“And now I have to win enough to pay the entry fee in May. If I win that tournament, I won’t have to play professionally anymore – not unless I actually want to, at least. I’ll be able to give my parents a nice check for them to use however they need to and, more importantly, I’ll be able to pay for the rest of school and finally focus on what I really want to do.” I let that last part sink in, remembering how badly I want this win. “I have to take first place in Vegas. There’s no other option.”
Kip swallows hard, and I realize I just dumped a lot of heavy shit on him. Cool, Skyler, let’s talk about being poor with the new kid at a private school. Obviously he has money and doesn’t understand. I picture him treating me differently, looking at me with sad eyes the way the kids at my high school did. I finally fit in somewhere and instead of embracing it, I point out that it’s an illusion – I still don’t really belong.
He goes to speak, and I brace myself for the I’m so sorry, that’s so sad, you’re so strong, but instead he asks, “So what do you really want to do?”
Wait, what?
I falter for a moment, staring at him like an idiot so he lifts his brows. I shake my head. “Um, well, to be honest I don’t really know. That’s part of why I need to win this tournament. I have a few ideas of what I want to do, but as of now I’m still undecided because I’m too worried about being able to afford next semester to think about my major or future career. I need a clear head to focus on me, for once.”
He nods, digesting. I can’t tell, but for some reason it seems like he feels bad, but not in the way others do when they hear about it. The look on his face isn’t one of sympathy, but almost as if he’s the one who put me in this situation. He looks… guilty, and for the life of me I can’t imagine why. Maybe he’s just one of those types of people, the kind who just feel intensely. For some reason, it makes me uneasy… and I’m never wrong when it comes to my gut feelings. Suddenly, I feel like I should be paying more attention to his poker face.
Maybe there’s something he’s not telling me.
Ugh, there I go again, always looking for something that’s not there. Mom taught me how to hide my emotions and decode the emotions of others. It’s fantastic in a poker game, but it kind of sucks in real life. I’m more paranoid than the average person and tend to jump to conclusions. No matter how often I’m right, I still think I act a little crazy.
I glance down at my toes sunk into the sand. “Do you see those shells?”
Kip blinks and shakes his head, coming out of his own thoughts. He looks down. “Those little ones? Yeah.”
“Watch them,” I say as another wave rolls over our feet. As it recedes, the shells begin to wiggle their way back into the sand.
“Woah!” Kip yells, jumping back. “Are they moving?!”
I giggle at his reaction, grabbing his arm and pulling him back next to me. “Yes, they’re coquinas.”
Kip gives me a sideways glance and a confused look. I laugh. He looks ridiculous.
“They’re little clams. They hang out on the shore where the waves hit because they eat the plankton that the waves bring in. So they burrow in, and then when a wave comes it washes them out, so they have to dig their way back down. Once they dig down enough, they use little siphons to draw in the water and eat the plankton. And then it all happens again, over and over all day long.”
Kip looks down and wiggles his toes. “So they’re like marathon clams. They make other clams look lazy.”
“I guess so.” I laugh. “I like them because they work hard for what they want and need in life. They don’t let the threat of waves thousands of times larger than them crashing down stop them. They persevere, and it’s not easy – but they do it.”
He quirks a half smile at me, his blue eyes saying something that I can’t quite decipher. He bends down and picks one of the coquinas up, examining it between his fingers. I watch him as he studies it, wondering what he’s looking for. It’s as if he wants to know the secrets, like he’s thirsty for the knowledge on how to beat the waves in his own life.
I think I am, too.
“I want to help you this semester,” he says, delicately placing the coquina back in the sand and standing.
“Help with what?”
“Poker. I know you already know what you’re doing, but I can help you prepare for May. I’ll find you small tournaments to play in and I’ll sneak video so we can review it, work on your weaknesses.”
I laugh, shaking my head, but then I realize it actually might be a good idea. I’ve always wished I could record a tournament and see what my face looks like when I’m bluffing and when I have a really good pocket pair. I don’t feel like I give anything off, but I’ve been beaten enough times to know I do. The novices don’t pick up on it, but the pros do – and I’ll be playing the best of the pros in Vegas.
I turn to Kip, questioning. “Why do you want to help me?”
He shrugs. “We’re friends, remember? I think this is what friends do. Although, I’d be happy to go back to sucking lime juice out of your mouth, if you’d prefer.”
I blush and shove him.
“Ah!” he screams, tiptoeing on the sand as I push him back. “Careful! I don’t want to step on the little bad ass clams!”
I laugh and we turn back toward where we left our shoes. The sun is shining full force now, and I’m sure it’s at least eight. I yawn, the night finally catching up to me.
“Want me to walk you back to the sorority house?” Kip asks, yawning himself.
“No, I don’t want to do the walk of shame with you in tow. It’s already going to look bad as it is.”
He smiles a lazy, sleepy smile. “Everyone’s going to think we slept together. Want to give them something to talk about?” He waggles his eyebrows and I punch him hard in the arm.
“You’re going to need that friend zone helmet for real if you keep pushing my buttons like that.”
“Oh, I like pushing your buttons.” He winks. I roll my eyes, but can’t fight off the laugh. As annoying as he is, he’s equally sexy. I’ve always said that if a guy can make me laugh, he can make me do anything.
Let’s hope I can resist this time.
I take a sip of the hot liquid wrapped in a trendy Starbucks cup as Kip stares, anticipating. I know immediately that it’s not my drink of choice, the drink he’s trying to figure out, just by the smell alone – but I take my time drinking it anyway. I take a few sips, smack my lips together a bit, smile, and then shake my head.
“No? Hmm, I thought for sure you were a White Mocha girl.”
I pull my textbook from the Vera Bradley messenger bag my Little got me for Christmas and quirk a brow. “And what exactly gave you that impression? Do I have a face that screams White Mocha?”
“You have a face that screams, all right, but I don’t think that’s the phrase I would go with.”
I turn in my chair to face him completely. “So what does my face scream, then?”
Kip places his chin carefully in one hand, his forefinger drumming on his cheek. “Maybe something along the lines of, ‘God, Kip, you are so dreamy. Please take me on a date tonight and I’ll show you why I’m worth that one thousand dollars.’”
“Pig!” I laugh, smacking him and facing the front again just as Dr. O’Neal walks in. His hair is a bit more disheveled than usual today, but it’s his quirkiness that I adore. He’s one of the most interesting professors on campus, though I’m not sure why I even took this class other than to be in one with him all semester. I have no interest in screenwriting – at least, I don’t think I do – but I always see Dr. O’Neal walking quickly around campus and I’m curious about him and where he hurries to. I looked up classes he taught and settled for this one, wondering if maybe I could find passion in writing. It’s only been a week, but just from our initial assignment I can tell that I won’t.