PICCADILLY PHOTO
Help Wanted
The sign was tiny, as if whoever had put it there wasn’t sure they wanted help at all. Still, it took about six milliseconds before the bell on the door was jangling behind me. A tall, gray-haired guy who could double for Sir Ian McKellan (See? She may be a lovable dork, but Lissa’s movie collection is really rubbing off on me) came out from the back at the sound.
“May I help you?”
He wore a Glengarry plaid vest and faded jeans, and a silk scarf at his wrinkly throat. But his eyes were very kind, and he moved with the dignity of someone who might once have been a soldier.
I took a step forward, hand outstretched. “My name is Carly Aragon, and I’m a junior at Spencer Academy.”
“Are you, now?” His grip was strong. Ouch. “Surely they haven’t taken to flogging the streets for fund-raising.”
I grinned and surreptitiously flexed my fingers. “No, it’s just me doing the flogging. I’m looking for a way to pay my school expenses, and I saw your sign in the window.”
“Aha. Have you developed photographs before?”
“Um, no.”
“Worked behind a counter?”
“No, but I’m in AP Chemistry. It can’t be as hard as that.” I squelched a flutter of panic at the thought of what Gillian called “thirdterms” next week. Had I done nearly enough studying? No.
“Done any customer service work at all?”
“Just charity events with my mom.” Back in the days when having to do something like find a job would never have entered my head.
“Useful experience. What else can you do?”
I thought fast. “I can keep things clean. And smile at people and make them glad they came. I can do math in my head and keep my mouth shut. Oh, and I can make a really good salsa verde with avocado and tomatillos.”
“That will come in very handy in a photography shop, I’m sure.”
“It will at lunchtime. I’m good on the computer and I can use Photoshop.” Everyone in my design classes could.
“CS2?”
“CS3.”
One eyebrow rose. “How soon can you start?”
I gave him my best smile, hoping he wasn’t just being rhetorical. “Is right now soon enough?”
After a moment’s consideration, he said, “Why don’t you fill out an application form so I have the basics, and then you can grab the Swiffer mop from the storeroom and have a go at the floors. There is Windex and a bag of rags for the glass counters. Get this place sparkling by five o’clock and I’ll pay you for two hours’ work.”
I felt like shrieking for joy, but I restrained myself. “What is the pay, exactly?”
I braced myself to hear “minimum wage,” but when he named a figure six dollars an hour over that, I had to grip the counter—creating mondo fingerprints I’d have to wipe later—to stop myself from giving him a big hug. “That would be fine,” I said in my most businesslike tone. “Thank you. You won’t be sorry.”
“I trust not.” He rummaged under the counter and found an application form that looked as though it had been there a long time. “Once you have the shop mastered—which might take until tomorrow—I’ll show you how the developing equipment works.”
Tomorrow. “Um, I can’t come tomorrow.”
Again the raised eyebrow. I saw my brand-new income circling the drain. “Why not? We’re open Tuesday through Sunday.”
“I’m so sorry.” Tell him the truth. “I’ll be going to church on Sundays. I—it’s something new in my life that I haven’t had to plan for before. But I do now.” Not to mention I had a thirdterm paper to write on the economics of marriage in Jane Austen’s Emma for English class on Tuesday.
He looked at me as if I said I was learning to rob convenience stores on Sundays. “A churchgoing woman,” he said, “who can clean without complaint and make salsa on top of it. This is my lucky day.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant that or not. “Are you still going to hire me?” I hadn’t even gotten a pen out of my bag to fill out the application yet. Talk about the world’s shortest career.
“I’ve said I would. We’ll each agree to keep our beliefs to ourselves, and we’ll get along just fine. Your hours will be four until eight, Tuesday through Friday, with a half-hour dinner break at six. Saturdays ten till six. Will that suit?”
I’d keep Sundays, but I’d lose prayer circle. “Yes. That’s perfect.”
