“Come on,” my mom says. “I’ll help you get everything ready.”
“No.” I head out of the laundry room and into the great room, where I lay down on the couch and pick up the remote, getting ready to turn on the TV and pick up my Friday Night Lights marathon right where I left off. Tim Riggins is so hot.
My mom follows me. “Hannah,” she says from the doorway, “do I need to call your father? Maybe you should go and spend some time with him since being here obviously isn’t making you feel better.”
I glare at her. It’s an empty threat (she would never send me to stay with my dad, and my dad wouldn’t want me even if she did), but it’s enough to get me going. The last thing I need is my dad calling, asking me how I’m doing. To put it bluntly, my dad is kind of an asshole. My parents got divorced when I was ten, and my dad lives, like, two hours away, but he hardly ever calls or sends money or anything. Which is probably why I’m so depressed about Sebastian. I clearly have issues with abandonment.
“Fine,” I say. “But we’re getting the washer fixed.”
“Of course,” my mom says. “And then maybe this weekend we can sit down and talk about you possibly getting a job.”
Geez. So much for her knowing I’m fragile. I ignore the part about the job and make a big production of heading up to my room to get the rest of my clothes together. I mean, if mom thinks a job is going to cure my depression, she really couldn’t be more wrong.
There are actually a ton of people at the Laundromat, which is kind of annoying because almost every machine is full. I already can’t wait to get out of here, and it’s going to completely suck if I have to wait for a dryer. Don’t people have anything better to do on a Friday night? Oh, well. Judge not lest ye be judged, or whatever.
I heft my two garbage bags of clothes (one for whites and one for darks) up onto an empty washer. I couldn’t put them in laundry baskets because I’m going to have to walk the twelve blocks home and there’s no way I can do that with baskets—as it is, I’m worried about doing it with bags. Then I feed one of the twenty dollar bills my mom gave me into the change machine.
It roars to life and eighty quarters come tumbling out. Most of them collect in the metal compartment under the dispenser, but a few of them bounce out and roll all over the floor. I try to stomp on them with my flip-flop as they go by, but two of them go rolling under a dryer. Ugh. This is turning out to be a disaster already and I haven’t even put my clothes in a washer yet.
I turn to the guy who works there, a middle-aged man with an overgrown beard. He’s wearing a green plaid coat (in summer?) and tinkering with a washing machine. “Excuse me?” I ask. “Do you have a plastic cup or something I could use for my quarters?”
“No,” he says in a really unfriendly way, then goes back to working on the machine. Wow. Talk about bad customer service.
I decide not to worry about the two that went missing, and scoop up a handful of quarters from the metal compartment, not sure where I’m going to put them. What a pain in the ass this is turning out to be. I am so hitting up the vending machine on the way out and getting one of those so-disgusting-they’re-good chocolate Yoo-hoo drinks, so that I have fuel for the walk home. I definitely deserve it after all this.
I’m just about to try and stuff as many coins as I can into my pockets and maybe just leave the rest, when a hand reaches down next to me and scoops up the rest of my quarters. Like, seriously scoops them all up. In one smooth motion, like one of those giant claw machines that you use to try and win crappy stuffed animals.
“Hey!” I say to the anonymous hand. “What are you—”
“Sorry,” Noah says. “I saw you were having a little bit of a problem.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a Ziploc bag, drops my quarters in, closes the bag, and then hands it to me. I just stare at him. What the hell is Noah doing here? And why does he have Ziploc bags with him?
“Do you need some help?” he asks. He gestures to the ground, where my trash bags are now sitting.
“Hey!” I say, looking at them. “How did those get on the floor?”
I turn around and see a woman wearing a black-and-white-patterned wrap dress calmly loading her clothes into the washer that, just a few seconds ago, had my clothes on top of it. Apparently she thought it was okay to just move my stuff onto the floor. “That woman,” I say to Noah, pointing and not caring if she hears me, “stole my washer!”
