by Ann Aguirre
Once we’re in the hall, he says, “I knew you could do it.”
“It never would’ve happened without you.” Before I can think better of it, I spring onto my toes to kiss his cheek.
Shane stills. I don’t know what he would’ve said because Dylan Smith shoulders him as he swaggers out of the classroom, just in time to catch the kiss. “You dated Dorkenna for two years, and this is what you dump him for? Even you can do better, Princess.”
“What’s it to you?” I ask. “Unless you want to date me. If that’s the issue, it’s not happening. So move on already.”
He laughs. “In your dreams, fat ass.”
That’s such a lame insult that it doesn’t even bother me. I gesture in response, and Dylan doesn’t know his history well enough to understand what I just invited him to do. But when I turn to Shane, his expression says he’s about to go nuclear. Quickly, I take his hand and pull him away, before he can use that balled-up fist. A quiet thrill ripples through me; he can put up with any abuse these guys offer, but the minute they start on me? He can’t deal.
“No trouble,” I remind him.
“He shouldn’t get away with treating people like that.” Usually, he’s so low-key, all about blending into the background, but right now, Shane is vibrating with outrage.
For me?
“I don’t care what he thinks. He’s an asshole.”
As he cools down, we walk to our lockers together, no need to talk about it; in just a few days, this has become the new normal. When he lets go of me to stow his stuff, I realize we held hands all the way here. I have no memory of our fingers lacing together after I grabbed him to keep him from starting a fight with Dylan, one Shane would be blamed for, but it happened. I process that while we continue to my locker, where I dump my backpack and grab lunch. Today I’ve brought enough leftover tacos to feed the whole table. Including Shane. I suspect he’ll guess what I’m up to, but if everyone else is eating them, he can’t complain. I hope. For once, we’re the first ones to arrive, and I start setting the food out. As the others come in, I wave them over before they get in the cafeteria line.
“Lunch is on me today,” I say.
“Oh my God,” Kimmy squeals. “I love tacos.”
After everyone’s eaten several, Shane murmurs, “Tell your aunt she’s a fantastic cook.”
“You should come over sometime.”
The whole table looks interested, and I think I might’ve just invited everybody for Sunday lunch. “Do you guys have plans?”
“Nope,” Theo says without hesitation.
“I have to ask my mom,” Mel tells me, “but it’s probably cool. And I’ll bring lunch tomorrow, if you guys want. This was fun. I’ll make sure to bring some veggie stuff, Sage.”
“Wow. Thanks.” Lila looks about as surprised as I feel.
These four sophomores are really nice. I mean, I never would’ve gone out of my way to meet them because they’re … average. Normal. And I always feel self-conscious with people who don’t have any baggage … because I’m deceiving them, and they deserve better. But maybe I need to make friends like this to stop feeling that way.
Kimmy and Shanna say they’ll let me know tomorrow. I wonder how Aunt Gabby will feel about our Sunday afternoon being invaded by a bunch of teenagers, then I decide she’ll be happy; she’ll think my wanting to have people over is a milestone. I hope she doesn’t make a huge deal of it … but apart from Ryan—and now Lila—nobody has ever been to our place.
After lunch, on our way back to class, Shane asks, “You want to hang out Friday night?”
“Sure.” I’m not ready to bring him home for a night like I used to spend with Ryan. “We could catch a movie at the Capitol.”
There’s no multiplex here. Instead, we have an old-fashioned theater built in the 1890s. It’s a little run-down and the roof leaks during a hard rain, but the current owners are working on restoration. The only problem is that they can’t afford to shut down, so there’s always random construction going on, something roped off or covered in plastic. But I like the charm of the ornate moldings and the worn but fabulous carpet. The concession stand is covered in gilt, and there’s a heavy crystal chandelier on the domed ceiling. Upstairs, the Capitol even has a balcony, which is usually closed; that doesn’t stop couples from sneaking up there to make out. Since the place is understaffed, they usually get away with it.
