“You mean when she practically abandoned us to start a new life?” I say wryly. “Yeah, so you can see why I might still be angry.”
“I know. I am too, a little. But I’ve been talking to Amir about it, and he’s made me realize how unhealthy it is, hanging on to all this resentment. Forgiving her would benefit us as much as her. You know?”
No, I don’t know. I don’t know why she’s taking advice from a guy she’s known for only a few months, a guy who doesn’t know us or our situation. I don’t know why she thinks I’d be on board with this after everything we’ve gone through together, all the anger and the tears and the uprooted life. I don’t know why none of it seems to matter to her anymore.
“I gotta go,” I say after a long pause.
“Morgan.” She sighs again, this time with an exasperated edge. “Just think about it, okay? If Dad can move past this, then maybe we can too.”
Hot anger floods my stomach. Out of all the things she just said, that’s the worst. She’s been gone all year, living it up on campus and meeting hot guys. She hasn’t seen Dad’s dark circles, or listened to his weary sighs at night when he gets home from another crappy day at work. He hasn’t moved past anything, and it pisses me off when she acts like she knows him better than I do.
“Gotta go,” I say again, and hang up the phone. I consider throwing it across the kitchen and then going back to bed, but it’s eight thirty. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for my second shift at Rita’s Reruns. At least Rachel doesn’t know about that. She’d never believe that I’d suddenly taken up volunteering.
By the time I get downtown, the anger has subsided somewhat. Now I just feel drained. And sad, when I think about Rachel with our mother, joking around like we all used to. I wish I didn’t miss that about my mom, but I do. I miss her dry sense of humor and the uninhibited way she laughed, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. Rachel laughs the same way.
I guess it makes sense that she’s open to making amends with Mom. My sister is more forgiving than I am; she doesn’t hold grudges. That’s the biggest difference between the two of us. Still, I can’t ignore the sharp sting of betrayal as it works its way through my body.
I’m almost at the thrift store, which is a good thing because my watering eyes have turned the road into a distorted blur. I pull into the long driveway and park in front of the orange marigolds, which for some reason make me feel even worse. I look away, focus on searching through my purse for tissues instead. I hate crying and try to avoid it as much as possible. Crying in front of other people is even worse, so I’m glad for the privacy of the car.
“Hey.”
I jump, banging my elbow on the gearshift. I blink through my tears and look to my left. At first, all I see out the open driver’s-side window is a wide torso wearing a red T-shirt with a tear in the hem. Suddenly, the T-shirt lowers and two arms and a head appear. Eli.
“Oh,” I say, flustered. I turn away and quickly swipe beneath each eye with my thumb. “I was—I was just coming in.”
“No rush.”
I glance at him. He’s crouched down, his forearms resting on the bottom of the window. His skin there is tanned and covered in fine blond hair, lighter than the hair on his head. And he smells like fresh, damp earth, like he’s just been digging in soil.
“You’re not still upset about the ugly vase, are you?” he asks softly. “Because I’m totally over it, I swear. No hard feelings.”
To my surprise and probably his, I snort. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not as amusing as you think you are?”
He bounces a little, adjusting his position. “Yeah, actually. My sister tells me that all the time.”
“Your sister?”
“Meredith. She’s fourteen and a royal pain in my ass.”
I nod and toss my car keys into my purse. “I have a sister too. Rachel. She’s nineteen and a royal pain in my ass.” I put my hand on the door handle, and Eli straightens up and backs away.
“Nineteen,” he exclaims as I climb out of the car. “So they don’t grow out of it, then?”
“Guess not.”
We make our way up to the front entrance together. Eli holds the door open for me, frowning slightly at my swollen eyes as I pass. Our significant height difference makes it possible for me to walk under his arm without even having to duck. I thought Zach was tall, but this guy has a few inches on him. I only come up to the top of his chest.
