The Opportunist

  There was shocked silence. Gladys Knight was on the radio. Jim’s fingers are absently tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the song.

  “He’s back.” This comes as a statement instead of a question. I can hear the distaste in his voice and I don’t blame him. Caleb had always been a thorn in Jim’s flesh, especially when I eventually chose Caleb over Jim.

  “Olivia,” he turns the radio off and stubs out his cigarette, which means I’ll get to watch the whole lighting process again in a few minutes. “In what way is he back?”

  I have no intention of telling him about the amnesia.

  “I don’t know. He’s just back and I don’t really care why.”

  Jim narrows his eyes and appears to be looking suspiciously at the road.

  “I don’t know what it is with you and that asshole. Four years and a bad breakup later and you’re still in a fucking chemical romance with basketball Ken.”

  I don’t want to hear it. Not from Jim. Not from Cammie. In my wildest dreams I never imagined this twist to my story. A thousand girls could tell me that they would have done something different than what I did the day I pretended not to know Caleb, and I wouldn’t care. This was my re-do.

  “It happened by accident. I didn’t go looking for him, so just shut the hell up about it.”

  We pull up to the front of the club and I hop out before the valet can open the door. I wait for Jim as he unwinds his long body from the car and tosses his keys to the attendant. He is pissed. I can see it on his face. More than once he’s accused me of using him as a fall back when Caleb’s not around. I walk in front of him, ignoring the beating his eyes are giving me. I feel kind of badass tonight, so it’s not hard. It’s none of his damn business anyway—meddling, eyeliner wearing, punk. Jim hates weakness, and by God, Caleb is mine. But I have faith that by the time we start dancing, he will get over it.

  The Wave is filled wall to wall with vibrating bodies. Jim grabs my hand and pulls me through the throng of dancers until we reach the bar. Most of the girls turn to look at us. What is a razor edged rocker doing with a softie like me? I bristle under their curious eyes, fanning out a couple of dirty looks.

  Jim lays a fifty on the slimy bar and orders four shots of tequila. I ready our limes, and smile at him.

  “Are you still mad?” I ask.

  The bartender slides the shot glasses towards us and we both claim two. Jim shrugs.

  “Does it matter?”

  I pour the first one down my throat and suck on a lime to pull the flavor. Tequila is gross.

  “I don’t want you to be mad. I hardly get to see you.”

  Jim does this triple blink thing that makes him look really annoyed and then he kisses me on the cheek.

  “Let’s just have fun.”

  He orders two more shots and we clink our glasses together. We linger at the bar for a few minutes watching the dance floor. We are still too sober to let loose.

  “Let’s go do some dance floor humping,” he says, tossing his lime peel into the trash. I follow him into the wiggling crowd as the tequila finds my head.

  We dance until my feet feel numb and my hair is damp with sweat. Jim touches me more than he usually does. I equate it to Caleb’s return. Men always need to piss on everything they feel is theirs. I let him pull me close. I am too drunk to care. It reminds me of the scene in Dirty Dancing where Baby crashes the employee party clutching the watermelon. We are dancing face-to-face, dirty. Jim doesn’t believe in the bumping and grinding, the token dance of teenagers. He calls it dirty spooning. We dance face to face. I find something very honest in that.

  We don’t leave until the D.J. starts packing away his equipment.

  “You okay to drive?” I ask him. I felt like I am bobbing in space.

  Jim snickers. “I’m as sober as a Preacher on a Sunday morning,” he twangs in a mock Southern accent.

  On the ride home I keep my eyes closed and let the wind blow over my face. We don’t speak much. Jim plays an old Marcy Playground CD that we used to listen to in college. Sex and Candy. I giggle when he sings loudly to the words.

  When we pull up to my apartment, he hops out of the car and follows behind me to the door.

  “Was this a date? Why are you walking me home?” I laugh. I dig around in my purse for the keys while he watches.

  When I look up, he is staring at me funny.

  “Jim?” I ask, taking a step toward him. “Are you okay?” I think that maybe he is sick. His face is blank and a little flushed, like someone who is deciding if they are about to throw up. I pull to a stop when he suddenly jerks forward. At first I think he is going to be sick but at the last minute he veers right for my face and tries to kiss me. I turn my head so his lips land in a wet mess on my cheek. When he pulls back, his eyes are red. “What are you doing?” I ask. Jim and I never go there. It’s an unspoken rule of mine.

  He is so close that I have to bend my head all the way back to see his face. We haven’t kissed since college.

  “Is it because I’m not him, Olivia? Fucking, Caleb?”

  I shake my head. I feel so fuzzy. I can’t seem to formulate words quickly enough.

  “It’s not like that with us, Jim. Why now?”

  “You know sex doesn’t always have to mean something. It can be done for fun.”

  His eyes are blinking, blinking, like he’s trying to expel me from his vision. What am I supposed to say to that?

  “I think that friends should stay friends—without the complication of sex.”

  “Friends,” he croons, in a nasty hiss. “I’m sick of being your fucking reprieve.”

  I shudder. It is very true, but ugly to hear.

