by Anne Dayton
“Oh. You’re staying here?” I narrow my eyes at him. No one ever stays here to eat. It’s totally depressing.
“Are you staying here?” He tilts his head and smiles. What is this nice-guy routine about? I thought we mutually hated each other’s guts?
“I’m on the clock until ten.” I play with the string of my apron, twirling the end around.
“Then I’m staying.” Dean crosses his arms over his chest. “Tray me.” I shake my head and pull an orange plastic tray from underneath the counter. He places his burrito squarely in the middle of it. “You coming?” He nods his head toward the row of empty tables along the wall.
“I can’t.” I smooth my apron down over my jeans. “I’m working. I have to—”
“You have to what?” Dean motions around the room. “There’s no one here. Why are you so afraid of me, Zoe?” He stops and waits, watching me. I suck in my breath. I’m not afraid of him. It’s inappropriate. I’m at work, and he’s . . . he has a girlfriend. I mean, yes, I’ve missed him as a friend, but now is not a good time. Dean is grinning at me, like he knows he’s got me now. “Come sit with me for a minute.”
I shake my head just as Gus reappears from the back.
“What’s going on here?” He puts his hands on his hips and furrows his brow.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” I swallow and try to keep myself from babbling. “Our customer wanted me to take a break and sit with him, but I declined.” I shoot poison darts out of my eyes at Dean. I can’t get fired. I need this job.
Gus’s face breaks into a smile. “I’m joshing ya.” He takes his hands off his hips and starts rubbing them together. “Just a little humor to raise worker morale.” His tie is pulled a little to the right. “I’m going to send you home a little early, Zoe.” Gus gives Dean a thumbs-up, and I realize he thinks this must be my boyfriend. If only he knew the truth. “Ryan and I will finish up.”
“Really?”
“Consider it an early Christmas present from the management.” He loves referring to himself as the management. It makes him feel important.
“Cool. I’ll go clock out.” I turn to Dean . “I guess I’m going to get to leave early or whatever, so if you want to get going . . .”
“I’ll be here,” Dean says. I try to pretend I don’t feel the way my stomach flips.
***
I step outside into the cool night air and say a quick amen that I don’t have to hear those depressing jingle bells any more tonight.
“Where are you headed?” Dean asks, zipping the front of his leather bomber jacket. It’s the kind of thing that would look ridiculous if anyone from around here tried it but somehow looks right on Dean.
I kick at the curb. “Home, I guess.”
“Fair enough.” Dean turns, and my heart sinks. Of course he’s going to leave. He probably has big plans with rocker chick tonight. He starts walking down the pavement. “You coming?”
I stare at him, and he shrugs. “I’m walking you home. Unless . . . you don’t have a car, do you?”
I watch him for a minute, but he keeps walking down the sidewalk. “You live this way, right?” he calls over his shoulder. What does he mean he’s walking me home? Why is he being so weird tonight? We haven’t even had a real conversation since that night in October at his house. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his record bag swinging from his wrist, and doesn’t look back.
He can’t walk me home. It would take forever. He must not know I live out in the boonies. Plus, I have . . . and he has . . .
But for some reason I can’t bring myself to yell for him to stop. This is just a friendly gesture. Friends can walk each other home. There’s no law against that.
He’s almost at the end of the sidewalk, in front of the shoe store, when I decide what I have to do. I go to the bike rack, unchain my bike, and run after him. He doesn’t seem surprised when I wheel my bike up next to him. He steps out into the parking lot and starts across it. I blink as a pair of headlights comes around the end of a row of cars and blinds me for a second.
“What’d you buy?” I finally ask.
“Coltrane.” He hands me the bag and takes my bike. “Take a look.” I pull a big, thin cardboard sleeve out of the bag. It’s an old record. I didn’t even know people had record players anymore. A serious-looking man stares out from the cover. “It’s a Christmas present for my dad.” I run my fingertips over the smooth surface of the record sleeve. “Coltrane and Thelonious Monk played this legendary series of shows at New York’s Five Spot.”
