by Cassie Mae
“Grease…?”
“The movie.”
“Oh, haven’t seen it.”
My brows lift. Can’t believe I’m the one who has out of the two of us. “Okay… My point is that I could just dress you up to get the guy, but it won’t hit the root of what you want. You said you’re not happy, right? So we gotta help you be a bit more daring.”
“And then a makeover?”
I chuckle. “Maybe.” Though I can’t imagine Candace outside of her Troublemakers uniform. Right now she’s in a soft-looking, pastel blue sweater and what are probably designer jeans. They fit her personality, and I don’t think she needs a makeover at all, but what the hell do I know?
The laminated list makes a wobbly sound as I wiggle it straight. I focus on the red and orange page. There are only two yellows down at the very bottom.
“Okay,” I say, turning the page toward her. “Close your eyes and point.”
A grin hits her lips, like she likes the idea of picking a random fear to tackle. She puts a hand over her eyes and uses her other to pick. She spins her forefinger around before jabbing it forward, catching my knuckle with her perfectly manicured finger.
“Whoops!” She laughs and slides the finger off my knuckle and onto the list. I peer around it, gently moving her hand so I can read what she landed on.
“It just says white.” I lower the list while she lowers her hand from her eyes and blinks to adjust to the light. “Care to elaborate on that one?”
She adjusts the blanket around her lap, making sure not to uncover my legs in the process. I’m pretty warm though, now.
“I don’t like the color white.”
“I thought you liked all the colors.”
“Yes, but when there is a lack of color…” She shivers, and I can’t help but chuckle. “It’s the feeling that there might be spaces without any hue or texture or vibrancy. It’s completely void of life. It’s creepy.”
“So… a white Christmas ain’t your thing?”
“I like snow, but only when you can see other colors.”
“Like yellow?”
“You had to go there.” She rolls her eyes at my immaturity. “I meant like green. Or even gray… like sludge.”
“I don’t mind sludge.” Stepping in the thick, dirt-caked snow was one of my favorite childhood pastimes I had when my dad wasn’t such a case. We’d go out there and kick it off the bottom of the truck just to stomp on it with our boots, leaving rough prints behind.
“Sludge shows signs of life.” A slight smile hits her lips, and her eyes start to light up. She must be reliving things, too. At least they’re pleasant ones. “Whenever there is a snowfall, and I catch animal tracks all across the ground, it’s like this huge relief. But when it’s just smooth and untouched?” She makes a gagging sound. “It’s terrifying.”
“Do you ever paint with white?” Can’t believe how fascinated I am by this conversation, and how her irrational fear seems, well, rational.
“Yes. But using white on a palate next to all the colors is leagues different than sitting in an all white room.”
“Has that ever happened?”
“Only in my imagination. And my nightmares.”
“You probably can’t handle blank pages then, either.”
“Nope.”
I smirk and let my eyes fall to the colors of the blanket. Now her choice in décor makes a lot of sense. There was a house I remember growing up that was in the snob nob of our neighborhood, and the entire thing was monochromatic, and their color scheme was white upon white upon white. It did feel unwelcoming, almost as if life wasn’t allowed in it.
Her blanket alone has all the colors imaginable. Red, green, orange, brown… Wait. That brown spot is moving.
“Oh shit.”
She tilts her head. “What?”
“I found him.”
She follows my gaze before I can tell her to not freak out, but her eyes widen and the scream of a banshee rocks my eardrums. The blanket flies over my head, and she’s off the couch in the same second.
The spider is probably in my hair now, and I whip the blanket off and get up with her, searching for the little guy who is definitely not from Australia.
“He’s there, there!” Candace shrieks, pointing directly by my bare feet, but I don’t see anything. I search my body, swiping a shaking hand down my front. I’m not a fan of spiders either, but I don’t want her seeing me unable to handle it.