  “You’re a real cock tease, you know that?” I look up in surprise. He has called me that in a joking way many times, but never in this tone of voice. He is blotchy faced and red eyed and he is scaring me in that deep part of a woman that tells you to run. I take a step back.

  “Jim, you’re drunk,” I say slowly.

  “I’m drunk and you’re a bitch.” Then he is all over me with his mouth, pushing against my tightly pulled lips, his hands between my legs. I make a muffled cry from behind my attack and I try to push him away. He doesn’t budge beneath my shoving and I realize there is nothing I will be able to do to stop him. I try to plead but everything seems to roll right off of him. He is groping at me trying to pull my pants down. My neighbor’s door is less than ten yards away on the other side of the building. If I can break free, I can run for it. Then comes a moment when he is distracted and his grip loosens on my arms. I take the chance to wrestle my hands free and I slap him hard across the face. He draws back in shock and his hand cradles the place I hit him. I am prepared for him to come back harder, stronger, but he just looks at me. There is nowhere for me to go. I am cornered against my own front door. I consider screaming, but the only person who might hear me is Rosebud and what could she do? So, I try to reason with him.

  “Go home Jim,” my voice is firm. Those few seconds that he spends weighing his options become a muddy memory for me. I am angry and ashamed and scared as I watch him decide whether or not to rape me.

  Please God let him leave.

  The space between us grows, as he turns around and stumbles to his car.

  I practically fall through my door. When I am on the other side, I bolt the lock, and throw myself onto my couch. I sob into a pillow until my throat feels raw and then I pick up the phone and called the only person I have ever trusted.

  “Caleb…”

  “Olivia?” His voice is heavy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

  “Can you come over…to my house?”

  “Right now?” I can hear him shuffling around his room…turning on the light...fumbling with things.

  “Caleb…please...I…”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  When Caleb arrives, his hair is disheveled and he is wearing shorts and a tattered t-shirt.

  “What happened?” he asks as soon as he
sees me. He holds my chin in his fingers and turns my face from side to side. I tell him about Jim, about the club, and about what he did after.

  Caleb paces my living room. His face is contorted in anger.

  “Where is his hotel, Olivia?” His fists are clenched at his sides. I am afraid that if he finds Jim, he will find out who I really am.

  “No! I don’t want you to go,” I pull on his arm until he sits back down next to me. His anger gradually subsides into concern and he pulls me to his chest. I haven’t been against his chest for a very long time and I feel overwhelmed. He smells like soap and Christmas and himself, and I cry like a baby at the unfamiliar security his touch gives me. No one has held me like this before. I don’t know whether to bolt or cling on for dear life.

  “Can you stay here tonight?” I whisper.

  He kisses my forehead and smooth’s away my tears away with his thumbs.

  “Yes, of course I’ll stay.”

  I feel so relieved that I shudder pathetically. He squeezes me tighter. What would I have done if he wasn’t around? Who would I have called? Caleb is here now, but the clock is ticking. I have gotten myself into a situation where I am going to lose him all over again. The first time was bad enough. I burrow into his warmth and enjoy the feeling of being cared for. I fall asleep with my head leaning against his chest, listening to his heart drum out the most beautiful beat I’ve ever heard

  Chapter Nine

  The Past

  The decision was made. I told Cammie about the abortion as we sat bent over our dinner trays in the cafeteria.

  “You’re kidding,” she said as a French-fry dropped from her mouth.

  “No,” I said swallowing the lump in my throat. “I overheard her talking to that tall girl about it—the one who picks her scabs.”

  I stuffed the last of my fries into my mouth and licked the salt off my lips.

  “Nadia?” asked Cammie, pushing her plate away.

  “Yes, Nadia, but you can’t tell anyone I told you Cam, I mean how horrible would it be if that got out?”

  I studied my roommate’s pretty face and frowned. Perhaps, this would be the one time that Cammie kept her mouth shut. What would I do then?

  “Do you think Caleb would care, I mean do you think he would have wanted to keep it?”

  I stared at her glittering eyes and felt a sinking in my stomach. I never really thought about that one. He would have wanted to keep it. I knew that in my heart. The way he had spoken about his family that night at Jackson’s he told me that he wanted to be a father. I closed my wicked eyes and sighed.

  “Why would you think I would know the answer to that question?”

  Cammie shrugged. “You kinda know him. I mean you spent some time with him right, I just thought—”

  “I don’t know anything about him,” I snapped, standing up and grabbing my tray. Except that I wanted him more than anything else in the world. I looked down at Cammie and felt panic. This was it.

  Cammie had diarrhea of the mouth. It was going to be all over the school and fast. I had now officially secured my front row seat on the train to Hell.

  Choo choo!

  “I’m going back to the dorms,” I said. I wanted her to follow me so that I could keep an eye on her. I wasn’t sure that I wanted…

  “Ok. I’m going to hang here for a while.” Cammie smiled sugar-sweetly up at me. Her face looked innocent, but her eyes looked evil. I could see the gossip monster crawling its way up her esophagus and pushing frantically behind her mouth to be let out.

