Page 3 of Someone Like Me
They went to Jazz Fest together to see The Revivalists and Cage the Elephant last May. Jason was over here almost all summer. But I haven’t seen him since August. I’ve waited for Tori to say something — anything — about what happened, but so far, zilch.
Mom keeps pumping me for information every time we Skype, so maybe it’s a good thing I don’t really know what happened. Mom’s too good at getting information out of me.
Tori is still checking the shirt for shrinkage, smoothing it over her front a third time. Lo and behold, it still hasn’t shrunk.
“I think it’s fine,” I dare to suggest.
She narrows her eyes at me. “No thanks to you.”
Ujjayibreathing is miraculous. It’s faster than a glass of wine and more mellow than a pot brownie. But I think I’m going to enjoy the hell out of my Ashtanga short form class this morning.
I like to leave more than an hour early for each class. This gives me time to get to the studio, settle energetically into the space, and center myself for a few minutes of meditation before my students show up. The more present I am, the better I see and feel what my students need from me.
And what they don’t need is for me to be focused on a run-in with my sister.
I finish getting myself ready and tiptoe downstairs. Tori’s bedroom door is closed, and I’m relieved I don’t have to talk to her before I head out.
I’m also relieved when I step out into the garage and see that she didn’t park her Fiat behind Mom’s Volvo. I don’t have my own car because I don’t need one. Mom and Dad are only home twice a year for three weeks at a time so the XC40’s almost always available.
My dad is a petroleum engineer for Chevron. Four years ago, he got transferred to the Abuja office in Nigeria. I was still in high school then, and Mom stayed home with Tori and me. But I’m pretty sure it was the worst year of her life. She missed Dad like crazy.
They’ve been married for twenty-seven years, but they still act like newlyweds. They hold hands wherever they go. They smile and laugh at each other at the dinner table. And they slow dance in the kitchen.
When they sat us down three years ago and told us Mom would be moving to Nigeria with Dad now that I’d graduated, I can’t say I was all that surprised. But it’s one reason why Tori and I still live at home.
My house — my parent’s house — is the most adorable two-story Tudor style home. It’s where Tori and I have lived since I was five and Tori was nine, and it’s where my parents plan to retire. Mom wouldn’t dream of selling it, and I think the thought of renting it out while they’re halfway across the world would actually give her hives.
So Tori and I get to enjoy a home right out ofSouthern Livingin the heart of the Saint Streets while keeping the house lived in and looked after. And, really, I couldn’t pay rent on my yoga instructor earnings. I only finished my 200-hour certification a year ago. I work part-time at the Yoga Garden, and I do about six private lessons a week, but that’s not nearly enough to make up a living wage.
People — Tori, my parents, friends — have asked me when I’m going to get “a real job.” I was studying kinesiology at UL, but I only finished three semesters because what I really want to do is teach yoga.
I know it’s hard to make a living this way, but it’s not impossible. The more students who show up to my classes at the studio means the more classes I’ll get. And private lessons are hard to come by, but if I could even double what I’m doing now, I could swing a small efficiency, and I wouldn’t really need more than that.
And, yeah, I’m twenty-one, but that’s not too old to still be living at home. I don’t make much, but I save what I can, and it’s not impossible to think that one day I could own my own — perhaps very tiny — home.
My only expensive habit is that I like to travel. I want to go to India one day, of course, but I’d love to see other places too. Mom and Dad have taken us to England, France, and Spain, but I’d love to see Scotland… Greece… Italy… Ooh! And Iceland. And those are just the top spots on my list.
When my parents took us abroad to England and France, we stayed in luxury hotels, saw shows, and ate at fancy restaurants. It was great, but I don’t need that either. A backpack, a solid pair of shoes, and a Eurail pass would be enough of a start.
Well, and a plane ticket.
But for right now, I’m happy just where I am. I have a great place to live, a car to drive, and the freedom to do what I love. But that doesn't make me I’m complacent. I mean, on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, I offer free yoga classes at Parc Sans Souci. It’s good practice for me, and it’s a way to grow a client base. And sometimes my freebie students even tip.
I’m smiling about this when I pull into the gravel lot of the Yoga Garden. But as I step through the entrance and into the tea room, my smile slips.
Drake Jordan.
He’s sitting at one of the tea room tables, stirring a cup of what smells like apple blossom tea. And he’s leering at me. As usual.
“Hi, Evie.” Drake Jordan could not look more wolfish if he had pointy ears and whiskers.
“Hi Drake,” I say, and because I don’t want to seem rude, I stupidly keep talking. “How are you?”
His grin slithers higher on his cheeks. “Better now.”
I press my lips together and force a tight smile. Drake has asked me out twice, and both times, I’ve politely declined. You’d think he’d take the hint that I’m not interested, but he hasn’t yet.
“I saw you were on the schedule today, and, lucky me, I have the day off.” Drake is a server at Social. I know this because he’s tells me almost every time he sees me. He has an employee discount. We can go to Social whenever I want.