“That sounds good,” he says.
I expected he might make an excuse due to money and suggest hanging out on the square instead. That’s the low-rent option for weekend fun in this town. Those who don’t have cars or can’t afford DQ, Coffee Shop, or a show will buy a drink at the convenience store near the courthouse, and then just wander around the square until the cops run them off. Sometimes they bring music and dance on the front steps, but that’s mostly drama dorks trying to start a flash mob of four. People don’t pick on them, though, because all the beautiful people are out at the Barn getting shit-faced.
“There’s only one show on Fridays,” I tell him. “At eight.”
“Then I’ll be at your house at seven thirty.”
“Do you need the address?”
“That’d be good.” I scrawl it on a piece of paper, which he sticks in the zip pocket on his backpack. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem. Oh,” I add, remembering. “You might want to swing by the P&K after school. My aunt said they’re looking for help.”
Shane’s relief is a tangible force, warming the air between us. “I definitely will.”
When he slides a hand beneath my hair—unstraightened and I didn’t even have time for a ponytail—I think he’s going for a kiss, right in the hallway. But he just cups his palm around my nape, fingers strumming slowly like I’m a tune he’s trying to learn. Chills start on my neck, roll down my shoulders to my arms, until I have goose bumps. I’m wearing a shrug or he’d see them. Reflexively, I tug at the sleeves, making sure they’re all the way down.
“Class,” I mumble, unable to string two words together.
Shane lets go, and I manage to get to chem without stumbling over my own feet. Today, I actually beat Ryan, so I get our supplies from the back table. The beakers and things are already at our lab station, so I start setting up as best I can. The teacher watches me take the initiative, then scribbles a note in the grade book. Ryan barely reaches his stool before the final bell, looking more rumpled than usual. Since his head is one enormous cowlick, that’s saying something.
I listen while we get the instructions for our experiment, then I turn to Ryan. “You ready?”
“I got your note. About my stories.”
“Yeah.” It’s true; he can make a trip to the QwikMart sound like an epic adventure.
“I guess … you have plans tomorrow night?” He says it with such awful resignation, like he can’t imagine a worse fate than not hanging with me.
“I do. But…” The invite slips out in response to his puppy eyes. “You can come to lunch on Sunday if you want.”
“I’m there.”
“I invited a bunch of people, apparently. We’re girl heavy, so—”
“Tell me you didn’t just invite me for my Y chromosome.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this angry. Ryan doesn’t have a temper; at least, not that I’ve ever seen. Until now. His brown eyes practically throw sparks behind the black frames of his glasses.
“I’m trying, okay? I can’t handle just the two of us yet. I mean, I want us to be friends, but—”
“Last week, I was trying to tell you I’m in love with you. I broke up with my girlfriend for you. Don’t friend-zone me.”
“Your girlfriend…? The one you were lying to? Don’t even try for the moral high ground.” I can’t believe that he’s acting like the injured party.
“Ryan and Sage, less 90210, more chemistry, please,” the teacher says.
“That’s their problem,” somebody cracks. “Not enough.”
Oh God. How did my life end up this
way? So much pointless drama, and Ryan’s just making it worse. Tired of it, I put my head on the lab counter and wait to be struck by lightning.
Sadly, this never happens. I’m forced to finish this class and two more, then make my way to work. By comparison, my shift at the Curly Q is a marvel of peace and quiet. We get two new customers, which is cool for Mildred. The second girl comes in half an hour before closing. She’s small with long brown hair and shaggy bangs. Her blue polo shirt has a pharmacy logo on it—along with the khaki pants, this looks like a work uniform. Just inside the door, she chews her lips nervously as I walk toward the front desk.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“I just need…” Her voice is tiny, hesitant.
Wow, she’s shy.
“My bangs trimmed. Maybe the split ends on the rest.”
That won’t take long, so I call to Grace, who did my highlights, “Do you have time?”
She nods. It’s ten bucks more than she would’ve made fiddling with her own hair.