“You snooze you lose,” Noah says, shrugging, like I have no idea what goes on in a Laundromat. If he’s freaked out by the general disheveledness of my appearance (I haven’t really been sleeping or, ah, grooming so well, so I’m wearing cotton pajama pants, a tank, and my hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail), he doesn’t say anything. Noah, on the other hand, looks fresh as a daisy, in khaki shorts and a black T-shirt. Probably he has fun plans later tonight. “So you do need some help then?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t.” The last thing I want is to hang out with Noah. Nothing against Noah, I’m just not feeling all that social. I kind of hate people lately. In fact, this whole Laundromat thing was obviously a mistake. I’m definitely not ready to be out of the house. “I was actually just leaving.”
“You were?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why were you putting money into the coin machine?”
“Oh, that.” I wave my hand like the answer should be evident. “I wanted to get a Yoo-hoo out of the vending machine and it doesn’t take twenties.” I roll my eyes, like it’s completely ridiculous that a vending machine wouldn’t take twenties. When you think about it, it kind of is. I could totally spend twenty dollars in a vending machine.
“The vending machine?” He sounds amused. And also like he doesn’t believe me.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s the only one in a five mile radius that has Yoo-hoo.” I have no idea if this is true, but I cross my arms over my chest, daring him to challenge me.
“Yoo-hoo?”
“Yeah, you know, Yoo-hoo? It’s kind of like chocolate milk in a can?” Doesn’t he know better than to question my beverage choices? Most normal people would take one look at me, realize I’m insane, and then go on their way. Plus, how can you not know what Yoo-hoo is? It’s like, one of the best drinks ever. In a disgusting, I-can’t-believe-I’m-actually-drinking-this, kind of way.
“Yeah, I know what Yoo-hoo is. I just didn’t know people actually drank it.”
“Well, they do,” I say. I so don’t need this. I mean, I honestly have enough problems. I scoop up my bags from where they’re sitting on the floor, and turn on my heel, heading for the door. Unfortunately my garbage bags have ripped open (WTF? Probably that washer stealer’s doing), and my clothes are kind of falling all over the place. “I have to go,” I tell Noah, peeking over the pile of fabric in my arms. “So, um, bye.”
“Do you need some help?” he asks again, and then starts to follow me as I try to navigate my way through the crowd.
“No, thanks,” I say. “I’m totally fine.” A pair of yoga pants drops through one of the holes in the bag and falls onto the floor. Someone steps on them as they walk by, leaving the imprint of their sneaker on one of the legs. Why the hell are there so many people here? I mean, really. I’m glad I’m leaving. I definitely need to find a place to do my wash that’s a little less crowded.
“Watch out!” Noah yells as I bend down to pick up the pants and almost crash into a little boy playing with a Matchbox car. On the floor of the Laundromat. Talk about a lawsuit waiting to happen.
“I’m fine,” I say to Noah, successfully dodging the kid, but in the process dropping a bunch of shirts and stuff on the floor. And when I stoop down to pick those up, a bunch of other stuff goes tumbling to the ground. Shit, shit, shit.
“You don’t look fine.” Noah crouches down next to me and starts picking up the stuff that fell. Thank God it’s not bras or anything. He probably wouldn’t be used to seeing the kinds of underwear that I have. Except for the lingerie Seba
stian bought me, most of my underwear is from Target. I don’t wear granny panties or anything, I just don’t usually wear the kinds of things that Ava does (sheer, lacey, and flimsy). Of course, I’m not having sex like Ava is, either, so that probably has something to do with it.
“Well, I am fine,” I say, doing my best to sound huffy. “I just need to get my bearings.”
“Hey,” Noah says, holding up a white T-shirt with an ice cream stain on the front. “These clothes are dirty!”
“No they’re not,” I say, snatching the shirt out of his hands. I drop it back into the whites pile. Well, what used to be the whites pile. Now it’s just kind of a . . . well, an all-kinds-of-clothes pile. I’m definitely going to have to sort these again.
“If they’re not clean,” Noah says, picking up one last pair of yoga pants and setting them on top of the pile that I’m holding, “then why are you leaving?”
