15. Serena
Unknown: Hey, how are you?
I glance at my phone, confused by the unknown number and question that arrives in the middle of my linguistic theory class. The class, which is one of the most intensive I have ever taken, requires my full attention, and I have more notebooks dedicated to the structural properties of human language and the principles of universal grammar than I care to admit. And we’re not even at mid-term yet.
What I should do is put my phone back in my bag and devote my attention to the instruction on phonemes, graphemes, and morphemes. But, while I may be book smart, I am abundantly curious and can’t resist finding out who the sender is.
Serena: Who is this? How did you get my number?
I bite down on my lip, waiting for the response. Minutes pass as I drown out the droll lesson and stare at my phone in anticipation. I’m just about to put it away when an incoming message pops up on my screen.
Unknown: It’s Wolf McCleery. You didn’t save my number?
I squeak, dropping my phone in my surprise, and feel the incinerating stare of my seatmate as I try to right myself.
“Are you okay?” Heather, another junior, whispers, handing me the pen I knocked over.
“Yep,” I yelp, my voice so high-pitched that it’s unrecognizable.
“Well, keep it together; the last thing I want is Forester paying us more attention than necessary. She’s like a predator hunting for prey, and I’d rather not be on her radar.” I nod my agreement because she isn’t wrong. Dr. Susan Forester is a leader in the linguistics field and the most terrifying person I have ever met. But she’s terrifying in a subtle way, like a shark mistaken for a dolphin in the Atlantic Ocean. She looks like everyone’s favorite brooch-wearing grandma: tiny and unassuming, but the minute she opens her mouth, you know you are in the presence of extreme genius. She’s kind, ridiculously smart, and takes no bullshit or interruptions in her class. The fact that my phone is out during her lecture hall is enough for Miss Manners to pen an entire article about my lack of professionalism.
Glancing back at my phone, I type eight different messages, continuously deleting the words until I settle on a simple update on how I feel. I ignore his question about saving his number; I deleted his contact information after my solo visit to Ink Needle.
Serena: I feel fine, thanks.
Certain that there’s no more expected conversation, I shove my phone into my backpack and return my attention to the front of the room, where Forester continues to speak as though my entire being hasn’t just been shaken from the impact of two short text messages.
With my phone in my bag and complicated subject matter, it’s easy to throw myself into her words and compartmentalize the last five minutes.
“Who can tell me what a phoneme is?” Forester asks, looking around the room at the sea of hands, all desperate to impress her.
A girl three rows in front of me, Bethany, waves her hand so violently that I think she might fall out of her seat if she isn’t called on within the next two seconds.
“Bethany, yes?”
“A phoneme is the smallest unit of sound. Like a syllable.”
I cringe at what I’m about to do, but the academic in me can’t help it. Also, Bethany is a jerk who asked if I was in the right place on my first day of freshman year. In every class I’ve had with her, she’s never failed to make me feel like a freak because of my age. I raise my hand.
Dr. Forester nods her head at me, a silent gesture for me to respond. “It’s the smallest unit of sound to make a meaningful difference to a word. The word ‘cat,’ for example, has three separate phonemes, /k/-/a/-/t/, though it only has one syllable. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I blush as soon as the words leave my mouth and sink in my chair, embarrassed at the attention the room is now paying to me and the glare that Bethany shoots. I’m not trying to be a know-it-all, but sometimes I just can’t help it.
“Thank you, Ms. Castillo. Now, who can tell me what a morpheme is?” Dr. Forester continues, not paying my flushed cheeks any attention. I look up and see Bethany eyeing me with disgust, a snarl on her face.
“You’ve done it now, Serena,” Heather whispers, leaning over to speak directly into my ear. “Maybe don’t eviscerate the queen bee during class next time.”
“I didn’t eviscerate her; I just corrected her. It’s not my fault she was wrong. If it wasn’t me, Forester would have said something.”
The lesson continues in the same manner, with Dr. Forester asking us questions to assess our knowledge and verify that we read the assigned chapters in the book. As soon as she wraps up the lecture, with external assignments tossed like confetti, and dismisses the class, I run out of the hall, intent to avoid every person who was just in that class. Once I step into the hallway, reality crashes back into me, and I grip my bag, eager to check my phone. I make it out of the building before I pause long enough to pull the device out of my backpack. I’m surprised to see not one but three texts from Wolf in the last hour I’ve been occupied with class.
Wolf(1:34 PM): Good. Happy to hear it.
Wolf(1:47 PM): How are the cuts on your elbows doing? Did they get infected? What about your back? Is that monstrosity feeling any better?