“Where?” I say, spinning in a circle. She lunges for one of my muddy boots and slams it down to the floor. She repeats the action, whacking the floor with thick thuds. Chunks of dried mud fly every which way, my shoelaces whipping around and nearly catching her in the eye.
After the tenth hit, she freezes, her chest heaving. She slowly rises from the floor.
“You killed it.”
Her wide eyes lift, my muddy boot clutched in her hand. Her mouth pops open in absolute horror and shock, and damn if it doesn’t make my heart take a few extra beats to compose itself.
“Guess I am just an… an…”
“You don’t have to say it.”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “Okay.”
The boot falls from her fingers, landing to the floor with a loud thud. She swallows so hard that the sound echoes over the crackling fire.
“Um… Guess you’ve earned your money, teach.”
“Huh?”
“Twelve hundred, right?” She moves around the couch, her hands still shaking as she digs into her purse resting by the coat rack. She briskly walks to me, a chunk of cash in her hand. “Half now, half after, right?”
“Right.” I shake my head, taking the money. Silly me. I was having so much fun, I completely forgot that the cash is the whole reason I’m here.
Candace
I’m working every day this week, including Saturday and Sunday nights, so Pete and I are going to have to figure out how the heck we’re going to do bad girl lessons.
I weave through shoppers and head to the clothing section, my face nose deep into my phone. I’ve got the Wheel Zone Wednesday and Friday with Tanner, the bowling alley tomorrow with Aislynn, and the 3D Zombie Killer on Thursday and Saturday with Josh. I am working with Pete on Sunday in the Laser Zone, but that’s not going to be enough.
I nibble the inside of my bottom lip and scroll through everyone’s zones to see who I can trade with—or who will be willing to trade, anyway.
Timing my lessons over a holiday may not have been the smartest idea.
Let it Snow plays over the store’s intercom, the jingle bells in the accompaniment tinkling as I bounce to a rack of ripped jeans.
What is the point of these? If I’m buying clothing, I want them to be intact, no matter the style. I pull out a pair in my size, my lip curling at the rips that travel from ankle to hip. I mean, at that point, why wear pants at all?
I shake my head and hook them back on the rack. Pete said a makeover wasn’t the answer, but come on… Zach wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to hang out with me, and the only thing he has to go off of is my style.
Zach’s seen me in my apron I use for art class and my Troublemaker’s uniform. So I basically have a blank canvas to work with when it comes to my casual wear. I don’t think he’ll be impressed by my high necklines and too clean bottoms. Even my paint doesn’t get anywhere near my clothing. I’m super good at covering my canvas and not myself.
I veer to the crop tops—a section I’ve never ventured near—and start to slide the choices back and forth. One says, “I love life and coffee.” Not exactly accurate for me… Next.
“Leave me alone.” Nope.
“I probably hate you.” Nope.
“I like the sound you make when you shut up.” Really?
Does that shirt say the d-word?
I sigh and grab the life and coffee one, even though I don’t really like the taste. Frappuccinos are okay, though. Close enough.
After perusing the rest of the clothing section a
nd finding some cute things I'd usually buy in a heartbeat, I pass them all up and grab those torn jeans instead. Might as well dive in head first.
“Ho ho ho!” A Santa set up beyond where I can see has some vocals on him. As I duck out of the clothing section and head to the checkout, the line extends clear out and around electronics and toys. I push up on tip-toe to see if I can get around it, but there's no way. I'm going to have to go through the holiday section just to get up front.
I turn around, tossing the clothes over my shoulder. I wonder if I should get shoes too. But I won't get them here. I have better luck online when it comes to footwear. Department stores never carry my size.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to Tanner's bubbly face on IM.
We've got a couple shifts together this week. Wanna carpool?
He's always offering. I'm pretty sure he has a tiny crush on me, and I don't want to be rude, but I also don't want to lead him on.
