“Nikki, forget it. I’m not going. I can’t. I have to work because you never told me when the date was.”
That gets my dad to look at me at last. His eyebrows shoot so high they almost disappear into his hairline. It’s now twice in two weeks that I’ve talked back to him. I haven’t done anything so brash since I was with Jared.
My father closes the laptop as if sensing that he won’t get me to back down too easily. “Then tell your boss you need tomorrow through Saturday off.”
I blink at him, vaguely aware that the back door and kitchen windows are open, meaning Jared hears every word of this conversation. Lovely. “I can’t ask for three days off with so little warning. Ben’ll have to get people to cover for me.”
“Then quit.”
“What?”
“It’s a stupid, menial job that I didn’t want you to take in the first place. We’ll be gone in ten days. Tell this Ben person you quit. What’s the big deal?”
I pick my jaw off the patio. “The big deal is that’s a really crappy thing to do to people who are relying on you. How would you like it if your former employees did that?”
“There’s a big difference between the kind of job I had and the kind you have, and the sorts of people who do those jobs. My employees are supposed to be intelligent and hardworking. Your boss’s employees are supposed to be breathing. He’s used to it, trust me. Quit.”
Inside I’m dying. If Jared’s opinion of my family wasn’t already in the gutter, I can only imagine how it’s sinking now. This is stupid snobbery at its worst from my father, and I can’t take it. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I’m not backing down. I’ve done too much of that these past couple years.
“You can believe Ben and everyone who works for him is as dumb and irresponsible as you want, but I’m one of those people. And I’m not like that. I’m not dumping this crap on Ben because it’s not fair. I said I’d be at work; I’ll be at work.”
“You will be at the gala. You will have brown hair, and you will be dressed appropriately. The Michelsons expect you.”
“Then maybe you should have bothered to tell me in advance. For some reason, you think I never deserve the communication that April gets.” My nails dig into my palms. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming.
My dad glares at me. “So I’m supposed to tell these important people, people who could be highly influential in getting me into a new position, that my daughter can’t attend their party because she’d rather be debasing herself in a checkout line for minimum wage?”
“Yeah, only maybe you want to spin it so that your daughter isn’t sitting around on her butt waiting for the money fairy to drop a present in her lap, and is instead doing something about her situation and being responsible. Some people appreciate responsibility, no matter what the job is.”
I storm back inside, past April who stares at me in horror. Past Hannah and Mike who pretend to be fascinated by their coffee cups. Past Jared, whom I can’t even bring myself to look at for fear I’ll die of embarrassment.
Then I remember that Jared’s here because of me. I can’t run away. Before I can decide what to do, he follows me into the living room.
“Sounds like this isn’t a good time. I’ll just...” He gestures toward the door, then pauses with his hand on it. “Claire?”
“Yeah?” My face is on fire with humiliation.
Jared bites his lip. “Never mind. See you around.”
“Right, sure. Another time if you want?”
He nods at me, but his gaze is on the kitchen—my dad’s direction. I watch him leave, then I grab my guitar and stomp up the steps. Once the attic door slams shut, I fall on my bed.
The rage dissipates quickly. It’s so like my father these days. Since he lost his job, he’s only gotten more stubborn about keeping up appearances. More snooty about what’s acceptable and what’s not.
I expected it, but I didn’t need Jared to overhear it all, and I wonder what he was about to ask me and whether it matters anymore. So much for our civilized conversation earlier. He must be thrilled that he escaped dealing with my family. So amused by how far the high and mighty Winslows have fallen.
So glad to be rid of me.
Chapter Sixteen
I wake up trapped Thursday morning, half expecting to find that my dad’s duct taped me to the bed so I can’t leave. Turns out that my motion’s restricted only because the sheet is wrapped around me like a rope. I must have tossed and turned a lot in my sleep.
I braid my hair in front of the mirror while April sleeps ten feet away. She and my dad will leave this afternoon.
Staring at her suitcase, I fight off a wave of guilt. Not my fault. No one ever told me when the Michelsons’ party was. It’s the story of my life. No one tells me anything, then they get annoyed with me for not knowing. Part of me whispers that I should be concerned enough to ask, but how do I know what to ask about? April said I didn’t know about my dad selling the house because I was too wrapped up in my own life. Am I?
Most of the time, this is not a big deal. But this...this could be a big deal. Still, I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks. My dad can’t ground me, and I’m also pretty sure I have the moral high ground here.
“I hate you for making me go alone,” April murmurs from beneath the blanket.
I slip on my sneakers, surprised she’s awake. “I have to work.”
“I know. Dad was being a jerk, but you should have scheduled time off.”
“I told you yesterday—I didn’t know the date.”
She rolls over, giving me her back. “Uh-huh. I’d have totally done the same thing if I were you so I could get out of it.”
I can’t be bothered to defend myself again because that makes me laugh, so I smack her head before leaving the room. She calls me a nasty name, but I think she’s laughing, too.
I eat quickly, attempting to leave before my dad spots me, and as a result get to take a leisurely stroll to Milk and Honey. A “help wanted” sign hangs in the window. For a second, I fear my dad’s actually done it—called the store and told them I quit. Then I realize how irrational that is.