“The Five Spot?” Is this something I’m supposed to know?
“It was a famous jazz club in the East Village.” I don’t know anything about Coltrane, but judging from the picture, it looks like he played the saxophone, which makes an eerie kind of sense.
A silence passes between us, and I hand back his bag, and he passes me my bike.
Dean adjusts the wool cap on his head. “Is something going on lately?”
I grip my handlebars tighter. “What?” I step carefully along the sidewalk.
“I don’t know,” Dean says. “You seem . . . different somehow, sad or something. I thought maybe it had something to do with Christmas.” He’s quiet for a moment, and the moon glints off his shiny black hair. “It’s always hard at my house. I guess that’s why I notice it when other people are depressed too. Christmas is supposed to be this holy time, but the last thing I feel like doing is talking to God.”
Part of me wants to tell Dean that I’m fine and nothing’s changed. If I seem different it’s because things have been weird between us ever since he tried to…and then got his little girlfriend, which didn’t help matters. But then, part of me also knows there’s some truth in what he says. After our disastrous Thanksgiving, maybe I am kind of dreading Christmas without Ed. I really thought he’d be home by now.
But how could Dean know that?
“It doesn’t really feel like Christmas without him, you know?” Dean says.
I take a deep breath and look up at the night sky, black velvet and dotted with tiny silver stars. I don’t answer him for a minute, but he doesn’t seem to mind. And then somehow, for some reason, walking along the wide main road away from town, I start to tell Dean about Dreamy and Ed. I tell him about the fighting, the horses, the strain of money, and about Nick coming home and being a shadow. The sidewalk ends and turns into dirt along the side of the road, and I tell him about the Sea Witch and how Ed didn’t come home for Thanksgiving. Dean just listens.
When we turn onto the road that winds through the woods and up to my house, I’m still telling him about how Dreamy handmade all of our Christmas cards this year and how the notes she tucked inside didn’t say anything about our family falling apart.
It feels like we just left El Bueno Burrito, but we must have been walking for at least an hour, probably more. A blister is starting to form on my heel, and the moonlight is shining down on us when we walk up the long dirt driveway toward my dark house.
We both get quiet as we get closer. I lean my bike against the porch railing.
“Wait.” I try to keep my voice down as something dawns in me. “How are you going to get home?”
He grins, his face bright in the pale moonlight. “I have my car.”
I scan the driveway before I can stop myself. Of course it’s not here. “Where?”
“Back at El Bueno Burrito.” Dean’s smile is almost guilty. “I guess I’d better start heading back.”
My eyes widen. “You can’t do that.”
“Sure I can.” Dean reaches up and touches my hair, brushing a lock back from my face. He yanks on it, lightly, and drops his hand. I let out my breath slowly. He smiles at me, then turns, back toward the driveway.
“No, wait.” I dig in my bag for my keys. Why can I never find these things when I need them? I thrust my hand all the way to the bottom of my bag and feel around. There’s my phone and my pack of gum. Aha. I feel smooth, cold metal and curl my fingers around the
sharp teeth of my house key. “I’ll run in and grab Dreamy’s car keys, and I’ll drive you back in the van.” I’m technically not allowed to drive anyone else around until I’ve had my license a full year, but what are the chances anyone would find out?
“It’s okay.” Dean shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. “It’s a nice walk. I’m enjoying the night.”
“But—”
“Good night, Zoe.” Dean turns and starts to walk away, whistling quietly. I watch him until he gets to the end of the driveway, then step inside the quiet house and close the door.
27
“Hi, Zoe.” Michael says the right thing as he answers the door, but he forgets to make eye contact.
Riley whispers something in his ear, and he smiles, then runs into the house. She opens the door wider, and I follow her inside. We agreed to meet on the eve of Christmas Eve, which I always thought deserved a name of its own. This year I could call it Last-minute Panic Shopping for Marcus Day. The guy is impossible to buy for. I spent three hours downtown today and still showed up at Riley’s house empty-handed.
