by Maria Padian
“People wear earrings in the grocery store,” I say as nonchalantly as possible. “It’s allowed.”
He scrambles off the Scrouch. “You smell good, too.”
“I just took a shower.”
“Not like soap. Like . . .”
“Mami? Do we need anything? Milk?” I have to escape before my secret-sensing brother sniffs out my plan.
“No. Thank you.” She doesn’t even look at me. She’s that mad. Still.
As I grab a few bills from the change jar on the counter, I toss Jack a bone. Which should shut him up.
“Cheetos?” I whisper, winking.
He jumps up and down, clapping, as I head out to the grocery store/meetup with Sam.
I had given it a full hour before replying to his Got a minute? It went down like this:
Me: What’s up?
Sam (thirty seconds later): No worries if you’re busy.
Me (thinking I’ve overplayed my hand and waited too long): I’m with people—that’s all. (Actually, customers at a fairly awful convenience store, but hoping he’ll imagine me with a pack of friends, sipping lattes at some cool place.) Everything ok?
Sam: Yeah. Later?
Me: When? (Trying to appear so incredibly busy, I need to schedule a time to fit him in.)
Sam (immediately): Whenever
Me (long pause because it’s very complicated figuring out my fake social schedule and pretending to be distracted by all the “people” vying for my attention at an amazing, fun location): 7?
Sam (two minutes passed, the boy was thinking): 7 mins from now or 7:00?
Me (duh?): 7:00. P.M.
Sam (long pause, how complicated could this be?): k. Perry’s?
I stared at my phone. Perry’s actually is a latte-sipping location. It’s this trying-hard-to-be-Bohemian hangout on Clayton’s downtown pedestrian mall, selling beverages for more than I make in an hour. I’ve walked by its plate-glass front window a zillion times, behind which rich girls cluster in chatty packs around the distressed-wood tables, nursing oversized, steaming mugs.
It’s not the sort of place where you find Izzy Crawford.
Sitting with Sam Shackelton.
But that’s what he suggested.
I stared at my phone so long, he double-texted.
Sam: ??
Me: Sure see you at 7
Seven is a quiet time at Perry’s: the evening crowd hasn’t arrived yet, and the late-afternoon caffeine addicts are long gone. But even if the place had been packed, I’d have spotted Sam at the back corner table. He wears this light blue shirt that sort of glows, and raises his hand in a friendly wave when he sees me. Nowhere close to a “Woo-hoo!” but I’d swear there’s a genetic similarity.
He stands as I approach. It’s sort of old-school and formal.
“Hey,” he says, flashing one of his ready-for-prime-time smiles. His eyes flit from my earrings to my blouse. He notices. It was totally worth setting off Jack’s alarm bells just to see this reaction. He looks confused. Like he came to play checkers but I pulled out a chess set. Because this isn’t a date. Right? “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem,” I say, slipping into the chair opposite his. There are two full glasses of water on our table.
“Can I get you anything?” Sam asks.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say. I’ve calculated that I have seventy-five cents to spare in my wallet. That’s because after Perry’s, I need to stop by the grocery store to pick up tampons and Cheetos. Can’t return home empty-handed.
“They have awesome steamers here,” he says. “Sure you won’t let me treat you? They crush the salted caramel.”
I love salted caramel.
“Ooh. I may have to let you,” I say.
Sam smiles again (I’m sorry, but where is the chipped tooth, Aubrey?) and heads over to the counter to place our order. As Barista Girl #1 works her magic with the espresso machine, Sam chats with Barista Girl #2 behind the register. They know each other. And she seems especially curious about who he’s with. More than once I catch her peering around his shoulder toward our table, trying to get a better look.
I’m guessing this sighting of Sam Shackelton sharing steamers at Perry’s with someone who is not Melissa will make the rounds of East Clayton’s info network before the night is over.
Sam returns with two massive mugs filled to the brim. A caramel-colored leaf design adorns the foam atop each. I have no idea how they do that.
“Those are beautiful. And huge!”
He sets them on the table without spilling a drop. “You seem like the type of girl who isn’t afraid of a large.” Then turns a horrified shade of red when he sees my expression. Like I can’t decide between laughing or dumping the entire steamer over his head.
“That did not come out right,” he tries to explain.
“No, it did not,” I agree.
“You are not large. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”
I’m not sure how to respond. He’s not making things better.
“I was actually trying to compliment you,” he continues.
Which confuses me. A compliment . . . how?
“I mean,” he tries again. At this point, he’s stammering a bit. “I—I hate the way girls don’t eat in front of guys. You know? Like, we’ll go out in a group, and all the guys order burgers and shakes and the girls share salads?”
I blow on my steamer and take a careful sip. He’s right. It’s delicious.
“Actually, I have no idea what you’re talking about. The girls I hang out with love burgers and shakes. And fries. Don’t forget the fries.”
“Exactly! You seem like the sort of girl who orders a full portion of real food and eats it.”
“Sam, are you trying to tell me I’m fat?”
“Wow.” He plants his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands. When he looks up, his eyes are full of pleading. “I would love to have the last thirty seconds back. Would you do that for me?”