“There you are.” Rita strides toward us, bracelets chiming with each step. Today she’s wearing a long gray tunic over black tights and silver gladiator sandals. She has an interesting style, to say the least. “Eli, sweetie, I sent you outside to get those bags ten minutes ago, and now you’re standing here with no bags.”
Eli looks down as if making sure he is not, indeed, carrying any bags. “Oops, sorry. I found Morgan in the parking lot and she was looking a little lost.” He shoots me a grin, unaware of the truth in his words.
“Hmmm.” Rita crosses her arms over her ample chest and fixes him with a narrow-eyed look. “Yes, I’m sure you were helping this cute girl find her way inside out of the goodness of your heart.” To me, she adds in a low voice, “Quite the charmer, this one.”
I don’t doubt it. With that smile and those muscles and warm hazel eyes, he probably melts the hearts of a lot of people.
Eli grins at his aunt’s description of him. “That’s me. Okay, I’ll go get those bags you asked for now.”
Rita swats him playfully on the arm as he passes her, then turns back to focus on me. Her gaze makes me feel self-conscious. Whenever I cry, my eyes puff up and my fair skin stays blotchy for up to an hour after the tears have stopped. She can obviously tell something’s wrong. I wait for her to ask if I’m okay.
“Someone dropped off three bags of women’s pants yesterday,” she says instead. “They’re in the back room, all ready to be sorted. You can spend the morning on that.”
I nod, grateful. Sitting in the stockroom, alone, sounds much more appealing than putting on a happy face for customers.
Rita explains exactly what sorting means—checking for holes and stains, going through pockets, discarding items that aren’t fit for sale—and leaves me to my own devices. I sit on a sturdy plastic tote and untie the first bag. Pants of every color, fabric, size, and style stare back at me. This could take a while.
By the time I’m through the first bag, I feel marginally better. There’s something soothing about repetitive tasks that don’t require any brainpower. The quiet is nice too. It’s just me and a room filled with other people’s belongings. I wonder about the history of all these unwanted items, what prompted their owners to get rid of them. To make room, probably, for newer and better things.
I’m halfway done with bag number three when the door flies open, smashing against the wall. For the second time today, I jump. And again, it’s because of Eli. He squeezes through the doorframe with a huge box in his arms, then sets it on the floor. As he’s straightening back up, he notices me.
“Oh, hey. Didn’t know you were in here.”
I reach into the bag for more pants, bringing out a pair of white skinny jeans. “Do you have something against doors? You’re very rough on them.”
“No.” His mouth twitches. “I find them adoorable.”
I pretend to glare at him. “What’s in that box?” I say, nodding toward it. “Looked heavy.”
He nudges the box with his foot. “A bunch of toys that look like they’re from the Dark Ages. There’s probably lead paint on a few of them.”
I finish checking over the jeans and put them in the acceptable pile. “What happens to the stuff that can’t be sold?”
“Trash,” he says, then turns away to sneeze. It’s pretty dusty in here. “Or recycling.”
I nod and start examining a pair of maroon capris. Eli stands there, watching me, for what seems much longer than necessary. Feeling self-conscious again, I lay the capris on my lap and look up at him. “Was there so
mething you needed?”
He shifts his weight to his right leg, the one he favors when he walks, and shakes his head. “I was just wondering how your morning’s going.”
Oh God. He’s going to bring up my crying episode in the car earlier. “Well,” I say, going back to the capris, “so far I’ve found two movie stubs, a paper clip, a fuzzy breath mint, and four dollars and eighty-three cents in change. So, all in all, my morning’s been a success.”
“Wow,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “You have almost everything you need to defuse a bomb.”
His comment is so illogical that I can’t help but laugh. He smiles at the sound, like it’s his goal in life to cheer up sad girls he doesn’t even know.
“Seriously, though,” he adds. “I just wanted to make sure you were—”
“I’m fine.” I fold the capris and reach for the next item. “It’s just . . . family stuff. Nothing major.”