“Good.” As we shook hands on the deal, I told myself I’d figure out how I was going to get my homework done. Maybe I could bring it along and do it behind the counter if business was slow. And maybe I could convince the girls to move prayer circle to eight-thirty on Tuesday nights instead of seven, without telling them why. Not even my friends needed to know why or how I was funding my dress.
As Gillian would say, I’d jump off that bridge when I got to it. The main thing was, I had myself a job.
LMansfield Is Carly with you?
SHanna No. I thought she was studying for the chem midterm with you guys.
LMansfield Who’s studying? Gillian went somewhere with Jeremy and I’m sitting here working on my Hearst essay and feeling sorry for myself.
SHanna Poor baby. I have an invite to a gallery opening off Union Square. Some friend of my parents. There will be food. Want to come?
LMansfield Meet you on the stairs in 15.
KEEPING A SECRET from your friends is harder than you’d think. Not because I was doing anything underhanded, but I was so happy about actually landing a job that I wanted to share it with them. Instead, I had to buckle my lips shut and look like I had nothing more important to think about than Emma.
On Sunday, when Bruno, the Mansfield family driver, came to get us and take us out to Marin for church and lunch with Lissa’s folks, the news hovered on the tip of my tongue every time I opened my mouth.
But I couldn’t spill.
Shani, who has gotten to know me pretty well since last term, gave me narrow-eyed looks all through the service and later, too, as we hung out on the deck behind the shambling redwood house on the hill after lunch. “What’s up with you, girlfriend? You look different somehow.”
I shrugged and kept my gaze on a hawk circling lazily over the oak trees. “Nothing. I probably gained five pounds over lunch. I knew I should have worn an empire-waisted dress.”
She snorted, and Gillian and Lissa exchanged a look. “So where were you all day yesterday?”
“Shopping.” It was the truth. I’d been in about ninety-five shops: drugstores, dress boutiques, eyewear stores, you name it. Nobody was hiring high-school kids. Except Sir Ian . . . whose real name turned out to be Philip Nolan.
My boss.
I practically hugged myself with glee.
“Shopping,” Lissa repeated. “How come you didn’t invite us along? If it hadn’t been for Shani finally dragging me out, I’d have gone stir crazy, what with all my friends deserting me.” Pointed glance at the rail, where Gillian lounged against a corner post and stared dreamily into space, completely oblivious to the, like, fifty-foot drop below her.
“I don’t know.” I thought fast. “It wasn’t the fun kind.” Which was true. “I didn’t think you guys would be interested, so I just went.” Time to get off the subject. “What I’d like to know is what Gillian was up to all day.”
Bingo. Now three pointed glances swung in her direction.
“Yeah, Gillian,” Shani said. “How was the big date with Jeremy?”
“It wasn’t a date.” Gillian tipped her head back, and a satisfied smile tilted up the corners of her mouth.
“I bet it was more than that.” Lissa reached over and waggled Gillian’s sandaled foot. “Look at that face, you guys. That’s the face of a woman who’s been kissed.”
“Woot! Tell all,” Shani said.
“What happens in Muir Woods stays in Muir Woods,” Gillian informed us with maddening superiority.
“Aha! I was right.” Lissa smiled wickedly. “
But what I want to know is, is he a better kisser than Lucas Hayes?”
I hadn’t heard that name mentioned in front of Gillian since last term. No big loss—for all his brilliance, the guy was a total loser, a liar, and a cheat. Someone told me that he’d gone to jail, but I’m sure that was only a rumor. Still, he’d given Gillian her first kiss, and she’d hung on to that memory like a souvenir of one beautiful moment on an otherwise horrible trip.
Gillian’s satisfied smile widened. “Cone of silence?”
“Of course. You don’t even need to ask,” I said.
She swung both feet down and sat on the wide rail, facing us. “He’d kill me if he thought I’d told you guys, but scientific method has proven it. Jeremy is a way better kisser than Lucas.”
“I love scientific method,” Lissa said with faux dreaminess.
“Woo-hoo!” Hands high, Shani and I slapped palms in a victory salute.
