by Amber Smith
“You have a customer,” he says.
I finish up her order without any pleasantries; no fake-outs with the register, no extra “Have a nice night.” When I go back into the kitchen, he’s not there. But the five-dollar bill is sitting on the counter next to the giant tubs of frosting and doughnut fillings, pressed straight, wrinkles flattened, waiting for me either to take it or to return it to the register, where it belongs.
Movement in the periphery catches my eye. Owen stands at the back door of the kitchen kicking at the triangular wooden doorstop. He wedges it under the bottom to prop it open, even though he knows that’s not allowed—Jackie says it’s a violation of the health code or something. But a cool breeze rushes in, and I suddenly feel like I could lie right down on this dirty floor and fall asleep for a million years. He stands there with his back to me, looking out, a silhouette against the early-evening sky, craning his neck left and right, stretching his arms one at a time across his chest.
I walk toward him, my insides tightening with every breath. I take a gulp of air, but my lungs turn to steel. I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue is just a soggy clump of paper. My eyes begin to fill with water as I watch him. Feeling my entire universe unraveling before me, I pull my sleeves down over my hands and dab at the tears before they can spill over.
He takes exactly two steps toward the dumpster out back, drawn to a defunct, formerly yellow mop bucket that’s sitting next to the dumpster, destined for a landfill somewhere. He maneuvers the dirty old thing with his feet like a ball, gliding it gently back to the door, and me. He stops the bucket and steadies it with his foot, just on the edge. In one sharp movement he presses his foot down quickly, flipping it over—gracefully somehow. Then he sits down on the top of the dingy bucket and stretches his legs out in front of him. But he still doesn’t say anything—if he’s trying to make me squirm, it’s working.
“So?” I ask.
He inhales the fresh air, closes his eyes, then exhales.
“So?” I repeat, louder.
“Yeah. So. What’s your deal, anyway?” he asks, looking at the dim sky, at the tiny pinpricks of light, muted as they peek through the veil of thin clouds. It’s been staying light later, another sign that spring is winning the battle.
“My deal?”
“Yeah, your deal.” He finally cuts his eyes at me. “Klepto?”
“Klepto?” A klepto would steal things, not money, but I guess pointing that out wouldn’t exactly help my case.
“What then, just stickin’ it to the man?” he jeers.
“Sticking it to the man?”
“That’s really annoying.”
“What?”
“What?” he mimics. “You keep repeating everything I say.”
“Actually, you just repeated what I said.”
That gets me a smile. “I know about your mom, and all. Brutal,” he says under his breath, mumbling the word into one syllable.
I’m not sure which thing it is he’s referring to as brutal: the fact that my mom’s in prison—not jail, but prison, and will not be getting out anytime soon—or the fact that she killed my father with the kitchen knife, or that my family is split into pieces, scattered like broken glass.
“Owen, listen—I’m not going to do it again, okay?” I look at his face, not certain if I mean it or not, or if I only mean it right now. “I’m really not,” I say anyway, maybe more to myself than him. “So do you think you can keep it between us? Please? Can you just forget what you saw?”
He breathes in deeply then, reluctantly looking at me. “If you do it again, I can’t cover for you. I need this job too. And who do you think Jackie will blame when she figures it out, me or you? Think about that next time.” Then he stands up and brushes past me without another word. The yellow bucket glides across the grease-stained pavement, moved by some invisible force. I sit there and watch. Try to breathe.
At closing time Owen locks the front door behind us. He mumbles, “G’night,” and we part ways as usual. Except tonight, as I look at his back walking away from me, I think about how I’ve been seeing too many backs walking away from me lately.
“Hey, Owen?” I call after him.
He stops and turns around but doesn’t come any closer to me. So I have to shout across the parking lot.
“How come you never talked to me? I mean, when we went to school together?”
“How come you never talked to me?” he asks, not missing a beat.
I think about it. “I don’t know,” I finally answer. “I guess I thought people had made up their minds about me a long time ago.”
He nods as he considers this. “You always acted like you wanted to be left alone. That’s why people never talked to you.”
“I guess I did,” I shout across the space between us—it feels weird to be shouting one of the most intimate and honest conversations I’ve ever had with anyone. “Want to be left alone, I mean.”
He nods again but doesn’t say anything.
“So, are we friends?” I ask, realizing how stupid and childish it sounds only after it’s out of my mouth.
He takes one step closer. “If we weren’t, I’m telling you we would not even be having this conversation.” It’s only right now, in this moment, that I realize something about him. He has tons of friends not just because he happens to be talented at sports or great-looking; they like him because he’s nice and honest and a genuinely good person.
On my walk home the chill in the air feels purifying, cleansing, like drinking a cold glass of water when you’re really thirsty. I have the strongest urge to call Dani, but I don’t. I sleep better that night than I have in months.
STARTING OVER
THE PARK IS BEGINNING to come back to life. Small green buds dot the trees. Ducks and geese and birds and squirrels are suddenly everywhere, kids playing again, climbing on the big boulder, parents yelling, joggers shuffling, the river running strong, things beginning again, starting over.