“Hey, guys.” I wave at Ana and Christine, and they mumble something over a bad Christmas TV special. We’re all pretty much in Christmas break comas.
“Zoe, how are you tonight?” Mr. McGee stands up and nudges Michael. This is called modeling. It’s important to show good social behavior so that Michael can learn it.
“I’m good. Thanks for asking,” I say, making sure I’m doing the modeling thing too. There’s a game board spread out on the table. “Are you playing chess?” Mr. McGee is tall and thin and has brown hair with two small patches of gray at his temples. It’s funny. He’s always struck me as a little geeky, while Mrs. McGee is so . . . like Riley. Popular, loud, outgoing. I wonder how they met.
“Okay, we’re all here. Let’s get to it.” Ana stands up and yawns.
Riley and I exchange a look.
“Didn’t you tell them?” I ask.
“It’s complex,” Riley says through her teeth. It just made sense for Riley to tell them. It’s her house, not mine.
“Tell us what?” Christine narrows her eyes. “If this is some kind of prank, I’m out. I’m on good behavior until Christmas. I think Candace and Dad are seriously considering getting me an this expensive set of oil paints I want as an I’m-sorry-there’s-a-puking-baby-on-the-way gift.”
“Well . . .” I take a breath, but the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it!” Michael pops up from the kitchen table and dashes to the door. Within seconds, a familiar voice pierces our silence.
“Um, hi, Michael.” Ashley’s normally sure voice sounds unsteady, even from here.
Ana falls back on the couch. Christine’s eyes become as big as saucers. I think fast while Michael practices making small talk with Ashley.
I scramble over to them and whisper, “She knows something about Ms. Moore’s case. She’s going to help us.”
Ana shakes her head quickly back and forth. “She’ll double-cross us.”
Riley steps toward them. “Trust us. Okay?”
Ashley walks into the room, and I can almost hear her gulp. Ana and Christine stare at the floor.
“Glad you could make it,” I say and wave her into the living room, trying to affect a normal tone. I’ve been dreading this moment ever since Ashley called and told me I could tell the girls—and only the girls.
“Ashley?” Mr. McGee pushes himself up from the kitchen table. “Um, hi.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I haven’t seen you in ages. How . . . are you?” Riley glares at her dad.
“Well, ha ha.” I have no idea why I’m laughing. Riley’s ex-best friend is standing in her living room, and her father just pointed out that they hardly even talk anymore. “I guess we should get started, Riley.”
Riley seems frozen in place for a moment as the past catches up to the freaky present. I motion to her bedroom with my head.
“Want to go hang out in your bedroom?” I try to smile at Mr. McGee and Michael to show that everything is fine, but they’ve already turned back to their game. Men.
“Yeah,” Riley finally says. “Room.”
She starts to walk down the hall and slowly, and one by one, we rise and follow her. No one utters a peep, and I find myself whispering a quick prayer that this works out. Ashley is the missing piece to saving Ms. Moore. The Miracle Girls need her.
We all file in, and Christine shuts the door. I plop onto the bed with Ashley and Riley. Christine takes the white wooden chair, and Ana perches on the floor, as if she might dart off at any second.
For a long moment, no one says anything. I study Riley’s room. There’s something different about it, but what? There’s still the same surf-themed décor with warm, greenish-grayish walls, white wood furniture, and lots of knickknacks and mementos. I glance at her huge poster of Kelly Slater, the pro surfer she’s borderline obsessed with. Wait. That’s it. The poster used to have a small roll of photo-booth pictures of Tom and Riley pinned to the bottom of it. Where’d they go? Actually there used to be a lot of Tom stuff in here, and now everything is so tidy.
“I’m glad you made it,” I say to break the awkwardness. “There was . . . a miscommunication so Ana and Christine . . . didn’t know you were coming.”
“I asked Riley not to say anything.” Ashley traces the subtle pattern in the sand-colored duvet. “I wasn’t sure I could really do this.”