Ben’s behind the customer-service counter as I punch in and count my till. “Looking for my replacement?” I ask.
“Yours, Emma’s, Tim’s...” Ben cleans his glasses. “That’s how it goes this time of year. You either leave or you need to scale back hours because of school. I’m used to it, but it’s always a shame to let the good workers get away. That means you.”
“Aw, thanks. It’s been an experience.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“Nah, seriously. I’ve learned how to refrain from telling people exactly what I think of them. And as a bonus, I know how far I can be pushed before I take a swing at someone.”
“That’s a good skill. You’ll be qualified to work retail anywhere with that kind of restraint.”
I pretend to shudder, and I take my till out front.
“Do anything fun on your day off?” Beth asks.
I think. Working on my song was not fun. More like frustrating. Talking to Jared? Painful. And oh, fighting with my dad? Not even close.
To top it off, Zach called last night while I was staked out in my room hiding from said dad. I hadn’t heard from him since Saturday, and honestly, I hadn’t thought to call him myself. My memories of that night are all focused on Jared. It took me a moment to even realize what Zach was talking about.
“Were you okay Sunday?” he asked.
“Um, yeah?”
“Not hungover?”
“Oh. No.” Lie.
A pause on the other end. “Good.”
I stared at the ceiling fan. I could hear my dad’s voice downstairs, but couldn’t make out his words. Zach should have texted me. That would
be so much less awkward. “So were you?” I finally asked when I remembered I’m supposed to speak next.
“A little.”
“Sorry.” Except I’m not given the way he acted. “I need to go. My dad’s calling me.” Another lie.
Yeah, that call was the perfect end to a perfectly not-fun day.
It’s a slow morning so Ben pulls Beth from her register and has her go clean the shelves, depriving me of anyone to talk to. I glance incessantly at the clock. Three hours until I leave. Two hours until I leave. One hour until I leave.
Not that I have any great plans for the evening, you know, but the clock gives me something to focus on.
“Fifty-one twenty-four,” I tell the dreadlocked guy in my line. If I breathe deeply enough, I can detect the remains of pot smoke on him.
He scans his receipt after I hand it to him. “Hey, wait. Why are the grapes three ninety?” He holds out the receipt for me to check.
I bite my tongue. I can’t stand when customers check the price of every item. Yes, occasionally, the store makes a mistake. I get it. But nine times out of ten, the customer has the wrong price for something in their head, and they get angry at me, as though I somehow fixed the scanner to charge them incorrectly.
“Look, see.” I point to the markings on the receipt. “Grapes are one ninety-nine a pound. And you bought just under two pounds. That’s why.”
“But I only bought one bag.”
Deep breath, Claire. “This is how much they weighed.”
“That can’t be right.”
“If you like, I’ll reweigh them for you.”
The doors open and a cacophony of familiar voices greet my ears. Hannah’s is the loudest among them. Great. I hear her and Mike. Does that mean Lisa and—God help me—Jared are there, too? Just what I need.
“I only bought one bag,” pot-smoker is saying.
“Right, but that one bag had more than one pound of grapes in it.”
He crumples the receipt. “That’s stupid.”
Restraint.
“If you don’t want that many, you can go to the customer service desk and return them for a different bag.”
Beth pokes her head out of the nearest aisle and sees me and the gathering crowd. My so-called friends and family have stormed my register. “I can ring you up over here,” she tells Lisa.
“That’s okay.” Hannah grins. “We want to make Claire work.”
And I want to call Hannah an impolite name, but I can’t even in jest because I’m supposed to be showing restraint. I turn back to my customer. “Sir?”
“It’s fine. Whatever.” Pot-smoker takes his bags and walks away.
I lower my head to the register. Fifty-five minutes until I can leave.
Beth laughs. “You get all the fun ones, don’t you?”
“Someone kill too many brain cells?” Jared asks.
“Seriously, I get one like that once a week.”
“Poor cuz.” Hannah unloads their basket. All she has in it are a couple sodas from the refrigerator case and a bag of gummy worms.
I pass them through the scanner. “Need a sugar fix?”
“Actually, we came by to tell you we’re going to Dean’s for pizza tonight,” Lisa says. “Can you meet us at seven-thirty?”
I nod, and my gaze sweeps across the group. “Everyone?”
“Mike and Jared are invited,” Hannah says, causing me to hold in a groan.
“Zach’s here, too.” Jared gives me an uneasy look. “He got sucked into watching some TV special on Eminem with your dad’s secretary. But if you don’t want him to go...”
I pick at a callus, debating, but the only thing that sticks in my head is that Zach is an Eminem fan. And all this time I’d only worried about the Beatles versus Stones question.
“Cuz?” Hannah waves her money in front of me.
Blinking, I finish ringing up her order and my gaze settles on Beth. She’s staring right at Jared, and I realize that Hannah’s said his name.
Oh, crap. It’s not that I care if Beth recognizes him, but I haven’t exactly been straight with her about knowing him. I mean, I had my reasons, but I hope she doesn’t hold it against me.