I came here to study—I have my whole messenger bag full of books and notes. I’m sitting under a tree along the river. The ground is damp and I feel it seeping through my jeans, but I don’t mind; it’s good to be outside, breathing fresh air.
I try to work on my calculus, but I can’t concentrate.
Dr. Greenberg has planted this weed of a thought in my mind that I cannot kill. What would it mean to let go? Maybe letting go is like the ice finally breaking. Maybe I’m thawing slowly, like the rest of the world; maybe I’ll just crack open and release it all, start over again too.
I lean my head against the tree trunk and close my eyes.
Somewhere a little girl is crying. It takes me back to this day when Aaron and I were little. It was one of the many times we came here, holding hands as we crossed the street, while Mom and Dad were busy fighting.
I remember we found these fallen branches and made them into swords for one of our pirate duels. We were pretending to have a sword fight, and he was letting me win, as usual, when these big kids came up to us. They called us babies and snatched our swords out of our hands and broke them in half, stomped on them so they snapped like they were nothing more than twigs.
Aaron always seemed so much older than me, but he really wasn’t—that’s something it’s taken me a long time to realize. We were both little, I was almost six and he was maybe eight or nine. Being little didn’t stop him from being pissed, though. He marched right up to the ringleader of the bullies—who couldn’t have been much older than us, maybe nine or ten—and demanded that he go find us new swords. But of course they weren’t about to do that. They all got a good laugh, though. Then the four boys circled Aaron and started pushing him back and forth, taunting and shouting as he bounced against them like a pinball, unable to break free or even gain his footing.
I’ve always remembered the part about the bullies breaking our sticks and Aaron being pushed around, but I forgot there was another part to it. I never remembered exactly how we got out of there.
I had just sta
rted crying right before Dad showed up.
He entered the scene like some kind of superhero, I remember now, still in his uniform. He swooped in and pulled Aaron right out of there, so stealthily no one had even seen him coming, not even me. We stood behind him and watched as he closed in on the kids.
“What’s going on over here?” he said, not yelling but speaking loudly, firmly. He had his hands on his hips and towered over them, casting a long shadow. “Huh? You think it’s fun to beat up on little kids half your size? Four against one? Let me tell you something, that doesn’t make you tough, that makes you a coward—you know what that means?” he demanded, moving even closer to them.
They were terrified. They nodded frantically. “Yes. Yes, sir. Yes, Officer,” they replied, their voices cracking and shaking.
He lowered his voice then and bent over so that he was face-to-face with them and said, “I’m always watching—you won’t know I’m here, but I’ll be watching you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the two of us and winked. I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer, more proud, more vindicated, than I did right in that moment. When I looked up at Aaron, he was just watching in awe, his mouth hanging open in a smile.
“If I ever, and I mean ever, see you beating up on these kids, or any other kids, ever again . . .” He paused at exactly the right time to let the fear sink in. “I will take you to jail. That’s right. What do you think your parents would think of that? Huh, you hear me?”
Emphatic nodding and another round of “Yes, sirs.”
He stood upright again, so tall and straight. “All right. You remember that. Now get out of here before I change my mind and arrest you all right now. Got it? Yeah? Go, then.”
They ran.
When he turned around to face us, I ran up to him and hugged his legs. He was laughing as he picked me up—I could feel it vibrating in his chest; I can almost feel it now. “You okay?” he asked me, touching my cheek where my tears had been.
“Yep,” I told him, and I leaned my head against his shoulder.
“What about you? You okay, bud?” he asked Aaron, taking his chin in his hand to get a better look at his face.
Aaron nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“All right, then. Come on. It’s time for dinner.”
He patted Aaron’s head and carried me the whole way home.
I open my eyes.
Back in the present. The river seems to be rushing even louder now. Faster. I look around. Everyone seems so far away, and the sky is now populated with a team of deep-gray clouds. I start packing up my things, uncertain anymore if I made up the ending or if it was real. If I ever talk to Aaron again, I’ll have to ask him about it.
OUT OF HIBERNATION
“SO THIS IS WHERE you live?” Tyler says as he steps into my living room. I spent the morning cleaning and straightening and organizing. I couldn’t believe how disgusting I’d let it become. “Dani said it was normal. I didn’t believe her, though.”
“What do you mean, why wouldn’t it be normal?”
“You’re such a control freak, I figured you probably lived in a sterilized bubble, or something. Guess you’re really human after all,” he says, this sly grin on his face.
“Thanks, I guess. Come on in.”
We get set up around the coffee table. We tag-team it. Tyler’s the point person for calculus. I’m in charge of English and chem. Both of us suck in history, so we decide to tackle it together. We’re at it for hours. It feels good to work hard again, to be good at something again.
As it begins to get dark outside, I’m aware of a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, but for once the cause is not worry, it is simply to tell me how hungry I am. “Wanna take a snack break?” I ask Tyler.
“Good God,” he says, closing his laptop. “I thought you’d never ask.”
I raid the kitchen, which is admittedly devoid of much within a valid expiration date these days. “Tater Tots and Pizza Rolls?” I call out to Tyler, finding the only halfway respectable items left in the freezer.
