42. Hendrix
Hendrix
“ I really fucking hate that I’m not coming with you.” Saint curses as he adjusts his sports duffle over his shoulder, still loitering by the entrance to my dorm room.
I won’t lie, the idea of not having Saint with me at the university has been weighing on me too, especially since last minute jitters have been wreaking havoc on me since yesterday.
“It’s your championship game, Letterman,” I tell him as I fasten the last button on my blazer. “Pretty sure that takes precedence over sitting in a waiting room as I try selling myself to Bromwell University’s President.”
He grumbles something about killing the guy if he denies me under his breath, and as much as I appreciate the psycho sentiment, we both need to get moving.
Marching over to Saint the best I can in heels, I squeeze his shoulders. “Thong or boy shorts?”
He quirks an intrigued brow.
“To bring with you for good luck.”
The words sound as ridiculous in my head as they do out of it, but I need Saint’s head in the game, because if I leave Riverside with even an ounce of doubt he’s not focused, there’s no chance guilt will allow me to be focused.
Therefore, if stuffing my panties inside his pockets like a damn security blanket is what it’ll take for him to feel less guilty, so be it.
“Both.”
Of course.
I make my way over to my drawers, pulling out the first thong and boy shorts I see, one black one white, then march those suckers over to slap in his hand. “Here.”
After a quick examination, he stuffs them in his sweatpants pocket. “I prefer the blue thong, but whatever.”
Fucking, Saint.
“Well, maybe if you’d stop tearing them in half they’d be an option.”
He shrugs.
Pressing my hands against Saint’s cheeks, I focus my eyes on him. “We celebrate two wins today, yeah?”
This results in a wicked grin and his hands squeezing my ass.
“Don’t you even think it,” I warn. “My hair is done and you already wrinkled these pants enough last night.”
A solid time, by the way, for me to agree to role play sexy sportscaster.
“Can’t help it, Jimi, this outfit makes me feral.”
“You’ll be just as feral later.” I bring Saint’s face to mine and kiss him hard. “Now get outta here and kick some Catholic high school ass.”
Carlo showed up about ten minutes after Saint left, and it took a lot of self-control not to sharp left onto the football field as we made our way to the parking lot to get in his Escalade.
The university is about a half hour away, and we’ve spent fifteen minutes of it with me going over talking points and digging relentlessly through my portfolio to make sure I didn’t forget anything.
I was given the option to send my files to admissions via email for this very reason, but to me, virtual is not personal.
I want the BU president to hold my portraits in his hands, feel the blood, love, and tears I poured into every curve and shadow. To read through my comics organically, give him the chance to envision them as a book or even better, a future cartoon series.
“We’re almost there, signorina … cinque minuto ,” Carlo announces from the driver’s seat, keeping his eyes on the road.
Five minutes he says. Five freaking minutes before I potentially walk into the rest of my life.
With every stop and go of Carlo’s truck, my palms become sweaty, so I allow myself one more look into the folder before placing it next to me on the seat.
“Don’t -eh you worry now, signorina , you have- eh the cornicello,” Carlo reassures me through the rearview mirror. “It brings you the protection…yes…but also the good luck.” He pinches his thumb and forefinger. “So everything will be A-Okay.”
On instinct my fingers squeeze the gold horn. I may not be a believer of Italian superstitions, but I also won’t deny any help they have to offer.
“You make- eh such- eh beautiful pictures. This man…he will see. If not…” Carlo winks. “Then I make- eh him see.”
“Relax there, Vito Corleone.” I chuckle, shaking my head, and just like every other time I make a Godfather reference, Carlo follows up with a quote from the movie. This time being “an offer he can’t refuse.”
It’s funny in theory, but in reality? Not so much.
Because I know, like the movie, Carlo has used similar methods of persuasion, he’s also proven he wouldn’t hesitate to use the worst of them for me if I asked.
But I refuse to have a poor horse’s head on my conscience.
Other than Carlo’s occasional outburst when a driver cuts him off, the car remains silent the rest of the way. I watch as buildings on top of buildings pass in a blur as we speed down the West Side Highway, cracking the window open to stop me from sweating even though it’s nineteen degrees outside.
“Here we go.” Carlo whistles as he circles an exit off the highway, leading us straight onto the street of the campus.
My breath hitches when the large main campus comes into view: a beautiful gothic style building surrounded by arches and greenery, two times the size of Riverside Prep.
