Character Study (1)

I just finished class, and I'm walking to the dining hall. My senile chemistry professor was blasting the heater even though it's 89 degrees outside. Crazy old man! I hope the dining hall still has that snow cone machine they put in a week ago. I don't know what it is about shaved ice with artificial fruit syrup on top that is so appealing, but it sounds superb right now.
As soon as I take my first step into the dining hall, the cool crisp air from the air conditioning hits me full blast from above. I take a second to soak it in, let it sink into my bones and fully wash over me. Even though summer has just turned to fall, the temperatures here in Stanford can still get pretty high, and I know the worst has still yet to come.
I have my fingers crossed as I make my way toward the back of the cafeteria where the snow cone machine should be and- huzzah!- it's still there! I quicken my step and reach for the last cup but a bigger hand comes out of nowhere and snatches it before I do. I turn around, ready to yell at whoever stole the cup, but I bite my tongue when I realize that I've come face to face- or rather face to chest- with a big, surly football player. I see this guy's Stanford polo shirt with the tree emblazoned on the breast pocket and football helmet under his arm, and I tilt my head all the way back to see his face, which has a frown on it.
We're both silent for a second before he says, "Oh, I'm sorry. You can have the last one." And he gives the snow cone cup to me.
I blink and dart my eyes to both sides then look back at him before asking, "Are you sure?"
He nods once then turns around and walks over to the ice cream machine instead.

I shrug and turn to get my shaved ice. While the machine whirs and spews out the ice particles, I look over my shoulder and see the back of the guy at the ice cream machine. He looks about 6'3" and maybe 210 pounds. I turn back to my cup now full of ice and pour the fruit syrup on top. Today I pick watermelon and strawberry.
I take a seat at an empty table. After a few moments of rustling around in my bag, I come up with my laptop and I see the football guy sitting one chair away from me with his helmet on the ground next to him. He stares at me while I situate myself, lets me do my thing.
Thirty seconds later he finally asks, "So what's your story, huh?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your story," he repeats, as if that clears everything up. "How you got here, where you're from, why you're here. You know, your story, your... journey to this place."
"And why would I tell you that?" I ask. I'm a bit taken aback by this guy. I mean, I don't even know his name. I'm just trying to do some homework and enjoy my snow cone.
"I don't know. Just for kicks. I'm Aaron, by the way," he tells me, as if he read my mind. "I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours."
I scoff, "You sound like we're trying to compare battle wounds. What if I don't want to know your story?"
"Ouch," he chuckles, as he puts a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. "Harsh, okay. Just trying to be friendly. You looked a little lonely sitting here by yourself."
I sigh and say, "Sorry. I'm just- I'm not good around strangers. I'm not good at making small talk or making new friends."
"Well, let's start with your name."
"Melody," I reply. "Melody Spiros."
"Greek. How interesting." Aaron stares at me with an amused face.
"Huh?"
"Your last name. It's Greek, isn't it?"
"Yeah. And what's yours?" I inquire, caught off guard by the fact that he knows the origin of my last name.
"Welsh, actually. Evans. Aaron Evans," he answers as he holds out his hand, smiling
I stare at it for a moment before taking it gingerly.
"So what's your story, Melody Spiros?" Aaron asks me once again. "You don't look like the typical basic white girl."
"Oh, I'm flattered," I say sarcastically. "And what do I look like?" I ask with raised eyebrows.
He pauses for a moment then replies, "You look like a girl with too much intelligence for her own good, not enough self- confidence or self-esteem even though she should have the complete opposite, and someone with a complicated past."
I look down, surprised by how much he got right. "I don't know why I'm doing this, but I'll tell you my 'story,'" I murmur. "Well, my plan is to become a neurosurgeon,"
"Impressive!" Aaron exclaims. "Why's that?"
"When I was eleven, my dad was diagnosed with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, which is an extremely rare degenerative neurological disease. When he was first diagnosed, the doctors had no idea what it was because it's so rare. And by the time they found out what he had, it was too late for them to do anything or give him any time. He died a couple months later."
"I'm so sorry," Aaron sympathizes.
"My mom had a really hard time coping with it, leaving me to take care of my little brother who was five at the time and my little sister who was three. Ever since then, I promised myself that I would study hard to become a neurosurgeon to not let my father die in vain. I want to find out more about CJD and other rare neurological diseases and help people. So I've poured my heart and soul into my studies, extracurriculars, and sports to land a spot at Stanford with a full ride." After I'm done talking, Aaron just stares at me.
"What?" I ask him defensively.
"Nothing," he quickly states. "I'm just impressed. And shocked. I never would have imagined that that's your story."
"Yeah, well." I shrug and play with the melting ice in the cup in front of me. "What can you do? I don't like telling people my story because I feel like they treat me differently after they know. They treat me nicer or better, like I'm fragile and will break at any moment."
"Well, I can promise that I won't do that."
"Oh? And what makes you think I'll want to come back and talk to you again?" I ask jokingly.
Aaron smiles and laughs. "Okay, I see how it is, Well, then never mind." He pulls out his phone to check the time and jumps out of his seat.
"Is everything okay?" I ask warily.
"I have football practice in ten minutes. I have to go!" Aaron shouts. He shoves his chair back and starts sprinting toward the door.
"Don't forget your helmet!" I call out to him.
"Oh, right! Thanks. You're a life saver!" He flashes me a grateful smile as he comes back to pick up his forgotten gear. "We should hang out again sometime. This was...- I had a good time with you, even though all you did was tell me your tragic life story."
I let out a single laugh. "Yeah, I had a wonderful time," I sarcastically reply with a sly smile. "But I agree. Maybe we can spend more than fifteen minutes together." I write my phone number on a napkin and hand it to Aaron.
He takes it and looks at it for a moment then shoves it in his pocket. He looks back up and grins at me. "I'll call you, or text you- or something," Aaron stutters as he walks backwards toward the exit.
"Sounds good," I reply, amused.
Then he turns and bolts out the door.