by Cassie Mae
It’s a stupid question; I knew it as the words come out of my mouth. I said it anyway. Hope is a funny thing.
She snorts. Yeah, I figured as much.
“How much are they asking?”
“They want to know if we can cover their mortgage this month.”
There goes Christmas money.
Ah, shit. “Will Demi have presents?”
“From us, probably.”
I grit my teeth and hold back the burst of anger rippling through my chest. Maddie isn’t the one I want to direct it to. But seriously, a random drug test got him. He needs to stop it with this shit and take care of his family.
“I got Christmas for her,” I say, my mind scrambling for some idea to give my baby sister a good holiday. “Invite her over to spend the night. I’m sure Mom and Dad will be okay with it.”
Maddie nods, her eyes unfocused on the helmet in her lap. She’s got the competition to focus on—I need to carry a bit more of the responsibility than Christmas.
“I’ll ask for extra hours. We’re packed and lots of people don’t feel like working during winter break. I’m sure I can get some more shifts.”
“Okay.” She nods again, her eyes still unfocused. I know the look—she’s thinking of whether or not to bail them out again.
“Hey,” I say, tapping on her helmet to get her attention. Her eyes drift slowly up to meet mine. “We give them a month. He’s gotta clean up, though. Look for jobs. He has to be able to pass a drug test.”
“And if he doesn’t?” she says, frustration leaking into every syllable. I get it. I’m skeptical, too.
“I say we ask Demi to move in. We’re taking care of her already, aren’t we?”
She runs a hand over her face, messing up her eyebrows. She rubs her temples with her thumb and middle finger. “Who’s gonna take her to school, Pete?”
“I can.”
“On your motorcycle.”
“Sure.”
“In the winter.”
“I’ll get her a really good coat.”
She lets out a laugh that turns quickly into a groan, and now it’s her turn for her face to meet the cushion. “I just don’t know what’s the right thing.”
I pat her head and let her breathe through it. We’ve been here enough with our parents to know how to deal, but this one’s pretty damn rough.
“Your hair’s really gross,” I say, tickling her slightly behind the ear.
“Yeah…”
“Kinda stinks.”
“That’s your upper lip.”
I pinch her earlobe, and she skirts away. When she rises, there’s a small smile in the corner of her mouth. It’s a hopeless smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“We’ll figure out the right thing,” I tell her, even though I’m not sure if I believe it myself.
“We’re kinda awesome like that,” she agrees with the same lack of enthusiasm. She blows out a breath and pushes her helmet back into place.
Boom!
The break room door flies open, and I jump out of my skin. Maddie legit lets out an “oh!”
“Pete?” Candace’s voice comes from near the time clock just out of view.
“Present,” I call back. She storms farther into the room, her eyes dead locked on me. Her red-brown hair is frizzed from her hat, which is hooked onto her belt loop. Her Troublemaker polo has one side of the collar popped and the other lying flat against her shoulder. Her chest heaves up and down, like she bolted the entire way from the kiddie rides to here.
“Teach me how to be bad.”
Candace
A gasp slips through my teeth as my eyes swivel from Pete to the extremely pretty girl next to him. My tongue hits that spot I bit off on the inside of my bottom lip as I say, “Uh… who’s that?”
Pete smirks and he and this girl share a look. Does Pete have a girlfriend? I feel like I would know that about him.
He meets my eyes, ignoring my question altogether. “You want me to teach you… what?”
My tongue continues to push against the canker sore, heat crawling up and down my spine. “This… this is an employee’s only break room,” I squeak out. What if a manager comes in? Will they fire Pete on the spot for using this as a personal make-out closet? He can’t get fired. I need him.
Pete lets out a chuckle, but it sounds a little off. He pats the girl’s knee a couple times, and they both push from the couch. “I better clock back in anyway.”
He’s talking to her, I think, but I answer. “But I need… Something happened and you’re the only… I mean, you’re not completely out of break time, are you?”
Usually Pete has some sort of joke or smirk or something, but his smile is only just there and more like he’s completely exasperated by me. My defenses start to rise. I’m exhausting? Please. He’s the one back here with a non-employee probably touching naughty bits and geez, I’m sorry for penis-blocking, but she’s not supposed to be back here anyway.
I cross my arms, jutting my hip. My Troublemakers cap bumps against my leg, and I push back at the frustration biting at the backs of my eyeballs.
He locks eyes with the cute girl who can pull off a helmet. “We can talk more later.”
“If I’m up,” she says, then they both let out this sigh that’s completely harmonized between them. Her dark brown eyes flick to me, and she gives me a friendly wave. “Sorry for being back here. Drama, drama. Needed a private place to chat, you know?” She kicks her skateboard up and slaps it on her shoulder. “See you at home, Pete.”
She squeezes by me, her skateboard coming awfully close to the time clock on the wall. The heavy break room door shuts with a click behind her.
My mouth hangs open like a dead fish. Okay, I probably owe him an apology for the interruption, but I can’t remember what accusations I said out loud versus what I said internally, and I don’t want another Amber incident when I overanalyze and then make a butt of myself.
Pete crosses his arms and falls sideways until his shoulder hits the wall. “I really gotta clock back in, Candace.”
