by Meg Leder
Charlie flinches. Good. I can hurt him, too, I think, and for a brief moment I feel satisfied.
And then the guilt starts to seep into my edges.
He grabs the car keys without looking back, mumbles, “Later,” and is out the door.
I wait until I hear the garage shut behind him before I let my breath out.
I did it.
I pulled off the first step in freeing myself of the internship.
I wait to feel giddy or relieved, but I can’t shake the memory of the wounded look on Charlie’s face when I made the therapy crack.
I stand, dump my leftover cereal milk in the sink, and then jog upstairs. I change out of my black pants and navy shirt into my favorite light-blue-and-white spaghetti-strap sundress—something I never could have worn to intern at the hospital.
Mustard pads into the room, surprised to see me there, and makes little cat chirps as he winds himself around my legs, his purring audible.
“I’m happy to be here too, buddy,” I say, bending down and giving him a vigorous chin rub. A blue jay outside my window catches his attention, so he leaves me, springing up onto the windowsill.
I take in my breath, shake off the bad feelings. I’m not going to let Charlie ruin my day.
First things first.
I pull up my laptop and start an e-mail to the program director of the internship.
The words come out without a second thought, no pausing, no second-guessing:
Dear Dr. Gambier,
After speaking with my doctor yesterday, I regret to inform you I have to withdraw from the Children’s Hospital internship. What I thought was a twenty-four-hour virus has just been diagnosed as mononucleosis. Since I’m contagious for the foreseeable future, I can’t in good conscience continue to participate in the program. I’m so sorry for any inconvenience this may cause, and I truly regret I won’t be able to benefit from such an amazing program.
Sincerely,
Parker McCullough
I hit send and slump back against my chair, light-headed with relief.
I did it.
With one e-mail, I wiped out my summer plans, and instead of being completely terrified, I feel kind of awesome.
This is the feeling I was waiting for.
Mustard has fallen asleep in a ray of sunlight on the windowsill, his tail waving lazily, content.
Next up: replying to Em’s e-mail.
Em!
London sounds awesome. I’m so happy for you.
Have you met any charming British girls? Even if you do, you have to come back to the States, remember? You promised. Did you go to the Tower of London? Did you ride the Eye?
I pause.
Nothing much here, except AND YOU CAN’T TELL ANYONE THIS . . . I quit my internship. You were right: I just think I need a break this summer before the fall. But I haven’t told my parents or Charlie—they’d freak—so if you randomly run into any members of the McCullough family in Europe (haha), not a word, ’kay?
xox, Park
At the window, Mustard’s paws and whiskers twitch, like he’s having a dream about chasing birds.
I hit send.
Another rush of relief moves through me, taking with it the last of the lingering Charlie feelings.
This is Brand-New Me.
No internship.
A big beautiful summer ahead of me.
Anything and everything.
Now, to find my new summer job.
Twenty-Two
NEW ME IS FLOUNDERING.
I’ve spent the past two hours canvassing any business within walking distance that my family won’t frequent during the day and that might be hiring. So far, I’ve been shot down by the vegan restaurant, a stamp and scrapbooking store, a children’s play zone, the library, and the ice cream store Serendipity.
Turns out, as at least three different people tell me, the last day of May is way too late to line up a summer job—have I tried Kings Island Amusement Park yet?
I sit on the bench outside Serendipity, trying to enjoy my scoop of chocolate peanut butter ice cream, wishing I’d had my internship epiphany before I turned down babysitting the Delaney boys, and pretending my eyelid isn’t twitching again.
I’ve clearly made a hideous mistake. I debate writing Dr. Gambier back, telling him the doctor misdiagnosed me and I’m actually not contagious, it’s a miracle, and can I come back?
But just thinking about walking through those doors again?
No.
I toss the last of my ice cream in the garbage and start walking home.
I slow as I pass the Float. There’s a small line forming for the lunch crowd, and I’m wondering if Finn is working when my eyes rest on the small white building next door, the one with the spray-painted sign out front that says CARLA’S CERAMICS, and in the front window, scrawled in big red letters, HELP WANTED.
I remember Finn’s comment about his friend Carla needing a studio assistant and realize now that if anyone put two and two together, the store signage looks a lot like all of those messages showing up on bridges around town.
This must be the place.
I know nothing about ceramics. But at this point, what do I have to lose?
When I enter the studio, a loud bell jangles above me. Three older ladies turn to look at me. They’re all sitting on stools around the tables and seem to be in the middle of painting mugs.
“Hi?” I say tentatively, looking for someone in charge. “I’m here about the sign?” I cringe internally at the unwelcome return of the question mark.
“Carla!” yells a stout white woman with wild, uncombed gray hair. She is wearing a garish flowered muumuu. “Someone here for you!”
A voice yells, “Just a minute!”
“Harriet, you don’t need to be that loud,” says a tall, thin white woman elegantly decked out in pearls and lavender with matching lavender hair. Her sleeves are neatly rolled back, and her posture makes me feel exhausted just looking at it.
To my surprise, the loud muumuu woman—Harriet—gives Lavender the finger, and Lavender frowns, like she’s just smelled spoiled milk.
