Mamie leaned against the library's back wall and took a puff of her ciggy. She angled her face so the cloche's narrow brim kept the sun out of her eyes. She’d gotten zozzled at the speakeasy the night before and the throb behind her left temple punished her for it.
One more class, then a nap until dinner. That is, if she could avoid Mrs. Grundy, the housemother. Otherwise, she'd end up with some silly job. You’d think by now she’d know to mind her potatoes and let me do as I please, Mamie had told Lily, the closest thing she had to a friend at the girls' house. She thinks she can get you to leave behind your 'wild ways,' Lily had said. What a lark—Mamie had no intention of changing her ways, not now, not ever. Grundy could put that in her pipe and smoke it.
Her mouth quirked up at the corner as she thought about telling Grundy that right to her face. It would almost be worth braving her cabbage breath to do it.
A thick Irish brogue cut through her thoughts. “Don’t generally see a girl smile when she’s lookin' so banjaxed.”
She looked up and her eyes fell on a feast. A mop of reddish-brown curls emerged from under a newsboy cap and hung around a rugged face. Blue eyes sparkled with amusement at her apparent state. His full lips didn’t smile, though. It was a serious mouth for a serious man, despite the pout a million girls would kill for. His beige, soot-streaked work shirt looked a size too small, while the brown pants were grateful for suspenders—otherwise, they’d be puddled around his feet. Not that Mamie would’ve minded them puddled down there. This fella was the bee’s knees.
“What’s that mean?” she asked.
“What's what mean?”
She couldn’t be sure, since he didn’t crack a smile, but she thought he was teasing her. Him, just off the boat, having the audacity to tease a girl whose daddy could buy her out of all sorts of trouble. She liked it. “Band jaxed. What’s it mean?”
He chuckled, and his eyes sparkle all the more. “Not band jaxed. Banjaxed. It means broken. Roughed up.” He lifted an eyebrow and, at last, a trace of a smile graced those lips. “A wee bit hungover, perhaps.”
“What would you know about it?” She glanced at the tool box in his hand. “What are you, some kind of handyman?”
He tossed his head back and laughed. “I’m Irish. You think I don’t know a thing or two about hangovers? And yeah, I am some kind of handyman. I get to fix all the banjaxed things on campus.”
Oh, this one’s ready to play. Pushing off from the wall, she swaggered over to him. “Is that so? You gonna fix me, handyman?”