“Perfection!” he yells back.
Twenty minutes later I’m dumping the sizzling Tater Tots and Pizza Rolls onto two plates, which I bring to the table. “Brain food is served,” I announce.
He takes a seat next to me, and I suddenly realize how nice it is to have someone else around. “Where is everybody?” he asks. “I thought you had, like, ten siblings or something?”
“Two.” I laugh, blowing on a Pizza Roll before putting it in my mouth. “But it’s just me now.”
“What do you mean? It can’t just be you,” he says, selectively searching for the perfect Tater Tot.
“It is,” I admit.
“How?” he says, clearly still not taking me seriously.
I shrug. “I honestly don’t know.”
He stares at the table for a few seconds before he looks back at me. “But how?” he repeats, popping the Tater Tot in his mouth at last.
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve been lying to everyone about it, so I’m not sure anyone really knows. I’m probably getting kicked out soon, though, so I won’t be able to hide it much longer.”
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “I don’t know the details, obviously, but you can stay at my house if you need a place. My mom would be cool with it, I know she would.”
“You would really do that? Even though you’re Dani’s friend?”
He stares at me, unblinking, as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “For such a smart person, you can be so completely dense sometimes.”
“Why? Or is that a totally dense question?”
“Yes, it is. Because I can’t believe you still can’t seem to comprehend the fact I’m your friend too, Brooke.”
“Oh” is all I can say.
“Oh? That’s it? You’re not gonna tell me I’m your friend too?”
“No, you are. You definitely are, you’re one of my only friends.”
“Dork,” he says, tossing a Tater Tot at me.
I catch it and throw it back at him.
“Okay, change of subject. What are these?” he asks, tapping his finger against a stack of photos from my birthday party that have been sitting there for months. Jackie had them printed and gave me copies. I haven’t even looked at them yet.
“Nothing, just stupid pictures from my birthday,” I tell him, trying not to remember how great that day was.
“Thanks for inviting me, by the way,” he jokes as he shuffles through them, smiling at some, and then he stops and flips one over so I can see. It’s the photo of me and Dani. Our first picture together. She has her arm around me and we’re both smiling so hugely. I take it from him, but I can only stand to look at it for a second before I have to give it back. He studies the picture closer and says, “You two are so cute.”
“ ‘Were,’ you mean,” I correct.
“You miss her?” he asks.
I let my head fall into my hands for a moment. “Yeah,” I groan. When I look up, he’s grinning at me. “What?”
He sighs and pops a Tater Tot in his mouth. Then he slides the plate closer so I can snag one for myself, never answering.
“How do you manage to stay so damn calm all the time?” I ask him, wondering if I could ever learn to be like that.
He shrugs. “I’m simply on a mission to not have a bunch of wrinkles by the time I’m twenty-five. I plan on looking this good for a long time. I told you before, I don’t do stress. Unlike you”—he touches the spot in the center of my forehead, between my eyebrows, with his index finger and pushes ever so slightly—“a girl who’s on her way to getting a big, fat worry line right there.”
I laugh, shake my head. “I guess I pretty much blew it with her,” I admit to him, and to myself.
“Listen, she’s just hurt. And if she didn’t still care, she wouldn’t still be complaining about you to me. Every. Single. Damn. Day.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. I also say, you need to come out of hibernation and start fix
ing things.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” I tell him.
“Just apologize. And be honest with her—that’s all she wanted in the first place. You realize that, right?”
“I guess so,” I admit.
“So, suck it up. Do that, and I bet she’d be willing to give it another go—but don’t tell her I told you to,” he warns me, flinging another Tater Tot in my direction.
CAROLINE
HER APARTMENT IS NOTHING like I imagined it would be, yet it suits her perfectly. Everything here looks like it would’ve looked better in a different time. Not unlike Caroline herself.
“Well, it’s not much, I know. But it’s home,” she says, slapping a throw pillow into shape on her couch.
“Is this where my mom grew up?”
“No. This is where I grew up. My parents lived here. I bought the place from my father when my mother died.”
“Is he still alive? Your father. My great-grandfather,” I add, hearing how strange these words sound coming out of my mouth.
She shakes her head but doesn’t offer up any further information. I follow her into the kitchen, where she pours two glasses of iced tea from a pitcher—a warm golden brown, with ice and wedges of lemon floating at the top. “Want to sit outside?” she asks as she hands one of the glasses to me.
She leads the way back through the living room to a sliding glass door that opens to a small balcony with a concrete floor and wrought-iron bars that form a fence around it. We look out over a courtyard that has a big, L-shaped inground pool in the center, surrounded by tables and umbrellas and those outdoor lounge chairs that have the adjustable backs. There’s a man skimming it. And when he looks up, he waves at us. Caroline waves back and then turns to me as we sit in two metal chairs that are slightly rusted at the edges, their cushions flattened and well worn. “Pool opens next week. You and the others are welcome anytime. Aaron and Callie,” she adds, like it’s strange for her to say their names as well.
“Thanks, I think Callie would like that.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything else.