“Because,” I say, “I don’t like the customer service in this place.” Which isn’t even a lie.
“Right,” Noah says. And then, before I can stop him, he takes the clothes right out of my hands, and heads over to the row of washers in the back.
“Hey!” I yell, running after him. “What do you think you’re doing?” Is he crazy? You can’t just go around grabbing someone’s clothes! That’s, like, complete and total thievery.
“Washing your clothes.” He drops them into a machine, adds some powder from a big box that someone’s left sitting on the counter, then inserts some quarters into the slots, and starts it up.
“Now,” he announces as the washer roars to life. “We sit and wait for them to be done.”
“We sit and wait for them to be done?” I ask, staring at him incredulously. “No, we most certainly do not. And you totally just stole some soap from someone!” I open the top of the washer, but it’s too late. All the clothes are already wet. I turn around and glare at him, even though I’m actually not that mad about him hijacking my clothes. I mean, they did need to be washed. What I’m mostly mad about is that he obviously did it because he thinks I’m incapable of looking after myself. He thinks I’m some kind of sniveling, broken-hearted mess who can’t even handle a trip to the Laundromat. Whether it’s true or not is completely beside the point.
Noah ignores me. He just sits down in one of the plastic orange chairs against the wall, then slides his messenger bag off his shoulder, and sets it on the ground. The edge of a Macbook case peeks out of the top.
“Do you want a magazine?” he asks politely, gesturing to a few that are on the table in front of the chairs. “There’s People or Good Housekeeping. Your pick.”
My phone rings before I can tell him where he can shove his magazines, and I pull it out of my purse. Ava.
“Ava!” I say. “That’s so weird, I just ran into Noah at the Laundromat. In fact, he’s here right now.” I give him a smug look and then sit down on the chair next to him. Now he’ll be in for it. I’ll tell Ava exactly what he’s been up to, and she’ll give him a piece of her mind for treating me like some kind of invalid. Maybe she’ll even break up with him, and then he’ll have to beg me to get her to forgive him.
“Oh, thank God,” Ava says. “I told him to go to the Laundromat and keep an eye on you.”
“You did?” I called Ava when the machine broke to complain about how I had to go to the Laundromat tonight. But what does that even mean, she told him to keep an eye on me? Ohmigod. She probably called him and told him I’m a mess! That I’m unable to function on my own, that she’s afraid I can’t even do a simple thing like my own laundry. (Which, when I think about it, is kind of true.)
I’m not sure if I should feel special or offended. I guess it was nice of her to be concerned, but who wants to have to have an eye kept on them? It makes me sound like a child who can’t be left alone. Which is kind of ironic—my mom has basically abandoned me for the summer, and my best friend is asking her boyfriend to babysit me. Sigh.
“Yeah, I told him you would probably be having a hard time, and that he should go and make sure you were okay.” She says it all breezy-like. “Anyway, I’m calling because I need you to google something for me.”
“Google something for you?”
“Yeah. Can you find out who the girl that plays the daughter in Californication is? We’re watching it and we know she looks familiar, but we’re not near a computer and—” in the background, I can hear the sounds of voices and a television, and then Ava says, “Lulu, quiet, I’m on the phone!” I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me. But before I can say anything, she says, “Never mind, Hannah, we figured it out! I’ll call you later, and tell Noah I’ll call him, too. Bye hon, miss you.”
She clicks off, and I put my phone back in my purse and glance at Noah, who’s suddenly very engaged in his Good Housekeeping magazine. Probably because he knows that I know that he wasn’t really coming to the Laundromat to wash clothes. Which I really should have figured out in the first place. I mean, a boy in the Laundromat with a laptop and no clothes on a Friday evening? Very suspect.
“So you were checking up on me?” I ask.
“No,” Noah says. He puts a faux-shocked look on his face, then turns back to his magazine, pretending to be engrossed. I take the magazine out of his hand and toss it back onto the table.