“Oh, my God.” Beth clamps a hand over her mouth. “Are you really? You’re him, aren’t you?” Her voice trembles with incoherence.
Hannah and Lisa seem confused, but Mike catches on immediately.
“He just—” Mike starts up with the same excuse he tried on me, but Jared gives him this “knock it off, dude” kind of look.
It dawns on me that Jared’s totally used to this sort of thing. It’s the rest of us that get uncomfortable.
Jared turns his best camera-ready smile on Beth. “Hey, nice to meet you.”
I feel obligated to introduce Beth, which temporarily leaves her speechless and gawking at me because, yeah, I’m not supposed to know Jared.
The speechless moment passes pretty quick. “Oh, my God. I love your music,” Beth gushes, giving me a last curious glance. I cringe, expecting I’m going to get an earful once everyone leaves. “Can I get an autograph? Crap, I need a piece of paper.”
“Here you go.” I slide a piece of the scrap paper at my register toward Jared, and discover a pack of gum sitting on my belt. “Autograph it. And whose gum is this?”
“Mine.” Mike hands me two dollars so I ring it up.
“So can I ask you a question?” Beth says to Jared. She tucks the slip of paper with his autograph into her pocket. “I know you claimed that none of the songs are on your album are about any specific person, but my friends and I have a bet. So, are they really? What’s the truth?”
Vaguely, I offer Mike his receipt and it takes me a second to realize he’s waving for me to throw it out. I’m too busy watching Jared. A million different thoughts seem to pass over his face, and he’s yanking on his thumb ring. It’s funny because I suspect he’s been asked that question a thousand times. But this is the first time anyone’s ever asked when the subject of those songs is standing next to him.
Laughter bubbles up inside me, and I fight it down. Judging from the constipated look on his face, Jared’s ready to do anything but join me in my merriment.
I let Mike’s receipt float into the trashcan, my smirk spreading.
Jared shuffles his feet. “Well, it’s complicated. Because every idea does come from something, but it has to be made to fit a song. So...” He makes a funny noise.
I lean against my register. “What he’s trying to say is that, yes, his ex-girlfriend really does drive a red Miata.”
Jared coughs. “Right. What Claire said.”
“Ooh.” Beth hops on her toes. “So I win the bet? Your songs are about a real bitchy ex?” I cross my arms. If Jared doesn’t correct the bitchy bit, I might have to defend myself and damn the consequences.
As if anticipating my reaction, Mike glances between me and Jared. He also looks like he’s having a hard time holding his tongue. But then, according to Jared, he’s had a hard time of it since the beginning.
“Yeah, well, that’s what I’m explaining,” Jared says. “They are, but they’re not. They’re about a real ex, but it’s not truly truthful to assume that everything in the song...it’s not like she’s...”
Truly truthful? He’s dying, and he hasn’t even nixed the bitchy thing yet.
“So...” I draw out the word and pretend to inspect my nails. “You don’t honestly believe your ex is an evil bitch who dumped you for a car? Is that what you’re saying?”
Jared twists his ring right off his thumb. It hits the floor with a clatter, and he picks it up in silence.
I clear my throat. “Right. So what’s he’s saying is that his ex didn’t actually dump him for a car. She just happened to get one for her birthday that year, and it
made a good line in a song. It’s a lot catchier than saying my ex dumped me because her mom was dying of cancer, and she was trying to keep her mom happy during the last painful months of her life. Something that depressing doesn’t go with a catchy guitar lick. It probably also doesn’t earn you as much sympathy from the groupies.”
I try to catch Jared’s eye, but he’s finding the floor fascinating. All faces turn to me, and I start to think that maybe I should have held that last bit in. Oh, boy. Did I actually tell Ben I learned restraint this summer?
I fake a laugh. “Anyway, that’s just a guess.”
Hannah holds out her hand for a stick of Mike’s gum. “Really? That’s weird because you drive a red Miata, Claire. And you... Oh, my God.”
Oh, my God is right. I suspect Hannah put it together at last. Part of me wonders how she actually didn’t figure this out before. Jared was right—she is ditzy.
“Red Miata.” Hannah hits me in the arm, and not lightly either. “Red Miata. That’s your red Miata? I can’t believe this. How could you? You...” She stamps her foot, flailing for words.
“Don’t look at me,” I say, motioning to Jared. “He’s the one who wrote the songs. I’m only the interpreter.”
“You, you...” Hannah points at me, then at Jared. “I don’t believe this. I need a smoke.”
I’m saved by a customer with a full cart, and the relief that spreads throughout my body surprises me. I hadn’t realized how fast my heart started beating. “I’m open. Don’t mind them; they’re leaving.” I stress the last word and wave over everyone’s heads.
Hannah runs out, and Lisa and Mike follow, arguing. Lisa sounds pissed that neither he, nor I, bothered to share this information. Meanwhile, Jared, ever the performer, remembers to smile and say goodbye to Beth.
Me? I’m ignored, not even a look of loathing from him. It’s not unexpected, but it stings. I should have let him muddle through on his own.
Word of the day: restraint. Face it, Claire. You have none where Jared is concerned.
Another Little Piece of My Heart Page 17
