The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [39]
“And here we sit. Depressing, isn’t it?”
“Hey, I never graduated. I have an excuse.”
“I am a Small Business Owner,” Dan said, sitting up straight. “And a respectable member of the community. I need no excuse.”
“You own this place?” Cordy looked around. As it was summer, there were few people in here, but during the school year, like everything else around campus, it would be hopping.
“Yes, it’s all mine,” he said, gesturing expansively. “I’m the food service magnate of Barnwell. Bow to me.”
“No thanks,” Cordy said coolly, but she gave him a slight smile, turning up the corners of her lips, Chapstick-pink.
“How long are you around for?” he asked.
“Dunno. A while. My mom’s sick, you know. And Rose is getting married. And I kind of got to think about what’s going to come next. Save a little money.”
“Shit, that’s a lot going on all at once.” His eyebrows bent together slightly, a vee of concern. “You working?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, if you need a job, you let me know. Miller’ll give you the hookup.” He patted his chest, then rubbed it. At the hollow of his throat, thick hair curled up from under his shirt. She remembered watching him play Frisbee on the quad, shirtless, and the way she had been amazed by how hairy he was. Neither repulsed nor attracted, but scientifically fascinated, curious about the texture.
“But I hate coffee. I mean, drinking it. I love the smell,” Cordy said.
“So there’s a start, right? And it smells awesome in here, doesn’t it?” Dan asked, leaning back so far that he had to hook his booted foot around the table leg to keep from falling off as he drew an exaggerated, enormous breath.
Cordy giggled.
“The pay is crap, but you’re living at home, right? So no worries. Call me.” There was a moment’s pause. She’d had dozens of jobs over the years—a job didn’t mean she was committing to anyone or anything. Taking a job in Barney did not mean she would owe her soul to the proverbial company store. It wouldn’t mean she’d have to stay forever. She wouldn’t even have to stay through a shift if she didn’t want to.
“Okay,” Cordy agreed, and Dan hopped out of his chair, placing his hand on her shoulder and squeezing lightly.
“Jesus,” he said, prodding at her clavicle. “You need to gain some weight, girl. I’ll send over a pastry or something.”
“Thanks,” Cordy said, reaching up to squeeze his hand in return. He walked off, whistling, and she watched him go, looking at the loose fabric of his baggy jeans. He seemed so happy, and it made her a little sad to realize how alien that emotion had become.
It could have been worse, Cordy knew. She could have been Ophelia, with all the illicit sexuality and going mad and committing suicide. She could even have been Bianca, with all the beauty and obedience to live up to. So being Cordelia was, she was well aware, not as bad as it could have been.
Cordelia’s problem—that is, the Shakespearean Cordelia, but hang on and you’ll see where we’re going with this—for Cordy was that she was just so unformed. Her great moment of rebellion was in refusing to swear her love to her father precisely because she loved him too much. (Though Cordy was, truth be told, always kind of pleased at the middle finger that sent—albeit indirectly—to the older sisters.) And then there she was at the end, loyal and cooperative, until she, you know, dies. Okay, so there is the part where she becomes Queen of France and leads the French forces against Evil Edmund, but (a) she loses and (b) it’s not like she wanted to lead them. If there’s any way you could be a major military leader and be totally passive about it, that’d be Cordelia for you. Everything happens to Cordelia; she never makes anything happen.
To be named after Cordelia should have invited some kind of dignity, but Cordy had never really felt it. The only thing she had absolutely inherited from her name was a gentle rage