I shake my head to clear it, but I can’t help myself. “You could’ve gotten caught. Fired, even.”
“I didn’t.” Yeah, there’s something super off about him right now. “And I’m pretty sure you would welcome my termination.”
My brow furrows, and as he pushes off the wall to step around me, I quickly jump in his way. “I don’t want you fired.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.” His joke falls flat, and concern pulls at my heartstrings. “If you really mean that, you’ll let me clock in.”
“But… I need to—”
“No offense, Candace, but I don’t have the energy or the time to help you become, what was it? Badass?”
I want to correct him. I wouldn’t say the a-word, even if it’s attached to another word. But since he doesn’t seem in the mood, I keep that comment locked in my brain.
“I won’t take too much of your time or energy,” I say, rushing my words as he scoots around me. He plucks his time card from the pile hanging on the wall and slips it in to punch. “I only need some tips. Maybe someone to help me through the more difficult stuff.”
I’m desperate. Images of last night’s art class start floating to my brain, the edges hazy as I try to stay in the hallway with Pete. I don’t want to admit to him what a walking, talking joke I am. He probably already knows.
He puts his time card in his slot and shakes his head. “Seriously, Candace, I can’t. I just got a dump loaded on my plate, and I’ll most likely be working day in and out for the foreseeable future. My free time is gonna be for eating, sleeping, and peeing.” A small smile cracks on his face, and I’m happy to see some of the usual Pete is still in there. “Like a wittle baby.”
He makes a cradle motion, and it gets a laugh out of me. I follow him out of the break room, jogging to keep up with his long strides toward Wheel Zone.
“You need overtime?” I ask.
“And then some.”
�
��What if I paid you?”
He stops in his tracks, and I skid to a halt. His brow lifts above his light brown eyes. “You want to pay me to hang out with you?”
“Don’t say it like that.” I playfully swat his arm that is annoyingly showing off his tattoos instead of being covered like it’s supposed to. “I need a tutor. I’ll be paying you to teach me the skills you’ve perfected over your years of flouting the rules.”
He lets out his signature laugh, and I’m happy to hear it, especially after his unexplained moodiness. A group of kids run past, and he lightly grabs my elbow to move us out of the way. We get to the hallway leading from the arcade to the 3D room. The place has stone walls, only lit by dim theater lights. The ambiance is completely appropriate to how much I do not want to talk about this.
“How much?” he asks, and I perk up at his sudden change of attitude. He’s considering it, so I don’t want to lowball him.
Dad paid private tutors around two-hundred a lesson, depending on what the subject was and how long it was taught. That should be fair for a good ol’ lesson in rebellion.
“Two hundred.”
He scoffs and turns. “Pass.”
“Hey!” I yell at his back. “Two hundred a lesson is completely fair if you ask me,” I spit, anger rising up my spine. What does he want? I may have money, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be taken advantage of.
He stops dead in the dark hallway, his eyes slowly meeting mine over his shoulder. “Two hundred a lesson?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I thought you were saying two hundred total.”
“Well, at two hundred a lesson, three lessons a week, that would be twenty-four hundred for the month, which is all I’m asking for.”
He makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like he’s choking on his own spit. A few more teens pass through the hallway, and he doesn’t move an inch to the left or right, making the group part around him like the Red Sea.
“You… you got that kind of money?”
“I’m good for it, if that’s what you’re asking.” I tap my hat, my fingers shaking at the possibility of him actually taking me up on the offer. “I can pay you half now, half when the month is over.”
I can’t see the details of his face, and I really wish I could. I wish I knew what the heck he was thinking. Does he think I’m absolutely nuts? Honestly, I don’t even care if he does think that.
He takes a step toward me, his face coming into the dim light. His lips are slightly parted, his breath coming out in fast wisps. His eyes are on me, not leaving as he makes his way to just within reach.
His shirt is untucked. I’m trying to be okay with that.
“Why?” he asks.
“Huh?”
He takes another step toward me. I stand my ground. “Why is this so important to you?”
I dart my gaze to another group passing. I’m not one for lying, even when the truth is so darn embarrassing. I can already hear Pete’s laughter once I admit what happened. But I suppose as my teacher, he should know what he’s up against.
“You know Zach?”
“The guy you attempted to woo, yes.”
His voice is teasing, and I try to use that to bolster my confidence. “He’s the model for my art class, and I like him… you know that already… and we’ve been painting his upper body mostly, since that’s where his tattoos are and my teacher was like, well, let’s get into detail painting. I love detail painting for sure, and with how many tattoos he’s got, it’s a good assignment, and I’m not complaining about the art process or anything, but I’m not too awesome at the realism stuff—”
“Get to the point, Candace,” he says with a smile, and I stop my babbling and take a deep breath.
“Up until last night, we were painting waist up. Then Zach came in with a robe on, and our teacher said—”
“Ah…” Pete nods knowingly, his eyes closing for a brief second. “Have you seen a naked man before, sweet innocent Candace?”
I smack him again. “Yes. Kind of.”
“Meaning?”
