Free Working Girl by A. E. Woodward

moved, or pissed off.
    “So, drugs, murder, lies, deceit . . .”
    “Without any of that, there would never be an honest and genuine hero to save the day.”
    Chewing on my lip, I think about the truth in his words. He believes that with bad comes good, and for him that is worth it. But for me, I suffer . . . for what? Where is my hero?
    I look away from him. “I don’t know if I can buy into that.”
    “While thus to love he gave his days
    In loyal worship, scorning praise,
    How spread their lures for him in vain
    Thieving ambition and paltering gain!
    He thought it happier to be dead,
    To die for Beauty, than live for bread.”
    Halfway through his monologue, I feel the urge to look at him; to watch his face as he speaks. To look into his eyes and see whether the words he speaks are just learned—because I know enough to recognize Ralph Waldo Emerson—or whether they’re spoken because he truly believes in Emerson’s message. Is this boy, whom I have cast judgment upon so easily, nothing more than an actor in a play? Or is he in fact, a genuine soul? I’m sure my surprise is visible all over my face, but I don’t care to hide it.
    “Are you serious?” In an attempt to hide my awe and wonderment, I allow my voice to drip with sarcasm.
    His eyes lock on mine and he leans in closer. My heart races, unsure of what his next move is since he’s so close our noses are practically touching, and my mind reels.
    “I’m as serious as it gets.”
    “Does that usually work? Do girls like that shit?” My experience is limited to say the least, but it doesn’t take much to realize that Emerson is unlike any other guy our age.
    “I don’t know. Then again, I don’t usually go around reciting poetry to every girl I meet.”
    “Bullshit.” I know he’s lying. He’s too suave, too cool. He’s done this before. “Now leave me alone, you’re annoying.”
    “And you’re not very friendly, but even the strongest people need someone to lean on.”
    Clearly he’s not about to give me what I want, so I stand and glare down at him. “You don’t even know me, so don’t make some dumbass assumption. Tell Chrissy I’ll meet her at home.”
    Turning on my heels, I start to walk away from Emerson, who is likely still sitting on the sidewalk wondering what the hell he did wrong. But he didn’t do anything wrong that has me all riled up.
    It’s what he did right .
    He made me nervous. He made me hopeful—something I can’t afford to be anymore. Unable to trust myself around him, I know that I need to put some distance between us. More than anything, it was how he seemed to know that I needed someone without me ever actually saying it.
    But that someone could never be him.
    I need to keep my eye on the prize. Focusing on schoolwork is where I need to be placing my energy. Opening myself up to some guy who is more than likely just playing games just isn’t an option.

EMERSON’S WORDS PLAY IN MY head over and over again. What had he meant? Or did it even mean anything at all? The bigger question should probably be: why am I spending my time thinking about a stupid boy?
    I groan, and direct my attention back to the book in front of me. There are bigger things for me to be worrying about at the moment. But knowing better and actually doing it are two different beasts. Obviously, Emerson is under my skin.
    Chrissy somehow manages to get into the office without me knowing and plops down in her usual spot next to me. “I want the dish on your boy toy.”
    “He’s not my boy toy!”
    “You say that now, but mark my words, that boy will pop—”
    “Don’t say it, Chrissy!” I cover my ears. Her crudeness is just something I will never get used to. In fact, I refuse to. In a way she’s right, though. Guys have only ever wanted me for one reason, and I’m sure this one will prove to be no different.
    “Okay, calm down.” She grabs a nip from my drawer. “Keep your panties on.” She giggles before sucking down her