Stella and the Boxer

Chapter 2

Mr. Miller leaves Jimmy and me to close the café so that he can help his wife to prepare for a dinner party they are hosting for one of their children, a celebration of his promotion. Jimmy and I had been invited, of course. “The more, the merrier,” was definitely Mr. Miller’s battle cry, and everyone was always welcome. But we both declined the invitation politely, neither of us wanting to be an awkward addition to his family time.

Jimmy doesn’t speak much to me, but we work well together and we’re able to close quite quickly. We wish each other a good night before heading off in different directions. As a freshman at Clemson, I live on campus, and although The Lighthouse Café isn’t too far, my parents and I agreed that I wouldn’t walk alone in the dark, ever, so I drive to and from work. 

The short drive takes me back to campus in minutes, back to my empty room. I had a roommate at the beginning of the semester, and we got along well. But she missed her boyfriend, who was still a senior in her old high school. After only a month, she transferred to be closer to him.

Even though we’d only known each other for the first month of school, I still miss having someone around. I’ve made lots of friends and acquaintances at school – more acquaintances, I suppose. I know people in my classes and I work with people whom I like, but living completely alone is difficult. Sharing a bathroom with an entire floor of people isn’t easy either, and as I remove my clothes and wrap a soft, lavender towel around my body, I decide that I am not ready to face the evening shower rush yet.

Instead, I sit down on my bed and call my parents. My mom answers first and she asks me about my day. She tells me about her annual plight to grow pumpkins in time to decorate our porch for Thanksgiving, blaming the South Carolina soil for our garden producing only tiny, baby pumpkins. Then, my father takes his turn on the phone. He doesn’t have much to say, but he does add that my mother has tried baking a pie again – blueberry this time – and that I am certainly not missing anything in the way of deserts back home.

My mother is actually an excellent cook, and we give her enough credit, usually. She does have a way though, like with the pumpkins, of insisting that practice really will make perfect. Honestly though, she isn’t a pumpkin farmer, and she definitely is not a pie baker, but we appreciate her pure-will and persistence, my father and I. 

Before my father can hang up the phone, I hear my mother insist that she’s forgotten to tell me something.

“Okay. Passing the phone back to your mom, Stella Lou. I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you dad,” I say, lying comfortably on my bed. I still don’t want to take a shower.

When my mother gets back on the line, she rambles a while about a “new book that she’s been reading.” I can tell that she’s about to change the subject though, because I can remember her reading the same book about a year ago.

“Okay, now I’m in the kitchen. I just know your dad will think I’m harassing you when I ask this. Stella, have you met any nice boys? I’ve been dying to ask. I’m sorry.” My mother’s small, quick voice chimes through the phone rather pleasantly, but her statement makes my head hurt.

“No, mom. Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, and I giggle a bit but I am so serious.

I think that she senses it too, because she backtracks, “Oh Stella, it’s not that I think you need anyone. I just know how exciting that can be, and I didn’t want to miss out in case you’d met someone special–“ She keeps talking, but I cut her off mentally. Not to be impolite or difficult, of course, but her question gives me an excuse to wonder.

I had been suppressing thoughts of him all day, and now it is as if a floodgate has opened. After he’d told me what he trains for… the fighting … the conversation ended quite abruptly. He seemed to sense the effect that he had on me, and during his goodbye, he seemed to treat me even more carefully.