Wolf(2:32 PM): Fuck, sorry, you must be sleeping or something.
I shake my head at his last text, confused at his assumption. Ignoring the cold February air, I quickly type out a reply.
Serena: Sorry, I was in a class and needed to focus. It’s almost three in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Why would you assume that I’m sleeping?
I hit send and start my walk across campus, keeping my head down and arms crossed as I hurry against the cold wind biting my face. My phone vibrates minutes later, and I resist the urge to check it until I’m back in the sanctuary of my apartment.
I’m not watching where I’m going, walking on autopilot and so engrossed in the message burning my phone that I’m shocked when I slam into a body and stumble back. Thankfully, I regain my footing before I fall. Glancing up, I’m shocked to see two familiar faces looking at me.
“Serena, we need to stop meeting like this,” Jack murmurs, reaching out a hand to steady me. I offer a tight smile before turning to face my stepsister. “Oh, this is my lab partner, Marina. She’s a freshman but wickedly smart.”
“Hi.”
“Hi, sis,” Marina says slyly, a smirk breaking out along her features. I bite my tongue, bracing myself for what she’s about to do or say.
Jack looks back and forth between me and Marina, trying to figure out what he just inadvertently stepped into. “You two know each other?”
I open my mouth to respond, but Marina’s voice rings out. “She’s from my dad’s other family.”
I roll my eyes at her explanation and scoff. “I think you mean I’m your stepfather’s biological daughter from his first marriage, Marina. Anyway, good seeing you both.” Dipping my head down, I walk around them, moving my legs as fast as I can in the direction of my apartment building.
The sound of rapid footsteps and a shouted, “Serena, hey, wait up,” makes me stop in my tracks. Turning, I see Jack approaching and stop walking. At this point, hypothermia is sure to set in. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize you two were stepsisters.”
I shrug, making it seem as though it’s not a big deal. I barely know this man; he doesn’t deserve to know anything about my personal life.
“I asked Meg for your number, but she said she needed to speak with you before giving it to me. How are you feeling? How are your bruises? Do you, uh, think maybe you’d want to hang out sometime?”
I jerk back in surprise at the rapid-fire questions he just asked and move my gaze from Jack’s face to Marina’s scowl. It shouldn’t make me happy to see her so annoyed, but I am. “What about Marina?”
“Marina?” Jack questions, shaking his head. “She’s just my lab partner, and we’re walking from our practical to class. I think she’s dating someone in one of the other fraternities. So, what do you say?”
I gnaw on my bottom lip, taking in his handsome face and sandy brown hair, before lowering my eyes to the rest of his body. Though he’s bundled in a coat, I know that he’s lean and muscular from our encounter last weekend.
“I’ll let Meg know that she can give you my number,” I whisper against the cold. “It was nice seeing you, Jack.” The smile that erupts on Jack’s face is sweet, and I feel the same fluttering that I felt on Friday night low in my stomach. It’s not the same rampage as when Wolf pays attention to me, but it’s a simmer, something that could maybe be coaxed into a boil.
“That’s good, Serena. Real good. I’ll talk to you later then?” I nod and turn around, resuming my trek through the cold to my apartment. The quick walk has my mind reeling over Marina, Jack, and the message from Wolf that I have yet to read.
—
Once I step through the lobby, I relax my shoulders and breathe in the warmth of the building. In almost no time, I’m out of the elevator and walking through my front door, peeling off my coat and throwing it on the back of an accent chair on my way to the kitchen.
When the electric tea kettle is on and my tea mug is prepped, I unlock my phone and read Wolf’s latest message.
Wolf: I don’t know. Isn’t that what college kids do? I’ve never been to college, but I imagine it’s just people getting fucked up, sleeping until one in the afternoon, and buying Costco-sized boxes of condoms.
I snort at his description of college life, snapping a picture and attaching it to my message.
Serena: attachment> This is my current “college life” setup. On my third cup of mint tea today after walking in the cold.
Wolf: attachment> I’m on Earl Grey with lemon. Try not to get too crazy over there, princess.
I begin to type out a response when another text comes through from Wolf.
Wolf: But you didn’t answer my question. How are your elbows and back? Healing well?
I roll my eyes and huff, annoyed at the big brother feel this conversation is taking.
Serena: I’m fine. Both are healing, and my back doesn’t hurt anymore; no antibiotics needed.
Wolf: You sure about that? It was pretty bad when I saw it on Friday night.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble to myself, pressing down hard on my screen as the water starts to boil inside the kettle.
Serena: Should I send you a picture to show I’m not lying?