“And he doesn’t gawk at other girls, and he never tells me I talk too much.”
“Mostly because you don’t,” I put in. “Only a guy who wanted all the attention for himself would think that.”
I’d be happy if Brett noticed that I talked at all.
Evidently what had happened in Muir Woods wasn’t going to stay there after all, because Gillian proceeded to tell us all about it, now that the headline news had broken. “So this means you guys are a couple,” I said when she’d brought us all up to date. “Officially.”
“I guess so.” Gillian fiddled with her jade bead bracelet. “I mean, he hasn’t said so in that many words, but we sit together in the dining room a lot, and his friends have stopped razzing him. Mostly. Which I think means they’re getting used to the idea. Oh, and I’ve told my mom about him.”
“Whoa.” Shani looked impressed, then glanced at us. “I’ve met her mom. That is serious.”
“Did she have a coronary?” I asked. “Was she afraid you’d flunk out and start doing drugs, just because you have a boyfriend?”
“No, my dad would think that,” Gillian replied, rolling her eyes. “He has no clue. But you remember Jeremy came up from Connecticut during break, and came to our house and met Mom and Nai-Nai then. Then he came up again to go to the musical with us, wearing his tux and everything. So it wasn’t that big a stretch to ease her into thinking of him as my boyfriend, once she’d thought of him as Shani’s and my friend from school.”
“Good strategy.” Lissa nodded in approval.
“She can break it to Dad. I’m not going to.”
“Why do parents tweak out when we get a boyfriend?” Shani wanted to know. “Not that mine would be around long enough to notice. They went jetting off to Dubai this week, if you can believe it. What about you, Carly? What would your dad say?”
I snorted. “He’s still in recovery about my mom having one. I don’t think he could handle me, as well.”
“That’s different,” Gillian said immediately. “Aren’t they still married?”
I shook my head. “The divorce was final months ago. But that doesn’t mean Dad doesn’t still have feelings about it. I hear him . . .” My voice trailed away. I really didn’t need to tell them about that. About the sounds I heard sometimes through the condo’s walls late at night—my dad, talking to my mom as if she were still there. Sometimes he broke down, and I’d have to pull my pillow over my head to keep from eavesdropping on a moment so painfully private that no one should be allowed to listen.
“Anyway,” I went on, “it’s not like he has to worry about me.”
Unfortunately.
Chapter 8
TUESDAY MORNING, way before my alarm was set to go off, the tinny sound of electronic salsa music emanated from inside my book bag. It took me eight measures to wake up enough to realize what it was, and another four to find the cell phone.
Mac surfaced from under her quilt, swore viciously at me, and buried her head under her pillow.
Oops. Looked like we weren’t going to be BFFs today, either.
“Hello?” I whispered.
“Hi, poquita.”
I rolled onto my back in surprise. “Mama?”
“Who else?”
“What time is it?” I squinted at the clock.
A pause. “Uh-oh. Did I miscalculate the time difference again?”
“Uh, yeah, I think so. It’s a quarter to six.”
“Sorry, sweetie. I’m out by an hour. I was hoping to catch you before you started getting ready for classes.”
“Well, you did.”
She laughed, that bubbly, throw-your-head-back laugh that was probably the thing I missed the most. That, and a real smile on my dad’s face.
“I couldn’t wait any longer. I thought about e-mailing you, or flying up to surprise you, and then I thought, oh, go ahead and call her.”
“About what? What’s happening?” I almost added, Are you coming home? Did you and Papa finally change your minds? But I didn’t. That would be too good to be true. But why would she call all the way from Veracruz on my abuelito’s phone card if it wasn’t something huge?
“Well, remember the man you met when you were here on break? Richard Vigil?”
Duh. The guy with the salesman’s smile and the leftover-eighties haircut. The guy who still thought narrow lapels and shoulder pads were in style. “Yes?” I said cautiously. Did I want to waste precious roaming minutes talking about him?
“Well, we went out to dinner on Sunday night at this little place on the harbor, and when my dulce came, you’ll never guess what I found on it.”
