Page 22 of Error Handling
Kahlil smiles broadly in my peripheral vision.
“What are you doing here?” Sarah takes a few tentative steps forward. She eyes me the way she did when we first met, making me self-conscious of my tattered old flannel shirt and my work jeans that display the stains of various maintenance accidents.
She narrows her eyes. “Are you a student?”
“Um. No. I—I work here. I’m a maintenance tech.” At nearly thirty years old I still stutter in the presence of beauty, especially when it’s attached to a skeptical, analytical stare.
Sarah cocks her head. “Oh. You said you were a handyman. I didn’t realize you had a real job.”
A real job.
The words strike my chest with the weight of a bowling ball. I feel the muscles in my face pinch toward my nose. “I don’t know, Kahlil. Is this a real job?” Funny. I lost my stutter.
Kahlil stands frozen and wide-eyed. “My kids can go here for free,” he says. “Does that count?”
“I don’t know why you’d let them,” I say. My rapidly flowing blood has ignited. It’s fueling my mouth but not my brain. “Kiara will have better luck in skilled trades.”
Sarah’s facial muscles pinch noseward. “College of Charleston has an eighty percent post-graduate employment rate.”
I glance at Kahlil again and shrug. “It’s your call.”
“Uh...Kiara’s only in kindergarten,” Kahlil says.
Somehow Sarah’s furrowed brow manages to deepen. Bedbugs could get lost and lay eggs in that crevice.
This isn’t going well.
I didn’t intend to make her mad. Actually. Yes. I did. Where does Sarah Wilkins get off judging my career choices? I hear enough of that from my mom. Are all women snobs when itcomes to blue-collar workers? Do they require men with college degrees to satisfy their intellectual needs? Never mind that those degrees come with tens of thousands’ worth of debt. I probably have enough money in my savings account to pay off Sarah’s college debt in one payment. Not that I would.
Sarah bristles. She inhales abruptly and then shoves out the air. “Hopefully your date with theotherSarah goes better than ours did.”
“I don’t have a date with the other Sarah.” Why am I telling her my personal business?
“Well, if you do, I hope they serve yeast rolls!” Her voice rises at the end and echoes through the tall foyer. Two passersby turn to look.
Why do women named Sarah think it’s proper to make snide remarks about my celiac disease? Do they think potentially life-threatening health conditions are funny? Is this some sort of immature poop humor? I don’t bother to think of a comeback. My time is too valuable.
Sarah stomps past. She nods at Kahlil on the way. He holds his hands palm-side out in front of his chest and retreats a step.
When Sarah is gone, Kahlil walks over and rests a hand on my shoulder. “I think that went well.”
Sarah
I walk briskly down the student center’s front steps. Heat emanates from my body. Enough to evaporate the last remnants of rain from my hair. I imagine the mist rising from my head, like smoke from the flame that burns inside my gut.
The burning inside has nothing to do with how amazing Chris looked in a pair of old baggy jeans. Or the physical shock I felt when we met eyes, like that time I touched the electric fence at Grandma Wilkins’ farm, only warmer and more tingly, less painful. This is about the words that came out of his mouth.
What does Chris Butcher know about College of Charleston’s post-graduate employment opportunities? If I want to paint professionally and display my work in New York City art galleries, I can. Iwill.
Who am I kidding? I would if my paintings didn’t suck. But my lack of talent isn’t College of Charleston’s fault.
My pace slows.
I just ran into Chris Butcher—the guy who seemed perfect (operative word:seemed). Strange that we’ve never crossed paths before on campus. Or maybe we have, and I just didn’t notice how perfectly his eyebrows align with his downturned mouth. How he looks sad even when he’s mad.
Maintenancetech.
What’s technical about being a handyman? Switching lightbulbs? Unclogging toilets, replacing furnace filters, painting walls?