“Trust me, you’re lucky you don’t have grandparents who want what’s ‘best’ for you the way my parents do,” she says.
“Our families have different ways of expressing their love.”
“I guess. Anyway, if you aren’t working the evening shift, wanna go catch a movie? I just saw a trailer for something awesomely, mindlessly violent. It’s gonna be fun.”
“I’d love to, but I have a paper due tomorrow.” I would’ve finished it earlier, but I had to cover a couple of shifts at the library for a freshman who came down with a stomach bug.
“Aw, man…”
“Maybe next time?”
“All right. But it’ll betwomovies.”
I laugh. She can be a bit childish in her demands, in that confident way only a person who’s been loved all her life can be. “Fine. If I finish early, I’ll let you know.”
Anticipation sparks in her eyes. “Deal! Now go write. Chop-chop!”
Smiling and shaking my head, I go to my room. It’s as sad as the building itself. When I first came in, I was shocked at how depressing it looked. The blank white cinder-block walls made the tiny space look like a prison. The mattress is thin, with no box spring. The bed comes with drawers on the bottom for extra storage. There’s one large circular fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, and it casts a harsh light over the room.
Still, it isn’t too terrible now that I’ve beautified it. I grabbed some free concert posters from the music department to put up on the walls to cover up the cinder blocks. On my desk is a tiny, clear vase with a fake yellow daisy in it. I bought both from a yard sale, and they add a bit of a happy vibe.
I boot my five-year-old laptop. It struggles to come to life, but after a few minutes, it’s ready.
I pull out a blank sheet of paper and jot down the points I want to make. Then I review the assignment sheetagainto make sure I’m hitting everything to get the highest grade possible on the paper.
The grading criteria section reads:
Teamwork and cooperation will be worth fifteen percent.
Damn Grant. Since there’s none of that, the best I can aim for is eighty-five. “Asshole” is too good a word for him. He’s such a butt-fucking-hole.
I exhale.Calm. Let it go. It’s probably best he isn’t here to whine about the fact that he’s working on a paper he doesn’t care about. I’ll get it done faster without his dead weight around my neck.
I start typing the paper, referencing the books I borrowed from the library a couple of days ago to prep for the project. Thankfully, the topic is the tango, something I’m very familiar with. My grandparents used to dance professionally, even winning a few tango competitions. Now they put all their focus on teaching, not just the tango but other dances, too, although their tango classes are very popular. People who want to study with the best come to them.
They taught me when I became old enough to walk. But then, it would’ve been impossible to grow up with them and not learn it. They’re always dancing—when they’re happy, when they’re sad. It’s how they express themselves, and the tango is their favorite. It’s mine, too.
On the blank Word doc, I type, backspace, then type some more until I have a good ten pages plus the bibliography. My phone plays a soothing sound to alert me that it’s time to call my grandparents. I make an effort to call them every Sunday at five—unless I’m working, in which case I text them ahead of time.
They’re worried about me being in Napa alone, and they’re doubly worried because they haven’t visited the campus since freshman orientation. I tell them I’m a big girl, but Grandma says that no matter how old I am, I’m always going to be their little baby. They fret that they can’t do more to watch over me, but I don’t want them to make the long trip from L.A. They’re busy with the dance studio, something I feel guilty about. They would’ve retired years ago, but are continuing to work until I’m done with college because they want to help out with the tuition.
I open Skype and call. Grandpa answers, his warm, friendly face filling the screen. His hair is totally gray now, but still full and bushy. A few lines cut across his high forehead, and his bright blue eyes crinkle as he smiles.
“Hi, Grandpa!”
“Aspen!” He laughs, then looks to his left. “It’s Aspen.” He turns back to me. “Your grandmother is in the kitchen getting some iced tea. Wait, here she is.”
Grandma appears on the screen, leaning in until she’s almost cheek to cheek with Grandpa. She doesn’t wear makeup except for some mascara, but she glows brighter than many women a third her age. Her long silver hair is up in its usual daytime bun—she’ll let it down once the sun sets. A joyful smile splits her face. “Aspen! How have you been?”
“Oh, you know. Studying, working and keeping myself busy. I just finished a paper on the tango.”
“Great!” Grandpa smiles. “Speaking of the tango, all our classes are full. We’re thinking about adding another.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Some people just seem really into it. I was a little worried after I kicked that guy out last winter. Harry? Barry?”
Grandma rolls her eyes. “Barry. Horrible fellow.”
