She cleared her throat, but didn't bother finishing. I hung an arm over her shoulder because it felt like the right thing to do. "A fucking meth lab? Seriously?"

Martha's melancholy gave way to anger and before I knew it, my arm had been tossed aside and she was standing in front of me with hands firmly on hips. I knew better than to look up at her. The only reason that made sense of her not storming off, was if she had a plan that involved me somehow. As interesting as that meth lab sounded, I had no intention of offering up my useless services to her.

I kept my eyes fixed on the concrete beneath my checkered Vans. They were the rainbow Pride ones and the left shoe had found a home in a dip in the concrete to pivot inside. I remembered having these same nerves back when I had tried to make a statement by buying them, instead of having to come out to anyone.

Hats off to the Solon student body for choosing that one time to not make assumptions.

"What if I keep you around? How about a job back at the library?" Martha asked, as if I hadn't shamelessly requested one during our coffee date.

I looked up at her and gave her the saddest singular nod. I felt guilty accepting it, but I had no reason to. This was the least I had ever spoken in a conversation and not once had I confirmed or denied anything. I was guilty of nothing.

"One tiny condition though." She strained the words out. She even pinched her fingers close together while making a sour expression. It was that annoying, yet highly typical song and dance that did nothing to lessen her ask or improve the chance of me fulfilling it. "And I hope it's not a deal breaker."

As much as I would've loved to stand up and walk away without hearing her out, I was in the mood for poker. "Sure, whatever. Can't be worse than mine."

Martha instantly relaxed and brushed off beads of sweat clinging to her forehead. "I'll just say it. The job is yours if you agree to meet any new guys I might bring around. Just to feel them out with your mojo," she said. I could tell she hated herself for asking this and she could tell from my pitying expression that I knew it. She was quick to extend her hand without asking for my condition. She had a full house. I had a royal flush.

I stood up and accepted that hand. Too late to back out now Martha. "Just so you know, I'm not exactly eighteen or a student here, but I look forward to working with you."