I hesitate. “Fine. You get a do-over. But only because this steamer is amazing,” I tell him. Which is true: I’m not leaving until I drink the whole thing. Plus torturing him about his awkwardness is way fun. His shoulders slump in relief as I take another sip.
“Thank you,” he says. “First, I don’t think you’re fat.”
“Not that it matters,” I add. “Or is anyone’s business if I was.”
“That’s right,” he says.
“Body shaming is a terrible thing, Sam,” I continue. “I hope you’re not that guy?”
“I’m not,” he assures me. I’m also guessing from his expression that he’s never heard the term “body shaming.” Ah, Sam.
“What I was trying—and failing—to say is that you seem like a confident, direct sort of girl. Not afraid to say what you want. Or be who you are.”
Now it’s my turn to be off-balance. I wasn’t expecting that. Not only because it actually is an incredible compliment but also because I had no idea Sam Shackelton had any impression of me. Let alone such a cool impression.
Let alone such a completely wrong impression.
I decide not to correct him.
“Thank you,” I tell him instead. “That’s a very nice thing to say.”
He looks relieved. Like he’s just been told his life sentence has been commuted to ten years. With time served. “Well, it’s how you come across. And how my sister talks about you. If you haven’t already figured it out, she’s your number one fan.”
“Yeah, I’m kind of getting that.”
“Which is what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says.
Another surprise. I’d assumed we were here to talk about the beer.
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know if he can trust me. I mean, no one’s supposed to be underage drinking, but Sam Sh
ackelton and his friends could blow their entire high school basketball careers out of the water if they get caught violating their athletic pledges against drinking.
He needs me to keep my mouth shut. Steamers and a face-to-face is a thinly veiled attempt at damage control. Or so I thought.
“You want to talk about Aubrey?” I ask him.
He nods. “How’s she doing?”
“Fine, I guess. I mean, you live with her. You’d know better than me.”
Is it my imagination, or does he wince when I say that? Like I’ve pressed my thumb into a bruise.
“You’d think that’d be true,” he says carefully. “That we know what’s going on with the people we live with? Unfortunately, that’s not the case with Bree.” Something in his tone signals that this conversation has taken a turn for the serious.
“Did she ever tell you why she transferred to St. V’s?” he asks.
“She told me she was bullied at County,” I say. “By one of your exes.” I decide to live up to his expectations that I’m a straight shooter.
But now he definitely winces. “I can’t believe I dated her. When we broke up, she chose to get back at me by going after my sister. What’s that line from Shakespeare? Something about hell has no fury . . .”
“‘Like a woman scorn’d,’” I finish for him. It’s not actually Shakespeare who wrote it, but I’m not about to confirm my Dork Status by telling him that. Besides, I get what Sam means. Even in the sixteen hundreds, that’s how it went down. Some things never change.
“Problem was,” he continues, “Bree didn’t tell us. She was getting ripped to shreds on social media, and my parents and I had no clue. Finally, Melissa saw some of the posts and let us know. We got it taken down and the girl responsible got in trouble, but Bree was a mess. At one point she wouldn’t get out of bed. Literally, wouldn’t move. It was really bad.”
I find it interesting that Melissa was the person who alerted the Shackeltons to Aubrey’s bullying. Was this before, or after, she started dating Sam?
“Aubrey told me a little about it. I’m so sorry that happened. She’s a nice kid.”
“It was really bad,” he repeats. “We thought we were going to lose her.” He stops for a moment. There’s something hard in his voice and expression as he reveals this. As if he’s working to control his emotions.
“But she got help,” he continues. “And meds. Did she tell you that?”
“No, she didn’t,” I say quietly. I’m guessing she wants to keep that part of her story private.
“We’re lucky,” he says, taking a deep breath. “She’s living her life again. Likes school. Really likes her new friends.” Is it my imagination, or does he say that last bit with emphasis?
“Lucky,” I repeat.
Sam looks surprised. I guess something in my voice suggests I take issue with the word.
“I’m sorry?” he says.
“It’s just . . . I’m not a big fan of luck. It cuts both ways. Plus it’s random. And undeserved. I mean, perfectly nice people get hit by drunk drivers. Awful people win the lottery. That’s luck for you.”
Sam leans back in his chair. He stares at me as if I’m a just-arrived mail-order item he doesn’t remember ever buying.
“You sound like you speak from experience,” he says.
“My dad,” I say. “He was a Marine. He died in Iraq. He had the bad luck to be riding in a Humvee that got blown up by an IED.”
“A what?”
“Sorry. I forget not everyone knows military lingo. Improvised explosive device.”
Sam doesn’t bother to hide his shock. “I’m so sorry. Was this recent?”
I shake my head. “Six years ago. I was ten. Listen, I don’t mean to get all morbid on you. It’s just . . . well, I guess ‘luck’ is a trigger for me. I try to avoid it.”
“Good luck with that,” he says.
We both laugh. Then sit in silence, waiting for the other to pick up where we left off. Sam swirls what’s left in his cup, staring at the deflated foam spinning round.
“What was he like?” he asks.
“My dad?”
“Yeah.”
