“I totally forgot to get dessert while I was at the store,” Dad says as he slices into his potato. “And milk too, for the morning.”
“It’s okay. I can run out to the store later.” I take a bite of chicken. A bit dry, but tasty. And the baked potato looks perfectly done. “This is good.”
“Thanks. I know it’s not as impressive as the dinners your mom used to make for you, but it’s better than pizza, right?”
He looks so proud of himself, I refrain from mentioning that I’ve never minded pizza, or the fact that he’s not an amazing cook. The point is he’s trying, which makes me want to try too. “Maybe we can take turns cooking so we don’t waste so much money eating out. I think I could make Greek chicken pasta. I’ve seen Alyssa’s mother do it and it doesn’t look too hard.”
He nods. “Sounds like a plan.”
We turn back to our food and eat in silence for a while. Just as I’m starting to think that the tension between us has finally lifted and everything might be okay again, Dad swallows a mouthful of food and meets my eyes across the table.
“Have you given any more thought to visiting your mother?”
There goes what’s left of my appetite. I put down my fork with a sigh. “Dad. Can we not do this right now?”
“Do what? Talk? Because we’re going to talk about this, Morgan, whether you want to or not.”
I stare at him, taken aback. He’s never been the demanding, what I say goes type of father. Living in the same small space for the past year has been peaceful, for the most part. He generally let me do what I wanted, stayed out of my business, and concentrated on his work. Until the sunglasses incident.
“Last month was a wake-up call,” he continues, pushing his plate to the side. “Obviously, you’re still having trouble coping with the divorce, or else you wouldn’t have done what you did. And I don’t think you will get past it until you make an effort to forgive your mother.”
Having trouble coping with the divorce. Is that why I steal? Or did the trauma of the past year just expose some sort of inner malfunction that was there all along? I grip the edges of my chair, fighting the urge to get up and run. To scream at him, this man who just cooked a nutritious dinner out of love for me. Instead, I take a deep breath and calmly say, “I told you I’m not going to do that. I told Rachel too, so there’s no reason for either of you to bring it up again. Okay?”
He glances down at Fergus, who’s sitting at our feet and hoping for a dropped piece of chicken. “Rachel thinks you’re acting out.”
My body goes still and cold. “What do you mean? Wait, did you—did you tell her? About the shoplifting?” When he doesn’t look at me or answer, a bolt of anger surges through me, warming me up again. “Dad! Why would you do that?”
“I had to talk to someone about this, Morgan. Someone else who knows you and loves you. I’m in way over my head here.”
I grip my chair even harder, feeling the edges dig into my skin. “Is that all she said? That I’m acting out? She didn’t tell you anything else?”
He looks at me, forehead scrunched. “Like what?”
Oh, like that she’s far from perfect too. That just a year ago, when you were too heartbroken and distracted to notice, she was spending most of her time in the woods behind her friend Gemma’s house, doing vodka shots and bong hits. That she’s hardly Miss Innocent.
Of course my sister didn’t mention any of that. No. She chooses to join Dad’s cause and gang up on me instead. Going away to college has clearly changed her. We used to be a solid duo, sisters sticking together no matter what.
“Nothing,” I say, and then stand up. “I’ll go get that carton of milk now.”
There’s a grocery store down the street from our apartment complex, but I’m too pissed to face people right away. So I drive fifteen minutes to Birch Grove, a ritzy subdivision a few minutes outside the city. They have their own walking trail and lake, and a pristine commercial area with strip malls, coffee shops, and a big, shiny supermarket. It seems as good a place as any to buy milk.
My body’s still vibrating with leftover rage when I enter the store. How dare he tell Rachel? And how dare she pretend like she’s never been a juvenile delinquent too? Especially after I kept her secret all last summer, covering for her when she came home reeking of smoke and beer at two a.m., or didn’t come home at all. It never even occurred to me to tell Dad. I knew Rachel was smart and could handle herself. I knew she wouldn’t let one summer of bad decisions snowball into a year’s worth of even worse ones. Not like me.
I used to count the days before my sister’s visits—now just the thought of seeing her fills me with anxiety. Before, I was just the geeky little sister who looked up to her and missed her and borrowed her favorite clothes. Now I’m the troubled little sister who shoplifts. As annoyed as I am over her concealing her past, I’m also terrified that she’ll figure out what kind of person I really am.
I stand on my tiptoes and peer around the store, searching for a sign to point me to the dairy case. I’ve been in here a few times before with my mom, when she wanted some fancy cake that only this store’s bakery carried, but that was years ago. Renovations must have happened since then, because everything seems mixed around.
Finally, I just start walking toward the back of the store, where dairy cases can usually be found. On the way, I pass the pharmacy area, which is vast and well appointed. I pause in the aisle for a moment, remembering what I learned about grocery stores—they are notoriously easy to steal from. And if you do get caught, the staff doesn’t usually make a big fuss. I’ve done it once or twice, at the store near home, with no issues whatsoever. It was easy.
Instinctively, I do a camera check. One in the corner, but it appears to monitor only one or two aisles. This place is a cornucopia of blind spots.