Text bubbles appear and disappear on the phone before a message comes through.
Wolf: I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just ask me that shit. I want you in the shop by Saturday so that I can take a look at your back and have Sloan meet with you.
Furrowing my brow, I puzzle over why he seemed annoyed with me in his last text and why it took him so long to respond. Reading back my words, I’m horrified by the insinuation of what I just asked.
“Why can’t I just be a functional human being when speaking to a man, God? Why do you hate me so freaking much?” I ask.
Serena: That’s not what I meant, and you know it. But fine, sir. I’ll call Aubrey tomorrow and set up something for the cover-up.
Wolf: Call now.
I roll my eyes at his authoritative text. I may be deeply mortified by my undeniable skill at putting my foot in my mouth, but he is the grumpiest human being I have ever encountered. And I’m friends with his cousin, so that’s saying a lot.
Serena: Yes, sir.
His response is immediate.
Wolf: You’re skating on thin fucking ice, princess.
Swiping up from our chat, I set my phone down and pour the hot water over the fresh mint leaves I picked from my small window box. I may not have any grass, but there are some things I refuse to buy, like mint and chamomile, since I drink herbal tea so frequently.
Setting my mug aside to steep, I google Ink and Needle and click on the phone number, placing it on speakerphone before I set it down next to my mug.
“Ink and Needle, Aubrey speaking.”
I clear my throat, suddenly nervous at the prospect of this conversation. “Yes, hi, Aubrey. This is Serena Castillo, Celeste Downing’s friend. Wolf asked me to call and—”
Aubrey cuts me off with a gentle laugh. “Hi Serena, I was expecting your call. Just give me a minute to pull up Wolf and Sloan’s schedule for the rest of this week, okay?” I hear clicking in the background, the sound calming me down. “Alright, do you have a day or time that works best?”
“Uh, I guess Friday afternoon or Saturday morning? My schedule is pretty heavy with classes and coursework during the week, so those probably work best for me if their schedules can accommodate it.”
“Alright, let me see,” Aubrey mumbles, though I suspect that it’s more to herself than to me. “Okay, they can fit you in on Friday at seven. Does that sound good?”
“Yes, yes, that sounds good.” I pause, clearing my throat. “That works well.”
Aubrey laughs again, a light, tinkling sound that seems to emit genuine joy. “Great, we’ll see you then. Oh, and Serena,” she says, “I’m happy you’re coming back. Wolf is the best at what he does, and if something needs to be fixed or covered up, no one is more talented than him.”
“Oh, no. He’s not doing the piece, just inspecting it to make sure it’s healing. That’s why I’m meeting with Sloan, too.”
There’s no sound on the other end, and I glance down at my phone to make sure I didn’t somehow hang up. Tapping on the screen, I see that the call is still connected.
“Sure, sure,” she finally responds. “See you on Friday, Serena. I’m really looking forward to it.”
I hang up, puzzled by her parting comments.
Wolf:
Sir. She called me fucking sir, and my dick got hard like a fucking loser getting a boner over some girl he met on the internet who claims she’s a five-foot-nine blonde with fake tits, but in actuality is some guy named Chad living in his mom’s basement. I’m disgusted with myself and more than a little turned on at the images in my head that a title like “sir” is accompanied by.
Sick, twisted, perverted old man.
But, like a glutton for punishment, I can’t help but reach out to her again after I see her name pop up in my appointment calendar.
Wolf: I saw you made the appointment. Good.
Serena: Like you gave me any choice?
A small laugh escapes my mouth at her words. She’s right; I didn’t give her a choice. But then again, she didn’t fight too hard. I guess neither one of us wants her to walk around with dicks on her back for the rest of her life.
Wolf: I’m a professional. I know when something is wrong or poorly executed, and it’s my job to fix it.
Her reply comes minutes later, and I can feel her quiet, understated sass seeping through the phone. Unlike the overt pain-in-the-ass qualities my cousin and Ava possess, Serena is nearly soundless in her sarcasm and humor, a foil to my cousin and her best friend that probably serves to ground them when they initially seek murder and mayhem. I’ll never tell it to Celeste, but the first thing I noticed about Serena when she walked into the shop with the two of them was how little space she took up and the force of her small presence. She’s an anchor, a calming agent, a fucking balm.
I look at the message Serena just sent, and another laugh breaks free. Add funny to the list of her attributes, too.
Serena: You’re not an officer, doctor, or lawyer. So, no. You’re a nosy artist who can’t take no for an answer.
Wolf: You’re right. And you’re a woman with a fucked-up tattoo who needs my team’s help. Don’t be late on Friday.