The black woman sitting next to Lavender is wearing a yellow shirt, red pants, a bright-orange scarf, and a huge sun-shaped brooch. She’s looking anxiously between Harriet and Lavender, and I get the feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve fought.
I step farther into the shop, taking in the surroundings. The space is bright, large windows letting in the morning sun, a tangle of hanging plants growing wild under the skylight. There are shelves of white unpainted ceramics lining the front: mugs and plates and plaques, but also statues—frogs and cats and puppies.
That’s when I notice the fourth woman. She’s sitting at a table by herself in the back, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a blank mug and a paintbrush on the table in front of her. She’s slight, short silver hair clipped close, pale white skin, and she’s staring out the window at the creek behind the studio, a dreamy lost look on her face. Her expression reminds me of Grandma Rose in the months before she died, how she got quieter and quieter, not always completely with us.
“Does it still smell like wet dog? You can tell me the truth.”
When I turn around, a ruddy-faced, middle-aged woman is standing behind me. Her thick brown hair is pulled back in a plaid bandana, freckles dotting her sunburned cheeks, and she’s wiping what looks like mud from her hands across a mud-stained apron.
“I have tried and tried to get the smell out. I figure once I get the kiln going, it’ll either kill it completely, or make it smell like my side business is cooking Fido. But I needed a larger studio space, and the landlord offered me a great deal.”
I try to look like I know what she’s talking about.
“Turns out this space is the perfect atmosphere for clay. Not too humid, not too dry, though every time I go outside, some blue jay won’t stop scolding me.”
She stops herself, realizing I haven’t said anything, and I wish I had, because now
there’s a weird silence between us. My eyelid twitches once, and then again, and I hope she doesn’t notice.
“Um, do you need help?” I ask.
“With the bird?”
“No.” I point at the sign. “You’re hiring, right? I saw the sign, and I know Finn. He said you were looking for an assistant.”
“You know Finn?” she echoes, clearly surprised.
“Kind of. We were friends a while ago and just reconnected.”
“What’s your name?”
“Parker McCullough.”
Her eyes go to my hands.
“You ever work with clay?”
I debate lying but figure I could fake my way through that for only so long.
“Not since Play-Doh.”
She snorts. “Good. I can show you the right way to use it. No bad habits to undo. You good with difficult people?”
I’m guessing that even though they’re kids, Ryan and Todd Delaney count as difficult people. “I hold my ground okay.”
“You okay with thirty hours a week, ten bucks an hour?”
I nod, hardly believing this is actually happening, that I might have just landed myself not only a job, but a job that pays more than minimum wage.
“Got any bad habits I should know about? Drugs, cigarettes, that stuff?”
I shake my head vigorously. “No, not at all. I can provide references, too.”
“That’d be good, but to be honest, you’re the first person who’s come in, and I have to believe it’s meant to be. Can you be here every weekday from ten to four?”
“Absolutely.” Yes, yes, yes.
“Can you start tomorrow?”
I realize I’ve been nodding too hard, so I try to slow down and smile like I’m quietly excited and professional, not a bobbleheaded version of myself. “Yes.”
She reaches out to shake my hand. “I’m Carla. You’re hired. See you tomorrow. I’ll have you fill out a W-4 then. Bring your references, too.”
“Cool, yes!”
“Ladies, I finally have an assistant,” Carla announces to the four women, before she waves and heads to the door in the back. “See you tomorrow, Parker.”
Lavender nods, and the sunshine woman smiles, but Harriet just rolls her eyes and mutters, “About time.”
I look at the quiet woman, to see if she’s changed position, but she’s still staring out the window.
“Oh, Alice doesn’t talk anymore, dear,” Lavender says to me.
“Her Alzheimer’s is pretty bad,” the sunshine woman chimes in. “Sometimes she just likes to sit by herself and watch the creek.”
“With the current company, I don’t blame her,” Harriet grumbles.
“Well, see you later,” I say, and as I leave, I hear Lavender murmur, “Such a lovely girl.”
It’s not until I’m halfway home that I realize two things: I’m not sure what my new job entails, and I’m strangely okay with that.
Twenty-Three
THAT EVENING, I STAND on my tiptoes, trying to see who’s working at the Float. I smile when I locate Ruby at the counter—she’s half of the reason I’m here.
The other half—Finn—hasn’t made an appearance yet.
I fidget with my phone, trying to calm the jitters in my stomach.
It’s no big deal. I’m just stopping by to see if Ruby wants to hang out sometime and to thank Finn for the ride and the job lead.
But I still feel a mix of weird and excited to see them both again, the same giddiness that was tripping around me this morning. I want to tell someone on this continent that I quit the internship and found another job, that it feels like everything’s coming together, that maybe things could be good.
I want them to be my friends.
Speaking of . . . I open my e-mail to start a note to Em about Carla’s, but there’s already a response from her in my in-box.
Park,
So, I got your note about the internship, and I tried to call you, but my cell service is crappy, so e-mail it is. . . .
First, I’m really proud of you for figuring out the internship isn’t for you. That’s a big thing, and it couldn’t have been easy to make that decision, and you’re smart and brave and awesome.