I spin on my heel and duck into the makeup aisle. Even though I’ve just eaten, my stomach feels achy and hollow. Actually, all of me feels achy and hollow, and I know the only thing that will make me feel better—even for a moment—is the exhilarating rush of walking out of here with something I didn’t pay for. I know this only confirms Dad’s belief that I’m a deviant, but my fear of being seen that way does little to dampen the urge I feel right now.
I zero in on the lipsticks. They’re always a safe bet. Small, no bulky packaging, a bar code that’s easy to peel off. In fact, they’re almost too easy for me. I got bored with lifting cheap little items months ago, when they stopped feeling like a challenge. But there’s not much time to look around for a better option and I need something, anything, to slip into my purse right now.
Randomly, I pluck out a lipstick and pretend to study it. As I’m reading the name of the shade—Kissable Pink—a large shadow falls over me.
“I prefer the natural look, myself.”
I gasp and whirl around, almost dropping the lipstick. Standing in front of me, grinning from ear to ear, is Eli. Rita’s Reruns Eli. What the hell?
“What are you doing here?” I ask in a shaky voice. My heart is racing. Five more seconds and he would have seen me steal this lipstick.
“My mom sent me out for dishwasher soap,” he says, holding up the green container in his hand. He looks different here, under the bright lights of the pharmacy section. Taller, and better dressed too. His white T-shirt doesn’t have even one hole in it. “What are you doing here? Do you— I thought you went to Nicholson High.”
“I do.” The lipstick is still burning through my fingers, so I put it back in its spot. “Oh, I don’t live around here, if that’s what you’re asking. I just stopped in for a carton of milk.”
He nods like this makes perfect sense. “I like your shirt.”
I glance down at myself and realize I’m still wearing my work shirt, a black polo with the Royal Smoothie logo stitched into the upper left-hand corner. “Thanks. I like yours too. It’s so . . . new-looking.”
He laughs. “Right, you’ve only seen me in the old clothes I wear for manual labor. Believ
e it or not, I don’t always dress like I live in a ditch.”
“Good to know.” I smile back at him. The adrenaline rush of almost getting caught again—even if it’s just Eli—has driven away both my anger and the empty, hollow sensation. Now I just feel tired. “You know, for someone so big, you’re really good at sneaking up on people and scaring the crap out of them.”
“Thanks.” He switches the dishwasher soap bottle to his other hand. “No doors, that’s why. If I had to go through a door to get to you, you definitely would’ve heard me coming.”
“True.”
A woman pushing a cart approaches, and we both move aside to let her pass. In the process, my arm bushes against Eli’s. His skin feels warm in the air-conditioned chill of the store.
“Hey,” he says, backing up a little, “what are you doing right now?”
“Buying milk, remember?”
“I mean after the milk buying. Actually . . .” He scratches the back of his neck and looks away, as if embarrassed. “Do you think you could buy milk later so we can maybe walk over to Starbucks for a coffee or something? I mean, you could buy it now and leave it in your car, but it’ll probably be cottage cheese by the time you get home.”
“Yuck,” I say. When he blinks at me, I add, “The cottage cheese milk, I mean. Not us going to Starbucks.”
He lets out a sigh of relief and then looks at me, waiting for my answer. I’m not sure what to say. A few days ago, I was positive I didn’t need any more friends. That I had enough already. But maybe it’s exactly what I need. A new friend, someone who doesn’t know about my mom or any of the other things about me that I don’t like to talk about. Someone fun and funny and simple, a distraction from the overwhelming crapfest this summer has turned out to be.
Also, I really don’t want to go home yet.
“Sure,” I say with a shrug, like I’m just as carefree as he is. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Ten
THE BIRCH GROVE STARBUCKS HAS A FLOOR-TO-CEILING fireplace and a cozy-looking nook with two plush sofas. The sofas are both occupied, of course, so Eli and I bring our Frappuccinos to one of the vacant two-person tables.
“What?” he says after we sit down. “Why do you keep checking me out?”
I look away, embarrassed to be caught staring. Though this time, I wasn’t checking him out so much as trying to figure him out. First, I run into him at the Birch Grove supermarket, which I assume means he lives around here. Then, on the way over to Starbucks, we stopped for a second at his car so he could drop off the dishwasher soap, and that car turned out to be a shiny new Jeep Wrangler. Having grown up with my parents, I know enough about cars to know that new Jeeps are expensive. At least more expensive than my four-year-old Civic. Which means his parents clearly have money. Which I never would have guessed when I first met him.
“You sure think a lot of yourself,” I joke, trying to cover up my embarrassment.
“What’s wrong with that? Better than thinking too little of yourself.”
I take a sip of my salted caramel Frap because I can’t think of anything to say to this. Or anything to say at all. I’m not usually this unsure of myself around guys. I’ve dated before but have never been in a long-term relationship. Not that this is a relationship. Or a date, for that matter. Just two new friends getting to know each other over Frappuccinos. Never mind the wobbly feeling I get in my stomach every time one of his long legs grazes mine under the table.
