Gina Calanni - Dream Come True

I exit the room without any further words from Mr. Flints. I let out a sigh.

“Hey there, you want to grab lunch together?” Dreamy blue eyes is speaking to me. Me. Sahara Smith, the girl that just messed up on how to scoop ice cream. He must think I’m a charity case.

“That’s all right, you’d probably be better off joining someone else.” I step on ahead. I’m not going to be somebody’s good deed. No sirree, my mama did not raise anybody looking for a handout. Nope.

“I doubt that.” Dreamy Blues is at my side. He’s got to be at least a foot taller than me. And I’m no shrinking violet or however that phrase is supposed to go. What I mean is I’m not short or dainty. My daddy was tall, at least that’s what my mama always said. I hardly remember what he looks like as he left when I was little. I was ten, just turned into double digits. I had been looking forward to crossing over from single digits to doubles for, shoot, as long as I could remember. But, things didn’t turn out as I had imagined and that was the year my daddy decided to leave before it was time for me to blow out the ten candles on my cake. My mama tried to make an excuse at the party about him being called in to work, but everybody knew he hadn’t been to work in weeks.

It’s lunch time and I didn’t pack my lunch as I left Ms. Myra’s in a rush this morning, not wanting to be late on my first day. Ms. Myra is definitely older than my mama by a few years but the way she moves makes her seem much frailer than her years give away. Her frame is thinner than a popsicle stick and easily blown away but that didn’t stop her last night from wanting to be firm with me. She was like a teacher wanting to establish ground rules on the first day of class. She talked about weekday and weekend curfews and such, which seems a bit strict as I am over twenty-two years of age. I could buy a can of beer if I wanted to, though I never have. The smell of it makes me sick. Reminds me of my dad. I shake off that thought.

Blue eyes is holding on to my arm. “Are you okay?”

I eye his hand. It’s large and holding on to my arm. I follow his knuckles, which are grasping my turquoise buttoned shirt, along his arm and up to his big shoulders. My mama would call them farming shoulders, square and huge, good for hauling in hay barrels and the like. On the side of his neck, a vein is popping wildly like it’s trying to send me a Morse code message or something. His jaw is big, too, and chiseled, clean-shaven; that’s a good thing, I suppose. Not that I care. I’m not here for a romance or anything like that. I’m here to better myself and have a real career. Nonetheless, my eyes make their way up his face until our eyes are staring directly into each other’s. I gasp.

I must look like an idiot. I can’t help it. This guy looks like one of those commercial models for a cologne or something.

“Are you okay? Sahara, right?”

I blink my eyes. “Yes, I’m fine.” I glance down at his hand again. It’s still holding on to my arm.

“Oh, sorry. You just seemed like you were upset.” Blue Eyes releases my arm.

“No, not upset at all.” Crap, now not only do I look like an idiot, I sound like one, too. I probably should try and be nice to this guy. Besides him being beautiful to look at, he’s the only person at Blue Ribbon that has spoken to me other than Mr. Flints, and that did not go over well.

“Hi, yes, my name is Sahara. What’s yours?” I offer my hand.

He takes my hand in his and shakes it nicely, nicer than I can ever remember my hand being shaken before. His hand is warm and heavy. Kind of reminds me of my teddy bear; I’ve had it forever and slobbered on it in my sleep so it’s a bit rough in parts, but still my Mr. Bear is my favorite and I’m not ever going to let him go.

“Brandon B-Rollins. Nice to meet you.”

I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at his pronunciation of his name. Is he nervous? Or maybe he’s got a speech impediment or something. That would explain why he would want to talk to me; he probably realizes we are similar. I certainly don’t look like the rest of the class. I did put on my most professional outfit for today, which consists of my nice buttoned-down blouse and grey slacks; I don’t own a blazer but I suppose it’s not necessary for training anyways. Maybe after I get my first paycheck I will buy one. Mexia isn’t exactly the mecca of fine clothing! It was only last year that we got a Target; this outfit is from the Mossimo collection and I think it looks nice. But compared to the rest of the class, I think it’s pretty clear who got their outfit at Target and who didn’t.

“Nice to meet you. Where are you from?” I’m going to let the B-Rollins pass. I don’t want to embarrass him, especially if he has an actual speech problem.

“I, uh, grew up pretty close to here. What about you?”

“Mexia – you know, like Anna Nicole Smith?” I probably shouldn’t have mentioned her. Her life was full of scandal and sorrow, nothing that I would want. I mean, I like that she moved away from Mexia but her life wasn’t exactly one I would want to mirror, especially the stripping part, no sirrree. I’d rather scoop buckets of turd for the rest of my life than strip down for a bunch of dirty old men. Yuck.

Brandon laughs. “Anna Nicole Smith? Didn’t she die a few years ago?”

I’m not sure why he would be laughing about somebody’s death. Maybe he is just awkward. “Yes, she did, very tragically, bless her heart.” I stop in front of the cafeteria. Through the glass windows I can see rows of tables filled with businesslike-looking people with their suits and ties and nice skirts, and then there is a table of some of my classmates. I swallow – kind of reminds me of high school. I was never fond of the cafeteria. Even in Mexia there were cliques. I’m hesitant to revisit those memories. Maybe I ought to skip lunch today and wait outside in the courtyard or something.

“Come on, aren’t you going to get some lunch?” Brandon pushes open the door and waves me in. My hesitation is diminished by viewing his large arm and his welcoming me into the lunchroom. I guess it might be okay if I were to eat with him, if this is an invitation for that.

“Yes, I suppose I will.” I push past him and make my way toward the cafeteria line. I’m not a fan of cafeteria food. But now that I’ve already said I’ll have lunch I have to decide which pig slop I’m going to shovel down my throat.

Pale – obviously canned – green beans, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes and fried chicken sit in rectangular silver dishes. I’m no gourmet food person, but I can tell the difference between canned and frozen beans. My mama always switched to canned food toward the end of the month. I always knew funds were getting tight, as she would say, when the can opener became a daily utensil in our house. My mama supported us on her cleaning job and making blankets for all her friends and their babies. But even with the extra blanket money, one thing or another would come up and we’d be eating canned food again. Canned beans aren’t bad, but the green vegetables… no thank you. I slide my tray past all of the pre-packaged, preservative-stuffed food and opt for the salad bar. At least there I can mix and match some of the fresh vegetables and add some of my favorite sunflower seeds. Brandon is at my heels except he’s managed to fill up his tray with almost every item being offered. I understand a man of his size might need more to eat than me, but, shoot, he looks like he thinks he is a camel and not going to see food for months.

I finish sorting through the veggies and head for the register. I pull my wallet out of my purse and Brandon tries to offer the cashier a twenty-dollar bill for our food.