In front of it stands a huge rectangular in-ground fountain, known as The Fountain for All, which doubles as a free splash pad for local families during the summer.
Cherry trees scatter throughout the lawn, dormant, but that doesn’t stop me from picturing myself shaded under one on a sunny day. Sheet spread over the grass, pencil in hand, working on assignments or simply drawing for the hell of it. Maybe even having a lunch date with Saint when he visits.
“Holy moly…” I gape as we drive toward the South Campus, where the buildings may be more modern, but nonetheless beautiful.
I can feel it in my bones—I’m meant to be here.
Carlo does the Italian version of gawking, mostly with hand gestures as we approach the empty parking lot, and doesn’t stop until we’re out of the car, standing at the entrance of the Administrative building, waiting for Vic’s friend Mike to greet us.
I use this time wisely, angling my phone just right to catch the view behind me, and snap my “before” selfie for Saint, quickly sending it in response to the one of him posing right before kickoff. Then I proceed to type out something quick for him to read after the game.
Me: Knock ’em dead Letterman…but not literally cuz I kinda love you stupid.
Me: Catch you on the flip side.
“How are you feeling, signorina ?” Carlo asks as I shove my phone into the pocket of my coat.
“Like I could really use a cigarette.”
And almost regretting the decision not to smoke one until after the interview. Almost.
Because first impressions are everything, and nothing says “I’m shit out of luck” like a man who may hate cigarettes being forced to smell it on me for an hour in the confines of his office.
Something Carlo is actively reminding me of as one of the double doors to the entrance is pushed open.
“Hendrix Montgomery?” A middle aged man with salt and pepper hair greets us. To my surprise…in jeans and a polo. Not a fancy suit.
“That’s me.” I smile nervously and wave, then inwardly curse myself for being such a dork.
“Hello, I’m Mr. Fitzgerald, but you can call me Mike.” The man ushers me with an outstretched hand, but I get a strong arm from Carlo to stop me.
I’m cursing again, but this time under my breath in Italian as I listen to Carlo explain his need to search the guy first.
Vic informed his friend about the protocol already, but it doesn’t make my job of having to translate for Carlo any less awkward.
“I’m really sorry but Carlo, my bodyguard , is asking if he could search you first.”
Mike slaps himself on the side of the head. “Of course, yes. Vic did mention this.”
“Please don’t take it personally. It’s just…”
He waves me off. “I’ve been around your stepfather long enough to know how sticky things can get in his line of work.”
With an appreciative nod, I step out of the way for Carlo to do his thing, demanding him to keep a smile on his face.
He does so the whole time, which only ends up turning the awkward moment into a creepy one, especially when he gets to patting down Mike’s legs.
Off to a fantastic start, Montgomery.
As a demand to hurry it the fuck up, I offer a subtle kick to Carlo’s ankle, a move that needs no translation because I’ve done it a hundred times.
“All done— finito .” Carlo steps back, still freaking smiling , holding his arm out for me to proceed with entering the building, and Mike does his best not to show his discomfort as he welcomes us inside.
“There’s not much to see here, unfortunately.” Mike apologizes as we make our way through the corridors to his office. “Most of the cool stuff resides in the main campus.”
“I always wanted to see what it looks like inside Turner Hall.”
“I take it you’ve never paid us a visit, then.”
“Pssshhht. I wish.”
Pssshhht? Really Hendrix? Get a damn grip.
“I’d be happy to set up a tour for you when the weather warms up.” He pauses. “That is, if you’re still interested in attending the university after today.”
I blink at him, dumbfounded by the assumption, even if it’s a reasonable one. “It’s been a dream of mine to come here since I was a kid.”
Mike stops in front of the opened door to his office, once again ushering me inside. “Well, then let’s see what we can do to make that dream come true.”
It took a bit of persuasion to keep Carlo’s ass out in the hall, but after agreeing to kiss the damn necklace he gave me, he backed off and settled for manning the door.
By now, Mike and I have been through formal introductions, small talk, even my backstory as he flipped through the pile of my transcripts faxed over from Beaumont’s assistant and previous guidance counselor at Franklin High.
I learned a lot about Mike too. How he also attended BU, got his doctorate in Teaching and Education, even worked here as a professor of Art History for over twenty five years. Something I was not told by Vic and has officially made this interview even more intimidating.