“Okay.” He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans. His clothes, I’ve decided, would all go in the unfit pile. Faded, ripped, frayed . . . nothing he’s wearing looks like it was bought in the past five years. It’s oddly attractive on him. “So,” he says, leaning back against the one bare wall. “Do you volunteer a lot?”
I focus on the pair of jeans in my lap, which appear to have an unfortunate grease stain near the knee. Stain remover might get it out, but I’m sure Rita doesn’t have time for that sort of thing. “No,” I tell him as I toss the jeans in the nope pile. “This is the first time. Something to give me an edge on my college applications,” I add, using the same lie I’ve told my friends.
Eli nods. “Cool. For me it started out as just helping my aunt, but now I think I’d volunteer here anyway. I really like it—except when Aunt Rita’s bossing me around—and it’s a good cause.”
“Yeah, it is,” I agree. Rita told me my first day that sales proceeds go to fund group homes for adults with intellectual challenges. I’d like to say I’d volunteer of my own free will too, but I’m not as honorable a person as Eli evidently is.
“I don’t like it as much as my regular job, though,” he says.
I fish a dime out of the front pocket of a pair of black dress pants. Four dollars and ninety-three cents. “What’s your regular job?”
He slides down the wall and carefully settles himself on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him. They almost reach to the opposite wall. “I cut grass for a lawn care company.”
My eyes trail over the long lines of his body. Stop it, I admonish myself. I’m here to pay my debt to society, not check out cute guys. Especially when the cute guy in question is the nephew of one of the few people who know the truth about me.
“You’re into landscaping, then?” I ask, returning my eyes to my pants.
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“Lawn care? The marigolds?”
“Oh. Right.” He laughs and crosses his legs at the ankle. “Yep, I’m definitely into landscaping. I’m starting the Environmental Horticulture program at Kinsley in the fall.”
“Impressive.” I envy people who know exactly what they want to do with their lives. Whenever I think about the coming year and how I’ll be expected to decide my entire future, my palms turn sweaty and I forget how to swallow. Normally, I’d discuss stuff like future career plans with my mom—she used to help me decide which courses to take in school and discuss different fields I might excel in—but that was back when I trusted her opinion.
“What about you?” Eli asks, reaching into the box of ancient toys. He pulls out a creepy-looking doll with matted blond hair and a painted-on face. “Any gainful employment?”
“I make smoothies at Royal Smoothie.” I glance at the doll and shudder. “Jesus, would you put that thing away? I’m going to have nightmares.”
He laughs and tosses the evil doll back in the box. “Royal Smoothie? I love that place. I go there sometimes after the gym for a Booster Berry smoothie.”
The gym. Of course. People don’t look like him without regular workouts. And high-protein smoothies.
“Well,” I say when I realize the last bag is empty. Twenty-four viable pairs of pants are stacked at my feet. Not a bad haul. “I guess I should go see what else Rita has for me to do.”
Taking my cue, Eli bends his right leg and uses it and his hands to slowly propel himself to his feet. His left leg seems stiff, like it doesn’t want to bend all the way. There’s clearly something off about it, but I remind myself it’s not my business.
“You just don’t want to be in the same room with that doll,” he says, gesturing for me to pass through the door ahead of him. “You’re scared it might come to life and murder you.”
“Nah. I’m a lot tougher than I look, you know.”
He gives me an appraising look. “I believe it.”
Despite my resolve to see him as a coworker only, I find myself staring at his body again as he walks to the side door and bursts through it, letting it slam shut behind him.
Chapter Nine
WEDNESDAY EVENING AFTER WORK, I WAIT IN MY warm car for Dawson to finish up at Ace Burger. Since our schedules have been in sync for the past week, both us of clocking out at seven, I’ve been driving him home to give him a break from the bus.
Finally, I see him rounding the corner to where I’m parked along the curb. He gets in and hands me my bag of fries, grabbing his smoothie out of the cup holder with his other hand. This is our little ritual—he brings me fries, I bring him a large Mystic Mango. Employee discounts for the win.