The question startles me. I cannot remember the last time anyone asked. Come to think of it, I don’t think anyone has ever asked. They usually move on. Politely. As if talking about the dead is bad manners. I used to think this was a white people thing, because Latinos practically set a place at the table for their dead relatives. I know Abuela still lights a candle for Daddy at daily Mass (and makes a point of telling Mami). For our Mexican friends, El Día de los Muertos is bigger than Halloween.
I don’t get the silence. When you’ve lost someone, you could talk about them all day.
So even though I should totally know better? I can’t resist.
“He was . . . wonderful,” I hear myself say.
“Tell me three things that made him wonderful,” Sam says.
“Wow. Well. He was big. Like, six five or something. He towered over my mother. She’s very petite. So, for a little kid? He was a giant. We’d play this game where he’d let me climb him. Like a tree.”
Sam laughs, nodding as if this is something he can picture.
“He was fun. Everything was a game. His pancakes were always animal shapes, and his trips to the grocery store were always scavenger hunts. He had endless positive energy.
“And for three? I guess I’d say he was a people person. He was always throwing parties, especially cookouts. He’d have loved your grill.”
Sam does his supercute head-tilt thing.
“My grill?”
Oh damn. Damn. Damnity damn damn. This. Is. Why.
This is why I keep my mouth shut and my story to myself.
I suppress the urge to race from Perry’s as if my life depended on it. Forget I ever met Sam—and Aubrey—Shackelton. Maybe convince Mami to homeschool me because I sure can’t transfer to the public school now.
All not happening. So instead, I force what I hope is a casual laugh but suspect sounds somewhat maniacal.
“Aubrey pointed it out to me. When I was over at your house the other day?”
He’s not convinced. He and I both know it was pitch-dark in their backyard when I dropped Aubrey off the other night, and there is no way in hell I could have seen the grill. Not to mention it would have been totally bizarre for it to come up in conversation.
I need to pivot. Fast.
“Speaking of Aubrey . . . I apologize,” I continue. “Here you are, wanting to talk about her, and I’m hijacking the conversation!” It’s a desperate attempt.
But it works.
“Yes. You think she’s doing okay?” Sam says.
“She seems really happy,” I say. “Of course, on a scale of one to enthusiastic, she’s . . .”
“Over the top?” he suggests.
“Refreshingly exuberant,” I offer. We both laugh. “Is she really like that, or is it the meds?”
“She’s really like that,” he says, his tone somewhere between exhaustion and exasperation.
“Well. She’s crazy talented,” I say. “I didn’t know someone our age could make their vocal cords do that.”
“I know, right?” he agrees. “What’s really crazy is that we had to convince her she was good! I mean, can’t she hear herself?”
“That’s wild,” I say. I glance into my mug, which is almost empty. Which means it’s time to vamos. Before I say something else stupid.
“But here’s the thing,” he continues. “In case something changes with her? We don’t want to miss it. Again.”
“We.” He’s talking about his parents. Did they send him on this mission? Ask him to meet me here and gather intelligence about Aubrey?
It’s not a date. He has a girlfriend. This wasn’t ever anything. But I feel the thrill of this no
ndate escape my heart like a slow-leaking balloon.
“So would you do something for me, Izzy?”
Name it, Sam. Anything.
“Look out for her? Let me know if something seems off? Any little thing that might be upsetting her?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.” He leans back in his chair and exhales deeply. “You know, she really likes you.”
“Well, she’s an excellent judge of character,” I quip. Which earns me another adorable head-tilt and sort-of smile. Sam looks at me like I’m some Rubik’s Cube or other puzzle he can’t quite figure out. Yeah. Time to go. I gather my bag and stand. “Thanks for the steamer. You were right, best salted caramel ever.”
We walk out together. “Thank you for coming. I hope I didn’t get in the way of any plans you have for tonight.” He tosses that out there. Fishing.
“Nope,” I tell him. “My plans are intact.” A grocery store run, then maybe a few rounds of Uno with my little brother. It’s a big night. But by all means, let your imagination run wild, Sam.
We exit Perry’s, but before parting ways he pauses. “I, um, also want to thank you for not saying anything to my sister about the little postgame celebration the other night.”
Finally. Took you long enough to get around to the beer.
You’re so stupid, Isabella.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
Sam looks surprised. There’s no mistaking the edge in my voice.
“Are a couple of beers in the pool house worth ruining your season? I mean, I’m not going to tell anyone. But most people can’t keep their mouths shut. You guys could get caught.”
Judging from his reaction, I’m guessing gorgeous Sam Shackelton isn’t used to girls talking to him like this. His face sort of locks while his cheeks burn. Like a six-foot five-year-old caught eating cookies before dinner. Who has never gotten in trouble before.
Or never lost anything that mattered to him. If he had, he wouldn’t be so careless.
“Wow,” he finally says. “Are you always this honest?”
“No,” I reply honestly. “Hardly ever, in fact. I should go now. Thanks again for the steamer.”
I turn before he can reply, hurrying to the back-alley parking area behind Perry’s, the metal-tipped heels of my boots flinting against the very real cobblestones. Kind of like my racing thoughts, kicking up sparks as I head to the grocery store to collect Cheetos and tampons.