Let me check. I might have to switch a few shifts around, so I'll let you know. :)
The smiley face should be friendly enough. I put my phone back and grumble at myself. I'm trying to be bad, dang it. And I'm worried about emojis.
Maybe I should call Pete… let him know I might need more lessons than we thought. But I think the universe is looking out, because I turn the corner and bam, there he is.
The aisle is set up in all the trappings, artificial trees bursting with lights and color. Pete’s got his hands shoved into his back pockets, a motorcycle jacket hanging open to reveal a dark blue tee. He’s eyeing the trees like he’s trying to disarm a bomb.
A smile hits my lips, and I skip over, hip-checking him as a greeting. “Fancy seeing you here.”
The shock in his light brown eyes sparkles for a split second before turning into amusement. The dimple in the corner of his mouth makes an appearance.
“Either my lessons are already kicking in, or you’re getting bolder.”
“I’ve always been bold with you.” Totally accurate. Pete is approachable, unlike me. It’s another check on the list I made before hiring him. “Thinking of getting an artificial tree this year?”
His gaze swivels to the abundance of tree displays, and he nods. “The one I got is a bit small.”
“What about a real tree?”
“A real tree means I gotta buy one every year.”
“And…?”
He rolls his head, eyeing me with a look that clearly says my privilege is showing. I give him a funny face as an apology, and he chuckles.
“I take it you’ve got a real tree?”
“You were at my house yesterday. I have no tree.”
“You gonna get that one?” He nods to an all-white tree with white lights twinkling in between the fake needles.
“No.”
“Why not? It’s your favorite color.”
“Ha ha.” I bump him with my shoulder. “Why don’t you get it?”
“Demi likes purple.”
My brow furrows. “Who’s Demi?” Maybe she’s that girl who was with him at Troublemakers. Does he live with his girlfriend? Or have a girl roommate? If he has a girlfriend, is she okay with him hanging out one-on-one with me?
His dimple pops up again as he watches my inner struggle that’s clearly written all over my non-poker face. “She’s my sister.”
A warm sense of relief cracks open like a water balloon, dripping down from my crown to my toes. “You live with your sister?”
“Yes, but not that one.”
I wrinkle my nose and cross my arms, my clothes swinging from my forefinger. “You’re doing that on purpose. Being ambiguous.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, stop it.”
He chuckles and reaches for the box with a bright purple tree picture on the front. “I live with my older sister, Maddie. Demi is the baby.”
“And you’re buying a purple tree for someone who doesn’t live with you…”
“She’s gonna spend Christmas with us this year,” he says through a strained voice as he hoists the box upright. “I want to make it special for her.”
My eyes widen, and my heart swells, and he calls me out.
“You can hold your awww for a later date.”
“Well, now I don’t want to,” I tease then drop my eyes to the giant box. “How are you going to get it home on Gertrude?”
He looks surprised that I remember his hog’s name. “They got delivery.”
“I can drive it for you if you want.” It’s not like I have anywhere to be. Art class and work are the only things I ever do, and I don’t have either today. “Plenty of cargo space in my ride.”
“No thanks,” he says so fast I jerk back and kink my neck.
“Don’t want me knowing where you live?” I say it like a joke, but he nods.
“After being at your house? Hell no.”
Well, that sucks. I equally hate and love having money. People who stick around me usually are using me because of my money, and people who don’t care about it often feel intimidated. Maybe I should ask Dad to cut me off…
After art school.
“If it helps, I don’t pay for my house,” I say, annoyance dabbing at the edge of my voice. I shake my head slightly, hoping the irritation will go away.
His brow lifts, and that dimple of his is still twitching. Thank goodness he’s still being light-hearted. “That just makes it super unfair.”
I let out a soft laugh and back up a step as he tosses the box up on his shoulder. “Are you sure?” I prod. The box wobbles, and I worry about him making it to check out, let alone home. “Last chance.”