“Why is it so damn hot outside?” he asks, pressing the sweating smoothie cup to his forehead.
I crank up the A/C. “Maybe because it’s July.”
He grunts around his straw and leans back against the seat, closing his eyes. I rip open the Ace Burger bag and place my fries in the now-empty cup holder. The car fills with the scent of grease, which mingles with the grilled meat smell emanating from Dawson’s shirt. Today, his button reads, Try Our New Heavenly Hawaiian Burger!
“Bad day at work?” I ask when he doesn’t move or open his eyes even after I’ve started driving.
His eyes pop open. “No. Why?”
“You’re just . . . quiet.” Usually when I drive him home, he spends the entire time entertaining me with stories about customers and his coworkers and trying to convince me that peanut butter is indeed a delicious topping for a hamburger (I’m still not convinced).
“Oh. Sorry. I’m just . . . Work was fine.” He takes a long drink, then grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose. Ice cream headache, smoothie-style.
I wait until the pain passes and ask, “So what’s wrong, then?”
“Nothing. Just, uh, girl problems.”
“Alyssa?” I say without thinking. As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I feel like kicking myself in the head. I can’t believe that slipped out. When I stop at a red light and look over at Dawson, he’s staring back at me with an expression of total panic.
“What?” he asks.
I stuff a few fries in my mouth to cover up my gaffe. And to keep myself from blurting out anything else.
“Aw, man.” He groans and runs his palms down his face. “Is it that freaking obvious? Am I that freaking obvious?”
I keep driving and chewing. This is fragile territory. Romance within a tight circle of friends can go one of two ways: two people like each other, get together, and the dynamic isn’t affected. See Zach and Sophie. Or one person falls in love with another person, that other person doesn’t return the feelings, and the circle eventually implodes. The second option, if it ever ends up happening, would absolutely suck.
“Dawson, it’s okay.” I glance between him and the road as we pass into the city’s residential area. “I just had a hunch. I’m not going to say anything to anyone. I think Sophie suspects something, though.”
He lets out a deep sigh. “I think Alyssa does too.”
“What? How?” She hasn’t mentioned anything to me.
I nod. It’s her one true weakness. Well, that and reality TV.
“She said no,” he goes on miserably. “Apparently, she’s too tired. Since when is Alyssa too tired for ice cream?”
I only vaguely hear him, because I’m remembering that day a few weeks ago in the cafeteria, when Sophie told her she could do much worse than Dawson. Is that what freaked her out? Just the abstract idea of dating him?
“I’m sorry.” I turn onto his tree-lined street and stop the car in front of his house, a cute red bungalow with white shutters and a neat front garden. The flowers make me think of Eli. Then I wonder why I’m thinking of Eli. “Do you want me to talk to her?”
Dawson makes a pffft noise. “Yeah, sure. Maybe you can figure out why she thinks I’m such a loser.”
“You’re not a loser, and I’m sure she doesn’t think that.” I offer him a fry. He shakes his head and opens his door. “I’ll dig around,” I tell him as he gets out. “I mean, in a subtle way. See if I can find out what’s up.”
“Thanks, pal.” He smiles at me and shuts the door.
My father wasn’t kidding about the home-cooked meals. When I get home after dropping Dawson off, I find him in the kitchen, pulling a pan out of the oven. The entire apartment smells like garlic and chicken.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking around. The place is a disaster—open packages everywhere, piles of dirty dishes, and what looks like bread crumbs all over the floor.
“Cooking dinner!” He sets the pan on the stovetop, and I see four beige lumps that I assume are breaded chicken breasts. “Hope you’re hungry.”
I’m not, actually, considering I just ate a large order of fries, but Dad went through all this trouble for us. So I gamely dish up a plate, taking the smallest chicken piece and baked potato, plus a teaspoon of corn. Dad fills his plate too and we sit together at our small kitchen table, which normally serves as a resting spot for mail and car keys.
The Girl You Thought I Was Page 6
