Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University Series)(2)

I’m pretty sure this is how the term “hot mess” was coined.

Through the smoke, my gaze finds the brass plaque that reads Malibu University fixed to the stone pillars that mark the entrance on the south side of campus.

Just livin’ the dream, Bailey.

Funny thing, despite appearances I am living the dream. I’ve been working most of my life to get here, to transfer from my small community college back east to this school. And it’s taken everything and I mean everything I had––time, money, blood, sweat, and tears. A little thing like a smoking car is not about to dampen my mood. My mood is as dry as the parched earth of the Malibu hills.

On the passenger seat, my cell phone rings and my father’s face appears, his handsomeness marred by the cracks on the screen. A minor miracle this thing is still working with how many times I’ve dropped it.

“Dad, I can’t talk right now––” I say without preamble.

Minor or not, I don’t have the luxury of dwelling on miracles right now. Not when I have a major problem on my hands.

“Too busy for your old man already?”

“No…” My voice fades. I cringe because my father is nothing if not predictable. “The car crapped out on me. Don’t say I told you so.”

Two days. Two frigging days this jalopy lasted. Okay, yes, I only spent three grand. But two days? C’mon, it should’ve at least lasted three.

A heavy sigh comes through, then, “I told you––”

“I know––” I cut him off. “I know. But it was the only one I could afford. Can I call you back?”

Here’s an interesting nugget, Los Angeles is sadly lacking in public transportation. The neighboring boroughs even worse, practically none to speak of. Compared to back east, it’s a joke and nothing to laugh at. Pair that with the fact that Malibu is not the small quaint beach town most people imagine it to be. It’s a sprawling thing, running along one of the busiest highways in America (Pacific Coast Highway). Ergo, a car, any car, is better than no car at all.

Unless it’s a car that doesn’t start….and has you stuck at the bottom of a mountain.

“Call me as soon as you get home safely. Love you, Button.”

“I will. Love you too.” Ending the call, I grab my purse and rummage inside for my sunblock.

I’m going to have to walk home. That’s one grueling uphill mile. But safety first. Because I’m the safety girl. My mother died of cancer when I was five. I don’t take my health lightly and the Baileys are staunchly Anglo and tragically pale. Sadly, I’ve inherited this burden. No tanning for me unless I want to look like a Roma tomato.

That said, I pull my extra large tube of sunscreen out of my bag and get busy applying it. It’s not the amateur drug store variety, either. Nope. It’s the all-natural, thick-as-paste and dense-as-spackle zinc one. The kind that no matter how much I try to rub it in still makes me look like a walking corpse.

I cover my bare legs all the way up to the frayed edges of my jean cut-offs. My arms to my shoulders where skin meets my black sleeveless t-shirt. And lastly, I smear a good amount across the bridge of my nose.

Once my armor is fully on, I tie my chin-length bob back in a tiny ponytail, shake out my bangs, and jump out. No need to lock it. Having this junker towed will undoubtedly cost me money that I don’t have to spare. I can only pray someone comes by and steals it.

I slip on my backpack that carries my precious camera equipment and start the hike up the winding road that leads to my dorm.

Malibu University is built on a chain of hills and mountains overlooking the Santa Monica Bay. A labyrinth of snake-like roads connects the buildings on campus. It’s heaven on the eyes and murder on the hamstrings. On the flip side, no need to bother with squats anymore.

Soon I’m sweating everywhere. It dribbles down my temple. Between my breasts. Down my back. My feet too. Good stuff (heavy sarcasm). They keep slipping out of my silver flip-flops, making the trek three times more arduous than it needs to be.

And it’s hot. Sweet bee stings is it hot. Heatstroke is fast becoming a very real possibility.

I’m busy sweating when the loud purr of an approaching car gets my attention. I immediately perk up, hopeful that I could possibly bum a ride. Until a red BMW comes racing down the road and immediately snuffs out that dream.

It’s a convertible. Top down. Filled with girls I’ve seen around campus. Hair whipping in the wind, they’re laughing and singing along with Taylor Swift’s We Are Never Getting Back Together at the top of their lungs.

Welcome to Wonderland. It is not a myth. Los Angeles is populated by a disproportionate amount of pretty people. A few weeks ago this would’ve had me staring with my jaw unhinged, but the sight has become so common it doesn’t even warrant a second glance anymore.

Not a single one of them notices me as they drive by. My foot slips out of the flip-flop, making me stumble a few steps. Luckily for me, I manage to right myself before turning into roadkill.

I’m adjusting my backpack when I hear a second car approaching. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash of black paint and an oversized, deep tread tire. A Jeep Wrangler comes barreling toward me and everything goes slo-mo, my life flashing before my eyes.

There’s no time to think. All I can do is react. Instinct takes over and I dive for safety. It feels like I’m falling forever. Until, finally, I land on the grass running along the asphalt––and, unfortunately for me, slide to a stop on my face.