Ana bites her lip and bores her eyes into the floor. Ashley picked on Ana more than any of us, and Ana has a long way to go to forgive her for the whole God Girl thing. Actually we all have a long way to go. She’s double-crossed us enough times to make us permanently wary.
Ashley takes a deep breath and lowers her arms, holding out the papers she gave me the other day. “I loved Ms. Moore too. She was my counselor until—” Christine looks up sharply. “Until my dad got her fired. I want to help get her back.” She grips the papers tightly. “Zoe said I could trust you guys. But the stuff in these papers . . . I don’t know. I need to make sure you guys won’t spread this around.”
“You can trust us,” I say, trying to sound confident. Ashley may not be my favorite person, but I know she’s being sincere. I can feel it in my bones.
“We won’t tell anyone what’s in there.” Riley nods. “I can promise you that.”
The tension in the room builds. Christine clears her throat, and we all turn to her. She opens her mouth, then stops, and we wait for a second. “I, uh,” she clears her throat again, “admire you for coming here. Whatever we see or hear today will remain in this room.”
A huge weight slides off my shoulder. There. If Christine is on board, Ana will play along too.
“You shouldn’t call people God Girl.” Ana purses her lips, and I can see the tears welling up in her eyes. My heart starts to pound. “It’s mean.”
Ashley blushes. . . and it looks almost real. Maybe this ice queen has a heart buried inside of her after all.
“Sorry,” she mumbles.
No one says anything. Ana stares at Ashley, her face a mix of emotions, and it feels like a showdown at high noon. Can we move beyond the past to fix our shared futures? I swallow, and it seems like everyone can hear.
“Promise me you won’t do it again?” Ana juts out her lip.
Ashley raises her head and locks eyes with Ana. “No matter what happens. I promise.”
“Okay.” Ana nods, but she still seems on guard. “I’m in.”
***
Two hours later, we’ve combed through every single document in the folder three times, and the mood in the room has grown grim. It’s become pretty clear that the whole lawsuit depends on one little incident and the delicate matter of who is telling the truth.
“Okay, let’s go through it again, one more time.” Christine is sprawled on the floor next to Ana. “Don’t leave anything out.”
Ashley, Riley, and I are collapsed on the bed, looking at Riley’s smooth white ceiling. No cottage chees
e bits or water stains to stare at here.
“It was just a normal counseling session with Ms. Moore.” Ashley’s voice has grown quieter and quieter during the course of our meeting. She seems to be shrinking before our eyes. She’s already confessed it was Ms. Moore who first reached out to her when her essays in English class turned dark. “School was winding down, and I was talking to her about my parents’ divorce.”
From the beginning, people have said that Ms. Moore got fired for telling off someone’s dad. For a while Christine was afraid it was her dad who had complained, but after digging through the papers and looking up the laws and school district rules, we learned that though Ms. Moore did yell at Ashley’s dad, you can’t actually get fired for that. Ms. Moore just gave him an earful about all the stress he was putting his daughter through with the divorce. We found the letter of reprimand from Ms. Lovchuck in the file, but that’s not enough. It was something else.
“I was telling Ms. Moore that my father had asked me to swear to his lawyer that my mother was an unfit parent and I was better off living with him, and I just sort of lost it.” Ashley’s voice fails her, and I wonder if I should put a hand on her arm to comfort her. She’s opening up, but she’s still Ashley Anderson and I’m still Zoe, right?
No one says anything, and I listen to the sound of Ashley’s uneven breathing. These files contain very detailed notes about Ashley’s home life, and the story behind them is tragic. All those times she said something horrible or did something vindictive, it never really occurred to me there might be something that was making her deeply unhappy, something that had nothing to do with any of us.
“I started sobbing uncontrollably, and I think I had a bit of a panic attack.” I turn my head and see a tear slide out of her eye. “Ms. Moore came around the table and kneeled next to me. She tried to talk to me. She kept telling me to put my head between my legs and breathe slowly, but I was freaking out. I coul—” Ashley’s voice catches in her throat. “I couldn’t get any air, and it felt like I was going to pass out. Then she put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a little shake.”