  I turned on my heels and fled before she could see the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes.

  Choo choo…

  News of the abortion spun and chortled through the gossip chain until it reached Caleb two days later. It was an ex-girlfriend who delivered Caleb the blow. She took her first chance to ax Jessica in order to win him back. I had watched her give Jessica dirty looks for the last few weeks. I recognized them because I was giving them too.

  The entire break up took less than ten minutes. It was witnessed by a large portion of the student body who hovered on the scene like flies over a bleeding carcass. I was not there but was told by Cammie who had a front-row seat. The ex timed it perfectly, telling Caleb right before he was supposed to meet Jessica for dinner, and then standing back to watch. Jessica found Caleb waiting for her on the steps to the cafeteria. Their exchange was a brief. Jessica in hysterics, admitted everything to Caleb, who some say punched a wall and others say threw a bench at a tree. In actuality, he walked away from her stony faced and never spoke a word to her again. Jessica left for home a day after the commotion and purportedly left all of her belongings behind. I wondered if she knew it was me—if she even thought about me after that day or if my face blurred into that place where all of the non-popular’s belonged.

  I wore my guilt for a week. It was like a firm hand pressing down on the back of my neck. I hung my head in shame and lurked around the dorms like a shadow. By day eight, I was already justifying what I had done.

  I was ensconced in self-love. I had taken advantage of a girl looking for someone to trust and I used her predicament for my own personal gain. I was my father’s child. I hated myself.

  My father—Oliver Kaspen, no middle name, was the worst sort of bastard a woman could drop from her loins. My mother used to say that he was a carbon copy of Elvis, dark and sexy, with bedroom eyes. He had the type of mouth that said pretty thing,s but when things got thin, it would curl into a hateful grin and cut you where it hurt. But, before he would peel off the overcoat of charm he wore, and before he would tell you that the only reason he was only with you was because of the ugly brat you bore, he was all smiles and kisses and compliments. That’s how he got my mother and that’s how he got me—the ugly brat.

  He only stayed for three years after my birth, before shuffling off with his duffel bag over his shoulder. Periodically, through my tweens he would ‘reconcile’ with my mom, taking up residence on the left side of her bed, before once again jockeying off to sow his wild oats elsewhere. He gambled our grocery money, swore at us when he lost it, and he never batted a guilty eye when we had nothing to eat but a box of stale saltines. My dad.

  Once, when our cabinets were empty, and I was hungrily gnawing on my thumb, he disappeared with my mother’s last dollar. My five year old mind thought that he was off to find some food, but hours later, he came back smelling so strongly of philly cheese steak, it made my mouth water. Oliver Kaspen looked out for Oliver Kaspen. Ouch. That had been the straw that broke my mother’s back. She kicked him out of our crappy studio apartment with a string of swear words I had never heard before.

  The feeding frenzy for Caleb began shortly after Jessica left. Girls clamored for Caleb's attention like chimps on crack.

  “He’s got the banana that every girl wants,” Jim commented one afternoon as we watched a couple of blondes bob around him like loosely tethered helium balloons. Caleb was laughing at something one of them said. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek to which he blushed and pulled back in surprise. I looked away jealous. I couldn’t take much more of this. I was mentally murdering someone new every five minutes.

  My opportunity came the same day I flunked my Latin test. I had never received as much as a C in my entire educational career, so the large F circled in red and underlined twice, came as pureed brain shock. I was losing my grip. I couldn’t concentrate. Caleb had rooted himself in my mind like a parasite and he was feeding on my emotions and thoughts. Something had to be done. I was between buildings clutching my test to my chest and staring glassy eyed at a random brick in the wall when someone walked by and shoved a flyer into my hand. Normally I would have tossed it but this time, blame it on my moment of shock, I turned it over.

  ZAX PARTY

  Where? Where else?

  When? Saturday at 10:00

  Bring: Beer

  When I got back to my room, I shoved the flyer in Cammie’s face.

  “Let’s
go to this.”

  She was leaning over a poster board using liquid eyeliner to stencil in the words “Business Plan” across the top. She glanced at the flyer for the briefest of seconds and started blowing on her letters.

  “Are you having some kind of midlife crisis?”

  “I’m only twenty, brat; you have to be in the middle of your life to have a midlife crisis. Why aren’t you using a marker?”

  “I don’t have one and I’m in no mood for jokes. This project is due tomorrow and the only thing I know about business is how to spell it.”

  “Well, you don’t even know that much because you’re missing an s.”

  Cammie frowned at her poster and went to work on the last s.

  “I need you to come with me...”

  I walked to my drawer and retrieved a box of markers.

  “What are you going do at a party?”

  I quelled the urge to smack her and tried to sound pleasant.

  “I don’t know. Normal things that people do at parties…like…hang out.”

  “You don’t drink, dance, or smoke. Sorry Olivia, nobody’s going to want to talk about politics with you, unless you’re going to a keg party at Beta Nu, and that would be so, so lame.”

  “I can dance,” I said defensively, “and anyone can drink—there’s no special talent needed there.”