Like Gravity(8)

“Lex, I hit my head. I wasn’t exactly dying,” I pointed out.

“You are impossible,” she huffed. “Only you could be literally swept off your feet by the most attractive man on this campus and remain completely unaffected. You know, sometimes I think you’re an alien.”

She tilted her head and peered down at me through narrowed eyes, as if contemplating the odds that I was, in fact, an extraterrestrial. I simply shrugged and started walking toward campus, knowing she’d soon fall into step.

Lexi had never understood my interactions with boys; it was highly doubtful she’d start now. To me, it wasn’t worth making yourself vulnerable for the sake of intimacy. Or worse, letting some boy own a piece of you only to inevitably break it. Most of Lexi’s relationships stopped just short of her boy-of-the-month whipping out his package and peeing all over her to mark his territory. And yet somehow, in her mind, this translated to romance.

Then again, Lexi wholeheartedly believed in things like soul mates, true love, happy endings.

I didn’t.

Humans aren’t meant to be monogamous creatures. Most people would probably disagree, but then, most people would also be overlooking the ever-increasing divorce and infidelity rates. Why anyone would choose to rush into something with a 50% chance of failure was incomprehensible to me.

Personally, I’d prefer to stick with my own definition: Marriage (noun): betting someone half your stuff that you’ll love them forever.

In high school different boys had asked me on dates and, mostly to appease Lexi, I’d gone out with them. But after a while, they’d all realized that I could never give them what they were looking for. I’d never belong to them –never wear their letter jackets, or hold their hands in the hallway, or decorate their lockers on game day – because I’d never be tempted enough to even consider becoming emotionally involved.

I understood perfectly the benefits of pure physical attraction. It always seemed like fate, or evolution, had played a cruel joke on me – I was probably the one girl in the world who didn’t want a boy’s commitment, yet every guy I dated seemed to expect one from me.

I’d tried to explain this to Lexi many times, but she didn’t understand. To her, any prospect of love, no matter how dim, was worth pursuing. Unfortunately for me, her mentality mirrored that of the high school majority, and I’d quickly earned the charming title of “Ice Bitch” from the male population. Or at least from those who’d tried, unsuccessfully, to date me. The girls in my class tended to call me by a slew of even less flattering names, but I didn’t really give a shit that they thought I was a slut.

Lexi was still muttering under her breath about my astonishing lack of gratitude toward Finn when we parted ways at the Criminology building. Apparently, as the only girl on campus who didn’t turn to putty in his hands, I was a freak of nature destined to die alone with thousands of cats. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what Lexi mumbled as she sauntered off toward the art studio.

Walking into my first classroom, I realized that Finn’s leather jacket was still clenched in my right hand. Not knowing what else to do with it, I shoved it into my backpack. It was a tight fit, barely zipping closed with the bulky jacket trapped inside. Examining it, I sighed. I knew by carrying this I’d look like one of the stereotypical freshmen, easily picked out of the crowd by their bulging, textbook-laden bags at the beginning of every semester.

After weighing the pros and cons of that unpleasant scenario, I hastily removed my notebooks from the pack, leaving only the jacket inside. Much better, I observed, breathing a sigh of relief and settling into a seat in the middle of the large lecture hall.

The rest of my day passed without incident. With the exception of a handful of stares drawn by the bandage on my temple, I was able to fly mostly below the radar. My classes were, as expected, boring reiterations of the syllabus and a discussion of course expectations.

Criminal Justice and Sociology each had several hundred students enrolled and were graded on a bell-curve so they’d be easy A’s for me. Public speaking would be a different matter – with only twenty students, the professor made it clear that hiding out in the back row wasn’t an option. She’d even forced us to make juvenile folded paper signs, prominently displaying our names on our desks like we were in the second grade. Of course, she immediately noticed mine and decided to torture me in front of the class. It was just that kind of day, after all.

“Your name is Brooklyn?” she exclaimed, her voice artificially interested. “How unique! Is there any significance to it?”

This question was not new to me – year after year of elementary school teachers had wondered the same thing. Somehow, I just assumed I’d escaped it when I got to college. Then again, I also thought I’d escaped bubbly, mothering teachers. Was this simpering woman seriously an accredited professor?

“Oh, yes, I guess there is,” I shrugged, uncomfortable under the weighted stares of the entire class. “My mother named me Brooklyn because that’s where she and my father met.” Translation: that’s where he knocked her up.

I purposefully gave her as few details as possible, knowing it was best to discourage any further questions about my parentage. Disappointed, she frowned slightly before turning to interrogate someone else. I relaxed, looked at the clock above the door, and proceeded to count the minutes until the end of class.