“I have to shampoo your hair first,” I explain. “It’s the law. This way.”
I notice she’s actually shaking when she sinks into the red reclining chair. Maybe she’s never had a haircut in a salon before? Pondering why that would be, I run the water so it’s nice and warm and then go about my business of wetting, lathering, rinsing, and conditioning. Water speckles the lenses of her red glasses, the one pop of color about her. I usually throw in a little head massage if there’s time, but she has a lot of hair, and Grace needs her in the chair to get it done before eight.
“There you go,” I say, helping her sit up.
The customer follows me over to Grace’s station, where I settle her with protective cape. “Do you want a magazine? Some water?”
“Water would be nice,” she says softly.
I head back to the tiny employee lounge and fill a paper cone for her. When I get back with the drink, Grace is already at work with the comb. That accomplished, I go back to work cleaning the rest of the salon. The other stylists are all gone; Grace and I are closing up together tonight. Windex and towels in hand, I do all the mirrors by the time she finishes the trim.
“I don’t have time to blow it out,” Grace says, then shows the girl how it looks it in back.
“I like it. Thank you.” She digs into her purse and slips Grace a few bucks.
That makes me smile; some people seem opposed to tipping their stylists. I head over to the front desk to ring her out. A full haircut is twelve bucks, so I charge her eight for the partial. Her eyes look so sad as she counts out the singles that I can’t help but ask:
“Are you okay?”
“No,” she says softly. Then she squares her shoulders, like she’s about to drink some medicine. “See, I’m … I’m Cassie.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Oh. Crap.
I feel weirdly like the other woman. What am I supposed to say? “Ryan mentioned you.”
“Yeah … he talked about you all the time. I thought you were a coworker.”
“At which of his fictional jobs?” This is so awkward it hurts. To make matters worse, Ryan’s family has plenty of money; he’s never needed to work. They’re against it, focused on him getting good grades and participating fully in high school in order to get the best possible start. They’ve been looking at college brochures at the McKenna house since Ryan was fourteen.
Her pained gaze sparks with humor. “The one at the credit union.”
“So he was a bank teller in his secret life?”
I wonder why she never went to see him at work. It seems like there would’ve been some natural moment in the last year where it all fell apart. Can it be that easy to live a double life? I mean, obviously I’ve heard about men who manage to have two wives, two families, but it sounds like an awful lot of effort. But if anyone could make it work, Ryan could. He’s diabolically smart; I just never expected him to use his brain for evil.
“That’s what he told me.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but … why are you here? I’m guessing not just for a trim.”
Cassie shrugs, looking upset and angry at the same time. “I told myself I’d just come in for a haircut—that I wouldn’t even tell you who I was.”
“Why did you?” In a way, I wish she hadn’t.
“Because you’re not like I thought you’d be.”
I’m confused now. “Did he tell you something about me when he…”
“Broke up with me? Yes, he said he had feelings for you. That things between us hadn’t been right in a while.” She sighs softly. “And I knew that. I thought he might be cheating on me, or that the relationship was just dying from lack of time. I’m at the daycare center from nine to five, and then I work midnights at the pharmacy.”
“Wow. You don’t get much sleep, huh?”
“I usually pass out between six and eleven. Ryan and I were lucky to see each other once every couple of weeks. We’d Skype in between, send texts, but it wasn’t the same.”
“No.” That explains why she never stopped to see him at work, however. No time. And really, if you trust someone, it never occurs to you that they could be inventing their whole life.
“I know he’s a liar, but … did he cheat on me, too? It probably shouldn’t matter, as I could do jail time for being with him, but I swear I didn’t know.” Tears stand in her big eyes, and I feel a fierce pang of pity for her.
“Hey, he lied, not you. You thought he was a bit younger, but not jailbait. It would’ve been weird if you’d carded him.”
“I will, going forward,” she mutters.
“And to answer you, no. He didn’t cheat. At least, not with me. If there’s someone else, I don’t know about her.”
