Just Keep Your Head Above

The cold wind whipped my skirt around the base of my thighs, and goosebumps ran up my leg. I hugged my cardigan closer to me, as if its sheer fabric would somehow protect me from the aggressively cold outside temperatures. The wind pushed me forward, hurtling me towards my destination.

Instinctively, I reached for the bright red hair band on my wrist, throwing my long brown hair into a bun. This had been a bad day. And not the kind of bad day in which one simply rolls out of bed and bad things immediately begin to occur. No. This had been the kind of bad day where one rolls out of bed and naively thinks, wow, today’s gonna be fucking great. It had misled me into thinking it was going to be good, and ended up being the epitome of awful. The lowest of the low. The suckiest of all possible sucks. I was pissed.

The streetlights in the square seemed to move by faster and faster, and it wasn’t until my breathing began to labor that I really became aware that I was running. You have strict rules about voluntary exercise, I chided myself, no cardio unless it’s absolutely necessary. And yet I continued in my swift movements. Past the gazebo, past Al’s hotdog stand, past the diner, past Old Man Tuscan’s flower shop, even as my side began to burn and my stomach began to yearn for some junk food and a comfy couch.

But I didn’t stop. Not until I reached the familiar shop, with turquoise, peeling paint covering its sides. The windows were covered, top to bottom, in colorful graffiti, the elaborate artwork packed together so tightly that it was impossible to decipher what kind of store it was. The only clear piece of glass was the door. The decal on it read, The Store Which Currently Has No Name.

I pushed at the weathered door handle, face flushed and tight lipped. I felt Oliver look up from behind the counter, her eyes undoubtedly questioning my early arrival and disheveled appearance, but I ignored her. I brushed past the rows of records and carefully displayed instruments. I didn’t slow until I was down the back corridor, eyeing the door marked Employees Only. As I reached it, I saw my hand move towards the handle involuntarily, as if acting of its own accord. My feet seemed to have also disconnected from my brain, and I watched as they flew down the familiar flight of worn stairs and onto the cold floor.

As soon as I hit the wooden floor, it all came rushing back. Why I was here, why I was pissed, why my day had turned out so incredibly shitty. Him. I whipped around, frantically searching for the familiar mess of brown hair.

There he was, handing out menus and chatting amicably with a table of soccer players, skinnies slung low on his hips, smirk etched across his face, brown eyes dancing with amusement. I looked up at the sky.

Lord give me the strength not to rip his fucking face off.

I came to a halt next to him, but he didn’t stop his conversation with the athletes.

“Gaskarth!” I snapped.

“Oh, hey Piper. Didn’t see you there,” he said smoothly.

Like hell you didn’t.

“Tell me, are you suicidal?”

I could feel him eyeing me, from the black heels in my hands and my uncharacteristically frilly outfit to my lightly glossed lips and flushed cheeks. “You look absolutely stunning.”

My eyes narrowed. “Because, on my way here, I was trying to think of some sort of rational explanation for this stunt you’ve pulled, and the only thing that came to mind, besides the idea that maybe you were having a psychotic episode of some sort, is that you had a death wish.”

The smirk that normally adorned his face grew wider. “I mean, not that you don’t always look gorgeous. But tonight, you look breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking.”

“And when I realized the motivation behind your actions, I decided, out of the goodness of my heart, to make it my mission to help you achieve your goal.”

“It’s your hair! You did something different with your hair, didn’t you?”

“Now, I’ve come up with several different options for you. Would you prefer death by blunt force trauma to the head, a pack of malnourished cannibals, or a rusty saw to your genitals?” At this, the soccer team, the audience to our verbal sparring match, groaned.

He pushed on, “Maybe it’s the perfume. Either way, you look exceptionally amazing tonight. Hot date?”

At this, I finally snapped. I was out of witty retorts, out of patience. “What the hell is wrong with you? Seriously. I’ve been pining relentlessly over Eric for three fucking years.” I said through gritted teeth, “and he finally asks me out. And you have to ruin it. The one guy in this whole damn town that’s not a complete dick, who has a good sense of humor, who has good music taste, and who thinks my nerdy quirks are ‘cute’, and you have to ruin it. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for him to ask me out? Or how excited I was about tonight? No. You don’t. You had to fuck this up for me, didn’t you?”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “It’s not my fault we had a power problem. Piper, you know our customers come here for live entertainment. It wouldn’t be fair to them if we had to cancel Indie Night because of a conflict in your personal life. Plus, you’re the only person who knows the trick to getting the light to come on.”

“Bull. Shit.”I seethed, “I saw you do it last week.”

“Look, Piper. Did you not take hours to get ready for your date?”

“Yes…” I replied, exasperated.

“And did he not drive up to your house, kiss you on the cheek, and drive you to a fancy restaurant?”

“Yes?”

“And when you got to this restaurant, did he not hold the door for you, pull out your chair for you, and make idle small talk with you?”

“Yes.”

“And did you not order food?”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

He ignored me. “And did you not eat said food?”

“I took a bite.” I grumbled.

“And when you told him you had to go, did he not give you an affectionate, too-long-to-be-considered-friendly-but-just-PG-enough-for-the-first-date goodbye hug?”

“YES. Goddammit, get on with it.”

“Well, there you have it.”

“There I have what?”

“It was like speed dating,” he replied with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Fuck you.” I spun on my heel and stalked away.

When I got backstage, I grabbed the screw and jimmied the electrical control box open. As I angrily worked the wires back into place, Jake, our in house DJ, looked over at me from the soundboard worriedly.

“You okay there Pipe? You look like you’re about ready to tear someone a new asshole.”

“I really need to invest in a stress ball.”