“That’s good,” I say, “That you weren’t checking up on me. Because I’m totally fine.”
“I know.” He shrugs.
“And I don’t need to be checked up on.”
“Definitely not.”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Perfectly.”
“So we agree.”
“Yup.”
“So then where are your clothes?”
“What?”
“Your clothes,” I say. “Where are your clothes? You came to the Laundromat so you must have some clothes.” I fold my arms across my chest and wait.
“Oh, my clothes,” he says, giving me an easy grin. “I didn’t come down here to do laundry.”
“Oh, really?” I say. “Then what were you here to do?”
“I was here,” he says, rolling his eyes like it should be obvious, “so I could go across the street to Cooley’s and check my schedule for the week.”
“And you just happened to see me coming into the Laundromat?”
“Exactly,” he says. “And I thought I’d say hi.”
“Good try.”
“You don’t believe me?” He sounds wounded, like the thought of me not believing him makes him incredibly sad.
“No.”
“Then come with me,” he says. He unfolds his long legs and stands up. “To Cooley’s. You’ll see they just posted the schedule. If I’m lying, I’ll buy you a chocolate shake.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Then I’ll still buy you a chocolate shake.” He grins at me again, and I’m about to tell him no thank you. Even though it’s a totally lame charade, this whole thing we’re doing, it’s actually kind of fun keeping it up and seeing who’s going to crack first. But in the end, the promise of chocolate wins out (although it’s definitely helped out by the sketchy-looking guy in the corner who’s wearing a T-shirt that says “BEEN THERE DRANK THAT” and eyeing Noah’s seat), so I get up and follow him out the door.
When we get to Cooley’s, there’s a girl with long red curls and fair skin wiping down the counter, and as soon as she sees us, she looks up. “Hey, Noah,” she says cheerily. “The schedule’s posted in the back, and you’re not going to be happy.”
Noah shoots me an I told you so look. “You set that up!” I say, even though I know it’s not true. “You told her to say that you were coming in to check your schedule.” I look at the girl, checking her out for any signs she’s in on this. She’s still wiping the counter, not looking particularly guilty. But she could just be a good actress.
“And when would I have done that?” Noah asks.
“I don’t know, you probably covert
ly texted her on the way over here or something.”
“Lacey will hook you up with a milk shake,” Noah says, ignoring my accusation and setting his messenger bag down on one of the stools. I look at the girl with red hair. She looks at me. “Lacey, Hannah. Hannah, Lacey,” Noah says.
We nod at each other, even though now I realize that I already know her. Well. Not know her, know her. She was in my history class a couple of years ago. She always seemed friendly enough, but we never really talked. In fact, I really don’t talk to that many people at school, which is another reason I don’t have many friends besides Ava.
“Hey,” Lacey says, giving me a smile once Noah disappears into the back of the diner to check his schedule. “What kind of shake do you want?”
“Chocolate,” I say. “Please.”
“Coming right up.” She turns around and heads toward the ice cream case that lines the back wall, and I take a second to inhale the scent of French fries that’s permeating the air. God, they smell good. I wonder if it would be way too over the top to order some fries too.
My eating habits haven’t been all that great lately, but with all the stress from the break up, I figure I deserve to eat what I want. Besides, the eating-disordered, stick-thin Paris Hilton body is so five years ago. Not to mention the whole string bikini thing definitely didn’t work out so well when it came to getting Sebastian interested in me. Although I guess, technically, he never saw me in it. But still. What’s the point of depriving yourself to be skinny if it doesn’t even make a difference?
I’m about to call out to Lacey, and let her know I want to add to my order, but before I can, she’s walking from the ice-cream cooler and back to where I’m sitting at the counter. And she doesn’t have my chocolate shake.
“So,” she says, holding her hair up off her neck and turning her head to the side. “This might be kind of weird, but, um, does this look strange to you?”
“Does what look strange to me?” I ask. I glance around, hoping she’s not talking about me. I mean, I wouldn’t say I look strange exactly, just extremely disheveled.
Sometimes It Happens Page 5