“Where would he find the time?”
I laugh. “I have no idea. Learning about you shocked me, that’s for sure.”
“It’s none of my business, but … are you … will you…” Cassie trails off, obviously embarrassed that she still cares about the jackass.
“No. Ryan can’t have everything he wants, and that includes me.”
She actually smiles. “I’m a bad person, but that makes me happy.”
“Yeah, well. Nobody wants to break up with someone and then find out he’s with somebody else a day later.”
Grace calls, “Are you about done? It’s time to lock up.”
“Yes, she’s squared away,” I answer. Then dropping my voice, I ask, “Aren’t you?”
She nods. “Thanks for your time. You’re not like I thought you’d be.”
I raise a brow as I gather up my belongings. “How’s that?”
“Big hair, bright red lipstick, lots of spandex. Classic man stealer.”
This is so far from the truth that I laugh. “I don’t know any high school girls who look like that.”
“I wasn’t in a rational mood.”
“Night!” I call to Grace.
Cassie walks out with me as the stylist turns out the lights behind us. My bike is chained to the rack nearby. There are only a few cars parked at the meters, as the businesses downtown close pretty early. I assume one of them belongs to her. With a smile in parting, I dig into my backpack and start taping my sleeves, so I will annoy as many drivers as possible on the way home.
“Night,” I say, moving to unlock my ride. There’s no way I’m saying it was nice to meet her.
“This might be totally out of line, but maybe you’d like to get a coffee sometime, just to make Ryan profoundly uncomfortable?”
I smirk and give her my cell number. “I could be persuaded.”
“It won’t be for a while. Like you said earlier, I don’t sleep much. Which kinda makes it hard to have a normal social life.”
“I’m finding it impossible to imagine Ryan as a booty call.”
Cassie smiles slowly. “We had our problems, but … never that.”
Uh. Wow.
Since I don’t want to imagine Ryan having sex, I end the conversation by swinging o
nto my bike. With a wave, I take off down the sidewalk. I don’t look back. Cassie wasn’t like I thought she’d be either; I figured she must be sophisticated, but in fact, she didn’t seem much more together than me. She’s just a person, working hard, trying to save for college. On bad days, I imagine she’s sad and exhausted; on good ones, she probably sees the light at the end of the tunnel, where she’ll have enough cash to attend classes full time for a while. It’s kind of revelational to realize that graduation doesn’t also mean receiving all the answers. This is also depressing. I imagine being fifty-eight years old, still with no idea what the heck is going on.
As I ride home, I consider. Some of my friends, like Ryan, know what they want; he has his future all mapped out. He’s going to MIT, where he’ll major in computer science. Others, like Conrad, are still living at home, three years after graduation, and he doesn’t seem to have any plans at all. I fall somewhere in between. I definitely intend to go to college, and basically, my decision will be driven by the school that offers me the best scholarship. There’s a college in Maine that I would love to attend; I’ve crunched the numbers and if I keep my grades up, I could earn a presidential scholarship at Unity, plus if I factor Aunt Gabby’s income, I’ll be eligible for some financial aid, too. We’re doing okay, but we’re not rich. If I do well on the SAT, it’ll probably cost around eight grand a year, which would be sweet. I’d love to finish college without any student loans.
Before I know it, I’m turning down the drive to my house. Two and a half miles isn’t that far, and it’s still before nine. By this point I’m starving, though, so I can’t wait to see what’s for dinner. Oh my God, yum. She’s made one of my favorite dishes, stuffed peppers.
“I’m home,” I call.
“Good day?” My aunt’s already eaten, judging by the plate beside her on the coffee table. I grab it and take it to the kitchen, then pull my plate out of the oven.
With a contented sigh, I plop down at the end of the sofa and then eat about half of my stuffed peppers, before remembering to praise her cooking. I’m afraid if I don’t, she’ll start doing takeout all the time. “This is so good. Uhm. Just so you know, we’re apparently having a small party on Sunday.”