I feel a flush of pride and keep reading.
That being said, and I hope you’re not mad at me for saying this, but I really think you should tell your parents. It feels like maybe you’re not dealing with everything, the reasons you quit in the first place, etc.? Plus, are you just going to lie about it all summer? I don’t mean that in a judgy way, just that it sounds really lonely to carry that lie all by yourself, Park. I really think you should talk to your parents.
I’m sorry, but I had to be honest. I love you to pieces.
oxo, Em
And just like that, my good feelings go down the drain.
Frowning, I inch forward in the line and reread the e-mail. Why can’t she just be happy for me? She knows how my parents are, especially my dad. Does she honestly think I could tell him the truth? He would be so disappointed, I doubt he’d be able to look at me. I can already see him marching me right back to that internship the next day.
Plus, what is it she told me when I worried about her hooking up with May again?
My thumbs fly across the keyboard:
Em, thanks for your note. But I’m a grown-up, and I got it. You don’t need to worry. Park
I hit send.
I feel triumphant, righteous even, for about ten seconds.
And then I start second-guessing the e-mail and myself.
What if she’s right to worry? What if I can’t carry this lie the whole summer?
“Can I help you? Oh, Parker, hey!”
I look up to see Ruby pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose and smiling.
“Ruby, hey!”
“How are things going?”
“They’re a little better,” I say, thinking of my new summer job. “Actually, I was going to see if you wanted to grab lunch soon?”
Her face opens up. “Really? Oh my God, yes. That would be awesome.”
“I’ll e-mail you,” I say.
“I’ll bring all my Harvard and SAT questions for you!”
The guy behind me in line clears his throat significantly, and Ruby rolls her eyes, but I jump in.
“In the meantime, one root-beer float. Small.”
“One large float!” she calls out.
“Small,” I say, but she winks.
“Upsizing you and giving you the employee discount,” she whispers. “One dollar.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to, but I want to.”
As I hand her the money, I try to angle my gaze toward the kitchen, but I can’t tell who’s back there. I drop two singles in the tip jar and move to the side to wait. The guy behind me starts to order, but then I can’t help it, and I lean around him.
“Ruby?”
The guy at the counter gives a weary sigh.
“Yeah?”
“Is Finn working tonight?” I ask.
Ruby wrinkles her nose. “Finn?”
“Yeah,” I say, deciding not to explain any further.
“He’s on his break, probably out back,” she says.
“Great, thanks,” I say, taking my float. “Talk soon! I promise.” She gives me a cheery wave.
I take a sip of my float, and it’s the perfect mix of creamy vanilla and sharp root beer. I smooth my sundress and take a deep breath, heading toward the back of the Float.
It’s quieter here, not meant for customers. There are no picnic tables, only a Dumpster and a flickering overhead light casting the whole place with a weird industrial glow.
“Hello?”
Right then, a guy comes from the side of the Dumpster, leaning over so he can light something as he walks. At first I think it’s Finn, because the guy has the same blond hair, the same razor-sharp build, but when he stands, inhaling, and sees me, my breath catches.
Even
though Finn’s brother, Johnny, must be in his midtwenties by now, he looks like he’s about forty. He’s literally skin and bones, a shadow version of Finn. I register the line of scabs on his arm.
The corner of Johnny’s mouth creeps up right before he exhales a cloud of smoke, skunky and dank. His eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure out who I am.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Um . . .” I step back. “I was just looking for someone, but he’s not here, so, um, yeah, have a good night?”
He gives me such an obvious once-over, eyes lingering at my chest, leering, that I immediately want to take a shower.
“You sure you’re not looking for me? I’ve got stuff you might want.” He holds up what he’s smoking and licks his lips slowly, then stares at me harder. “I’d even be open to trading, figuring out a special arrangement between you and me.”
All the blood in me freezes, and for a second I can’t move, I hate him so much.
He narrows his brow. “Wait a minute. Do I know you?”
I shake my head. “No, and no thank you. Have a good night,” I say, walking as fast as I can back to the front of the restaurant, tossing my float in the nearest garbage can.
I cringe at my ever-present manners, the fact that I just politely declined some creepy sexual harassment. Johnny didn’t deserve that. What he deserved was a solid kick in the shins, or elsewhere. I can’t believe I told him to have a good night.
I’m moving so quickly, second-guessing myself, that I nearly run right into Finn.
“Whoa,” he says, hands resting on my shoulders for a second to slow me down, his face lighting up when he sees it’s me. His hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, an apron folded down across his waist. I can see more of his tattoo: a skull and crossbones.
His smile is easy. “Ruby said you were looking for me.”
I take a step back, force a smile of my own, but I can’t meet his eyes. I wonder if he knows what his brother is doing out back. I wonder if he’s going to join him.
“Hey, so I’ve still got ten minutes on my break. Want to hang out for a bit?”
“No.” My voice is shorter than I intended, but I want to get as far away from Johnny as possible.
Finn looks confused, and I fumble through my bag and grab the gift card, holding it out, my hands still trembling slightly from my encounter with his brother. The navy polka-dot ribbon I tied around it earlier looks pathetic now.
