“Certainly, koritsáki mou,” he said, spreading more cheese on a fresh slice of olive bread. “I take it Christos made it home safely?”

“Yeah. Safe and sound.” For now, I thought. I knew his pre-trial wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, but I felt a doomsday clock ticking down to Valentine’s Day on Friday, the day of his actual trial. Lameness. Could I petition to have Valentine’s Day pushed forward a day? Probably not. “Spiridon?”

“Yes, Samoula?” Spiridon smiled.

“Do you, um, ah, I feel like maybe I shouldn’t be asking this, but do you, uh…do you know about Christos’ trial?” I was afraid maybe he didn’t know and I was going to break his heart, but I also felt like I was stuck in the dark on this whole trial topic, and I needed some emergency support.

His smile faded. It didn’t turn sour, like I could imagine my mom or dad doing, after which yelling and condescension would commence. Instead, Spiridon looked sad. “Yes, koritsáki mou, I know.”

Phew. One obstacle out of the way. “Are you worried?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “As many times as Christos has been in court, it never gets easier. There’s little I can do but pray for him and hope that the jury sees the good boy I know my grandson to be.”

“Yeah,” I sighed thoughtfully. “Are you going to go to the trial?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you go to the pre-trial today?”

“Because, based on my experience, it’s largely a matter for the lawyers. But I will be at the trial on Friday.”

“Oh.”

I sort of felt left out because Spiridon knew all the details. But it made sense. Christos lived with him, so I’m sure he’d told his grandfather about it awhile ago. But I felt hurt that Christos hadn’t told me. I wanted to be supportive in any way that I could, but that was impossible if he didn’t include me in the process. I sighed to myself and shook my head.

Spiridon patted my shoulder. “It’s okay, Samoula. Christos will be fine.”

I hoped so. But the tortured look in Spiridon’s eyes ignited the smoldering worry that had been twisting my guts in knots for the last twelve hours.

I drove to campus along the Pacific Coast Highway, slumped over the wheel of my VW. Class was the last thing I wanted to think about today. Worse, today was Sociology 2, starring my sleep-inducing Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn, and American History 2, where I always managed to draw cartoons in my sketchbook while conveniently avoiding putting notes in my laptop.

I contemplated bailing on class entirely. One of the perks of being a college student. But what was I going to do if I didn’t go to class? Fret? Wring my hands together?

The beach was visible as I drove out of Del Mar. Too bad it was foggy and gray and I could barely see the ocean. Not much of a beach day, otherwise I might very well have parked my car and strolled down with my towel so I could lay out and catch some rays. Tanning under the buttery San Diego sun always soothed me.

Stupid fog.

The light at Carmel Valley turned red and I came to a stop. This was the intersection where I’d first met Christos last fall. I’d driven through here a hundred times since that day. The view of the beach never got old. I was so lucky to live in San Diego. I swear, it was a crime that people had to live anyplace else in the country. I felt bad for my parents, who were still stuck in the arctic urban wasteland of Washington D.C. It was probably snowing there right now. All I had to contend with was a little fog. The thermometer on my dash said sixty degrees.

A little fog wasn’t so bad.

I reached for the Venti Americano I’d bought at the Starbucks in Del Mar. They didn’t have a drive thru, so I’d had to park and it had taken forever. But today, I didn’t care if I was late for class.

Not like that first day when I’d spilled my coffee everywhere. I shook my head and smiled. I’d been such a spaz that day. I remembered that fat guy behind me who’d been yelling at me.

Bitch…

He’d called me all kinds of crazy names.

Slut…

And he’d practically bitten my face off, he was so mad at me for holding up traffic.

Whore…

What a tool that guy was. Thinking about all of it now brought back Taylor Lamberth and Damian Wolfram, and the roller coaster my life had been for three long years. Was it ever going to stop? I felt like I’d left some crazy loop-de-loop behind me in D.C., but now I was headed into six more.

Agápi mou…

At least I had Christos to ride with me through life’s twists and turns. Christos…

I started to tear up. I wiped my eyes, no longer worried about smearing the mascara I never wore anymore. My life had changed so much in the last six months. But was any of it for the better?

The light at Carmel Valley Road turned green and I drove the rest of the way to SDU.

I pulled into the parking lot on the north end of campus and searched for a space. The lot was packed with cars. I turned down yet another aisle and spotted an open space. As I drove toward it, a black Mercedes whipped around the corner at the far end of the aisle and raced for the space. I was closer and reached it well ahead of the Mercedes. The slick black car screeched to a stop as I was turning into the space, jamming its nose in the way of my VW.

“Hey!” I shouted. “What are you doing! This is totally my space! Move your car! I was here first!”

The Mercedes revved its engine. I couldn’t see the driver because the overcast sky painted the front windshield over with a light gray glare.

I held my ground in my VW. This space was mine by right. First come, first served and all that.

The Mercedes’ horn blared at me and the car inched forward like a menacing cobra.

“You’re insane! I was totally here first!” I shifted my VW into park and got out of my car. For a second I thought it might be Hunter Blakeley, the figurative sculpting model who’d been stalking me all quarter. Then I remembered he drove a Porsche Boxster. I knocked on the window of the Mercedes sharply.

The power window whirred down.

“You,” sneered Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse, eyes narrowed.

“Yes, me,” I smirked confidently. “Move your car.”

“Move my car? You’ve got it wrong, Merry Maid. Shouldn’t you be cleaning up fecal matter somewhere?”

As always, Tiffany looked like a team of stylists had done her hair, makeup, and nails this morning. She was dressed in the latest San Diego winter fashion: a sexy studded leather motorcycle jacket over a white scoop neck T that emphasized her ersatz rack, skinny black jeans, and a rugged belt. A super cute studded black leather clutch with white piping sat on the empty seat next to her. I had to admit, the girl knew how to dress. But it didn’t make her any less of a bitch.

Which was why I was seriously considering grabbing a fistful of her fuck me blond hair and giving it a good yank. Could you scalp someone by yanking? Or did you need a knife to do it right?

“I hate to disappoint you, Tiff, but I was here first. Kindly remove your Mercedes from my way.”

“I’m not moving anything, you shit stain. Get your car out of my way before I push it.” She revved the engine of her Mercedes.

Her blond locks were within easy reach. I flexed my fingers in anticipation. Where was that knife? Screw it. I wasn’t going to need it. I had nails. I was tired of taking shit from Tiffany Buttplug-Nuthouse.

“Go ahead,” I laughed lightly. “Scratch your paint job and mine. I’m sure your daddy pays for the best insurance money can buy.”

She glared at me and revved the Mercedes. “Move,” she growled around gritted teeth.

“No.” I stared her down.

She screamed in my face, “MOOOOVE!!!”

I winced and leaned back.

Wow, that girl sure had a set of lungs on her. And a voice that could cut glass. I think I was going to need to get my ears checked after that. But I stood my ground.