“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret.” He waves me forward, and I lean in close enough to smell his breath. Cherry candy canes. Hmm… Maybe he saw Santa. “I recently came into some money,” he says with a knowing glint in his golden eyes, “and I’m okay paying the twenty-five dollar delivery fee.”
I shove him, his cherry candy cane breath making me a bit weak at the knees, and I do not need that from Pete. “I was only being courteous.”
“You’re supposed to be a badass, remember?”
“Right. I take the offer back!”
He laughs that too-loud laugh, grabbing the attention of a girl our age on the other side of the trees. She’s smiling super wide as she eyes him up and down. She’s totally checking out his butt.
I follow her gaze—completely involuntary—and then jut my eyes to the ceiling.
Pete has a great butt. It’s now imprinted in my brain. Yay… that’ll be fun for me.
“What you got there?” He gestures to the clothes hanging from my hand. Oh good, he didn’t notice my subconscious ogling. “Not exactly your style.”
“That’s the point.”
“Too impatient for my makeover advice, huh?”
Yes. “What do you think?” I hold it up to myself. “Does it say I’m shutting down the party or joining in?”
“I don’t think it matters what I think.”
My smile drops. “That’s what all guys say when they don’t want to say what they think.”
“It is a safe answer.” He adjusts the box on his shoulder, his neck turning a little red. “Well, I’m gonna cart this up to the front. See you on Saturday?”
“If we can switch shifts, yeah.” We both work Saturday, but maybe he hasn’t seen the schedule yet.
“I figured we’d do lessons in the morning. Unless you’ve got plans.”
“Sort of… but you can help me with them.”
He smirks. “Elaborate.”
“I have to take the horses out. Stretch their legs a bit.” It’s my payment for the mortgage. Every Saturday morning I head to the stables and take care of Mona Lisa, June, and Pearl. Dad really is super easy on me.
“For real?” His eyes light up, and I’m reminded of when I told Mom I was going to art school. She was ecstatic. “Mind if I bring someone?”
“Elaborate,” I say, using his word.
“Ma
ddie loves horses. And she could use a good day.”
“Are all brothers like you? Because where do I sign up for one?”
“So it’s okay?”
“Sure. But warn her that I’m in training, and anything I say or do can’t be held against me in first impression status.”
“You got it.” His face turns redder by the second. He really should either check out or put the box down if he wants to chit chat some more. “Though, you’ve already met.”
“We have?”
“I’m gonna let you think about that.” He turns, and I duck so I don’t get whacked in the head by a Christmas tree. “See you Saturday.”
“If not sooner!” I call at his retreating back. “I’m going to be playing around with my schedule.”
“Just don’t disappoint Tanner again!” he shouts across the aisle. Great, even he knows that Tanner won’t be too happy with me if I decide to swap.
I’ve got art class tomorrow after work. If things go as badly as they did last time, forget Tanner’s unrequited feelings. I’m going to need as much time with Pete as possible if I’m even going to have a chance with Zach.
Candace
I pull at my tank top, trying in vain to cover up my midriff. What was I thinking? Belly shirt in mid-December? Bad girls aren’t stupid.
Tristan and Raina walk in, and by the size of their eyes when they look me up and down, I’ve achieved the desired effect—look nothing like I usually do.
I copied Miss Barley as much as I could without looking like I was copying her. She looks like an adventurous artist. Her typical tank-over-sports-bra style was still pushing it out of my comfort zone, so I eased my way in there with a cut-off tank that covers all of my bra and zero of my belly button and paired it with blood red bottoms that drawstring shut and hang super low on my hips.
I have never shown this much torso in my life—even while swimming. Bikinis were for naughty girls, or so my Sunday school teacher said. But even if I used that as my excuse, I’m just not the type of girl who would feel comfortable with a sunburnt belly button.
My shoulders slump, dropping the tank down enough that my stomach isn’t dangling out for all to see. I went sans apron, too. I’m a rebel, now. I killed a spider and everything.
