“No, I mean, like, how long have you, like,” and I lower my voice to a whisper so Jacob won’t hear, “been taking care of him?”
“He’s four. So, for four years? When my mom is working, I’m glad to do it.” Her glare is challenging. “Why spend rent money on a babysitter when I’m capable? And anyway, I want to take care of him. He’s my brother.” And then she turns her back to me and starts washing off the cutting board and knife.
“No, yeah, of course,” I sputter out. “It’s just, I don’t know. Surprising? No, impressive. It’s impressive,” I say with more confidence. “You impress me, Ivy Jean Rivenbark.”
She studies me from the other side of the counter, her face that same blank mask from before, and my chest constricts. Once again, I feel like I’m trying out for something, and I really, really, really want to make the team.
And then a smile starts to spread over her face, and when that stupid dimple pops, I let out a breath.
“Thank you, Kelley Allen Pierce,” she says with a huge grin. “I’m really glad you’re my first friend.”
Zing.
4
Jesse and I got here about twenty minutes ago, and it took us about that long to find and claim a table by the wall that wasn’t already in use or covered in spilled beer.
Keggers is packed, one of the most popular spots on the Butler University campus for their Friday night wing and pitcher specials, and open seats are in high demand. Your shoes might stick to the floor a little when you walk, you’ll probably hear “In Da Club” by 50 Cent at least twice, and a twenty-minute wait to use the ladies’ bathroom is pretty standard, but on Friday nights, Keggers is the place to be.
Since it’s my weekend to get the drinks, I head up to the bar and leave Jesse to guard our table and scope out the crowd. As I weave my way through the crowd of bodies, “Mood” by 24kGoldn comes on, and soon, everyone is bouncing to the music. By the time I get to the bar, I’ve stepped in one giant puddle of what I hope is beer and narrowly missed two separate spillage incidents. Pretty successful, actually.
Stepping up on the bottom rung of the stool next to me and leaning my body as far over as I can, I hold up my debit card in an attempt to grab the bartender’s attention. I’ve seen him here before. The guy is pretty attractive. He kind of looks a little like Kelley, actually. Similar height and build, but Kelley’s got a better jawline and better hair. I look him over more closely as I wait. Kelley also has better biceps, I decide, and I’m not sure but probably better hands, too. The bartender is very good looking, but he doesn’t hold a candle to my best friend.
When the guy finally makes eye contact, my calves are straining from being on my tiptoes and I’m sure the edge of the bar has left a permanent bruise on my hips from how I’m propped over it.
“What can I get you?” he asks as he simultaneously makes what looks like a vodka cranberry with a lime garnish.
“I’ll have two pints of the draft special,” I shout over the music as I hand him my debit card. “Just run it. I don’t want to leave it open.”
“You know,” the guy says as he takes my card, “our draft special also includes pitchers tonight. $6.25 for the pitcher. It’s a better deal.”
I raise my eyebrow and stifle a grin. I can’t be mad, though, because the poor guy probably has no idea.
“Actually, it’s not,” I say to him, and he looks back at me with confusion all over his face.
Here we go. My time to shine.
“You see, the standard pint is 16 ounces, which you guys always fill quite full—thanks for that,” I beam, and he smiles back at me.
“Anyway, I’m paying two dollars for it. That’s roughly 12.5 cents an ounce. The pitchers are 48 ounces, and that’s when they’re filled full, which you guys tend not to do.” I nod at the pitcher the second bartender is currently passing to someone a few stools down. “That’s probably only at about 42-ounce capacity. But let’s say for sake of argument that it was filled to 48 ounces, that would still be roughly 13 cents an ounce. So you see? It’s really not a better deal. It’s basically the same. In fact, the standard pint is even a slightly better deal, even if it’s just a matter of half a cent.”
The bartender, wide-eyed and amused, shakes his head and turns to run my card. When he slides back my card and the two pints, I take a sip and smile.
“Thanks!” I say sweetly and turn away with satisfaction all over my face.
Ivy Rivenbark: Blonde hair. Big boobs. Bigger brain.
Jesse is leaning on the wall next to our table, his foot propped on the stool. He’s got one hand messing with something small, probably one of his fidget toys, and the other is scrolling his phone. When I plop the pints on the table, he looks up with a smile.
“Why are you grinning like that? You look like you just made a frat boy cry.” He smirks as he takes his beer.
“The bartender offered me a pitcher of the draft special.”
Jesse barks out a laugh. “You’re such a nerd. Of course, you’d get a boner from spitting math facts.”
“Guilty,” I sing-song, and slide onto the stool next to him. “He also looked a little like my Kelley.”
“Your Kelley?” He eyes me with a smirk, and it takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. “Freudian slip?”