“I saw the end of Midsommar.” My face twists as I remember the movie I was promised was not a horror by Amber, but it totally was. “The thing was flopping all over the place.” I wave my arm around like the penis did in the movie, nearly knocking the 3D glasses off some girl walking by.
His shoulders move in silent laughter, and I squeeze in tighter by the wall.
“Anyway.” I lower my voice. Pete leans in to hear. He smells strongly of floor cleaner. “I kind of ran out of the class before I saw him—”
“Naked.”
“I was going to say disrobed.”
“Of course.”
“I waited around after, though. I wanted to… well, ask him out.”
“How’d it go?”
I tilt my head. “What do you think?”
He leans back, pushing his shoulder against the wall. There’s a look that’s similar to pity resting in his light brown irises, and no, no… don’t want that.
I blow out a breath and give the stone wall some great eye contact. “He said I’m not his type.” I gulp hard, swallowing away the crack in my voice. “He knows me all of three seconds and already figures I’m not”—I drop to a whisper—“bad-a enough for him.”
I wait for Pete to laugh at my edited swear or the fact I can’t deal with seeing a penis or simply laugh at me as a whole, but he doesn’t. He’s silent for forever and a day.
“Okay… not saying no, but I gotta ask,” he says, and my gaze picks up to meet his. “Are you doing this for a guy you know all of three seconds?”
“A little,” I admit. I won’t tell him I fell in love with Zach the second he walked in the door. That would get a laugh out of anyone. But it’s more than just that. Zach’s words just might have kicked me over the edge on something I’ve thought for a while. “For real, though, Pete? I’m not happy with who I am. I don’t like being so uptight and inflexible. I want to be different, but I have no clue how to do it.”
He blinks slowly, his lashes long and so not fair. His dark hair is an absolute mess, his shirt still untucked, his khaki uniform pants wet along the bottom, his left shoe untied. He’s chaos and doesn’t care one bit, and I’m jealous of him.
“You ready for your first lesson?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. A skip hits my chest, and my spine straightens. I nod emphatically, opting not to question his decision to do this for me.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pen. He has an unclicked pen in the back of his khaki pants. Yikes! I bet there are so many ink stains back there.
He lifts his hand, tucking the pen into my very messy ponytail. I try to keep my cringe at bay at the fact that it’s still clicked open.
“Make a list.” He smirks. “I know you love those.”
He’s right. “A list of what?”
“Everything that scares you.”
My brows lift, and I reach up for the pen, click it closed, then put it in my front pocket where it belongs. “Prepare for a lot of reading.”
Pete
Candace and I both worked the morning shifts that Sunday, so she sent me a message asking if we could start her “rebelessons.” I told her sure, as long as she never calls them that again.
My bike sputters as I turn, following her instructions to get to her place. Damn, her neighborhood is nice—better than anywhere I’ve lived, that’s for sure. Each property I pass has gates and about three acres of yard stretched out before I could reach a front door. It looks—and smells—like there are quite a few farmers out here. Even in the light snow falling from the early December sky, the stench of manure carries in the wind.
I push up my face covering, my breath keeping my cheeks warm. Maddie gave me such shit when I came home with Gertrude, a name that has stuck since I gave it to my bike a few days ago. But I saved a ton of money, and she didn’t have to take me every which way anymore.
The road starts to thin out up ahead
, turning into one lane. Another bonus of a bike is I’m not too concerned about someone driving down opposite me. The gravel gets a bit muddier the farther I go, kicking the snow up my legs. Brown spots spatter my gloves as I put the bike into the next gear and accelerate.
I hope Candace has got a hot cup of coffee for me or something. Whiskey is probably too much to hope for right now, even though I could sure use a drink.
The fact I’m even here is laughable. When I told Maddie I found a holiday job that worked with my Troublemakers schedule, I lied through my teeth about the details. Luckily she didn’t ask too much about it once I told her how much I’d have by the end of the month.
When I agreed, it wasn’t until I got home that I realized I didn’t know what the hell I was going to teach her. Candace, of course, being Candace, sent me a color-coded spreadsheet of all her fears at exactly 9:30 this morning. Printed out, the thing was four pages.
The list is jammed into my saddlebag, folded into quarters, probably getting a little water-logged. She sent me a PDF, too, though, so if I have to, I can look it up on my phone. Knowing her, she probably printed out her own copy, laminated it, and stuck it on the fridge next to a packet of “You got this!” stickers.
I chuckle at the thought, the road turning back to freshly paved asphalt. Through the light snow and the slight fog on my goggles, I see an ivy-covered gate with a decorative family emblem in the center.
Uh… do I knock? Is there a button somewhere? I pull the bike up and dismount, my muddy boots creating tracks across the road.
The gate extends out to a thick wooden post. Carved in the wood are intricate designs—horses, horseshoes, cowboy hats… that kind of thing. Someone’s got money for such a customized gate. Well, and I guess the house too that I still can’t see.
After searching through the overgrown, dying ivy, my fingers finally slip over an intercom button.
“Hello?” Who the hell knows if I’m supposed to talk, but I do it anyway. I’ve only seen these things in movies. I jut my gaze upward, searching for a camera.
Snow falls against my forehead, and I use my covering to wipe it off.