“A cockroach?”
Silence. “No, mi’ja. It wasn’t that kind of restaurant.”
“Oh, okay. I thought you might have gotten a free meal out of it, that’s all. Go on.”
“There were chocolate straws on my piece of cake, and a diamond ring was threaded onto one of them.”
Now the silence was on my end. “What, did someone in the kitchen lose it?”
“No, idiota, it was Richard. He asked me to marry him, and I said yes!”
I lay still, staring at the plaster medallion in the ceiling where a chandelier had once hung, my eyes seeing it and my brain recording nothing. Just I said yes, I said yes, I said yes bouncing off the walls of my skull, echoing over and over.
“Carolina? Poquita, aren’t you going to say anything?”
“Congratulations.” Something was sitting on my chest. Something so heavy I could hardly draw the breath to say the word.
“Thank you, darling. I’m so excited. There are so many plans to make. We’re going to be—”
“Have you told Papa?”
“—living in . . . Of course.” Her tone changed. “Even though it doesn’t really have anything to do with him, I called him as a courtesy. It’s not the kind of thing you want to find out from other people.”
“Or from your kids.” I could just imagine poor Papa’s face if I’d let something slip, thinking he knew. I didn’t think I could have stood it.
“Anyway, Richard lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, so I’ll be moving back to the States as soon as we set a date. We’ll be living in his house at first, but we’ll start looking for a home of our own right away. And he’s going to show my pieces in his gallery! Isn’t that wonderful? You can come and live with us if you want, and get out of this ridiculous boarding school situation your father has you in.”
Oh, no. I was not living within an entire state of Richard Vigil, and that was final. “I like this school.”
“I’m sure you do, but you have to admit, it’s not ideal.”
“It’s great. I’m learning a lot. And I’ve been invited to be on the committee that’s organizing this huge fashion show. All the West Coast designers will be there. In fact, I was out with an oil-company heir and the daughter of an Italian princess just the other night, making plans for it.”
The sound of long-distance buzzed. “Carolina, I’m not sure those are the kind of people you should be creating your future with. They’re not real.”
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br /> “If you pinch them, they yell, Mama. Would you rather I hung around with artistic types who are so busy living in the moment they can’t handle a future at all?”
The second the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I hadn’t meant them to be about her, but I knew she’d take it that way.
“I’m going to forget I heard that,” my mother said slowly. “I know this is a shock. I know you wanted your father and me to get back together. But that isn’t real, either, Carolina.”
“How realistic can it be to marry some guy you met on a cruise ship?”
“Richard has flown down here to see me three times since then,” she informed me. “He has stayed under your abuelito’s roof and been a perfect gentleman. Your abuelita loves him. I want you to love him, too.”
There was no reply I could possibly make to this, so this time I kept my mouth shut. Just as well. I needed to swallow the tears that swelled in my throat.
“And I want you and Alana to be my bridesmaids.”
“What?”
“Of course. Who else? As soon as we have a wedding date and decide whether it’s going to be in Veracruz or Santa Fe, I’ll let you know. It will be such fun, choosing dresses and colors and things together.”
I clamped my lips on the urge to ask her if she still had the dress she married Papa in. And the veil, and the something borrowed, something blue. “I don’t want to, Mama.”
A flood of chatter about Nile green versus salmon pink stopped in midstream. “¿Qué?”
“I’m not going to stand up with you. I don’t like the guy, and I hate what you’re doing to Papa.”
“This has nothing to do with him.”
“Yes, it does. This will kill him.”
“Nonsense. Once he got over the surprise, he was delighted for me.”
“He was lying, Mama. You know he’d never do anything to make you mad at him.”
“Shows what you know. Even if he was, that’s none of your business, Carolina. He’s your father and you love him, and that’s as it should be. But my life is my own now, and I choose to spend it with a man who worships me and who will support my art, not get in its way.”
“Whatever. But I still don’t want to be a bridesmaid.”
Be Strong & Curvaceous Page 7