“How do you like working at Reruns?” he asks, stabbing his straw into the mound of whipped cream on his drink.
“It’s fine.” For community service . . . “Rita’s nice.”
“Yeah, she’s something.” He laughs and leans back in his chair. “When my sister and I were little, she used to take us to plays a couple of times a year. All kinds of plays—we saw some pretty weird shit. And she insisted that we dress up for them. Like, she’d make me wear a jacket and tie, the works. I stopped going when I was twelve or so, but I think Meredith still goes with her sometimes.”
“Sounds like fun,” I say, smiling at his story. I barely know Rita, but theater definitely seems like something she’d be into. I wonder if she’s a movie buff too. “Does she have any kids of her own?”
A weird, undecipherable look crosses his face. “No.”
I nod, letting it go. My whipped cream is starting to melt, so I use my straw to stir it into the rest of the liquid. Eli watches me for a moment.
“You remind me of a little fairy,” he says randomly. “Or no . . . maybe a sprite.”
“Excuse me?”
“Because you’re so small,” he adds, like I need an explanation.
“Thanks,” I say, mildly insulted. There are worse things to be compared to than tiny mythical creatures, but still. “And you remind me of the Jolly Green Giant.”
He busts out laughing, causing everyone within earshot to look over at us. I fight the urge to crawl under the table and settle for nudging his foot instead. He moves his leg to the side, evading me, and that’s when I see the scars.
The first two times I saw him, he was wearing jeans. But today he’s wearing shorts, so his legs are mostly visible. Running horizontally down his left kneecap is a thin, dark line about two or three inches long. Several smaller scars bracket either side of his knee. It looks like something attacked him with tiny knives and he had to be sewn back together.
Eli catches me staring again. “I blew out my knee last fall,” he explains, moving his leg under the table again. “Like, completely busted it.”
“How? Football injury?”
“No.” He gives me a surprised look. “Hockey.”
“Oh. Sorry, you just look like you play football.” I make a keep going motion with my hand. “So what happened?”
“I got checked really hard into the boards. Totally shredded my ligaments and cartilage. I needed ACL reconstruction surgery and—are you sure you want to hear this?”
I realize I’m cringing and force my face to relax. Medical stuff freaks me out. I cover my eyes during the surgery scenes on Grey’s Anatomy. “Go on,” I say, taking a fortifying sip of my drink.
He looks at me closely before proceeding, like he’s making sure I can take it. “The surgeon reconstructed my ACL—that’s one of the main ligaments in the knee—using a graft taken from my hamstring. She repaired the cartilage tear at the same time. Are you still with me? You’re not going to pass out, are you?”
I shake my head. His description is making me feel mildly nauseated, but it’s also kind of fascinating how pieces of the body can be rebuilt using other pieces of the body.
“Anyway,” he continues, making condensation circles on the table with his cup, “the damage was so severe that it took me ages to recover. Missed the rest of the season, not to mention weeks of school. I was on crutches for months, and spent a lot of time in physical therapy. I’m still not fully recovered, honestly. My knee is still really stiff, and it hurts if I stand too long.” He pushes his cup away. “Sorry. That sounded whiny.”
“Whiny?” I say, incredulous. “Are you kidding? You must have been in a ridiculous amount of pain.”
“Yeah. I actually heard it pop, when it happened. My knee. The pain was unreal.”
I shudder. “I can’t even imagine. I cry over hangnails.”
He flashes me a smile, but it flickers out just as fast. “And then there’s, you know, the mental part of it. Months of pain and sitting around the house, missing everything. . . . It takes a toll. Luckily, I found something even better than sports.”
“Flowers and grass?”
Eli grins again, and this time it stays. “Flowers and grass. No chance of blowing out a knee while landscaping.”
“Unless you get body checked by a garden gnome or something.”
Laughter erupts out of him again, this time even louder. “You’re a strange girl, Morgan, um— Wait, what’s your last name?”
“Kemper. What’s yours? Are you a Sloan, like Rita?”
/> “No, she’s my mom’s sister. I’m Elias Randall Jamison.”
“Morgan Hillary Kemper. Nice to formally meet you.”
We shake hands over the table.
Dad and I barely speak to each other for the rest of the week. Well, he tries, but every time he asks me a question or comments on the weather or some other banal thing, I answer as briefly as possible. I know I’m acting bratty, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’m still pissed at him for telling Rachel about the shoplifting, even though he never promised to keep it a secret and I get why he needed to talk about it with someone. But ever since Mom left, it’s like there’s anger simmering inside me all the time, just waiting to boil over into a grudge.
The tension in the apartment is unbearable, so I deal with it by staying out as much as I can. On Saturday, after my one-to-seven shift at Royal Smoothie, I pick up Sophie and drive us over to Alyssa’s house for a girls’ night in.
“Oooh! Little triangles! I love these!” Sophie exclaims. She’s standing in front of the open fridge, snooping through leftovers, while Lyss and I microwave popcorn.
“Tiropitakia,” Alyssa says, reaching around her for a two-liter of Coke. “And I think they’re for brunch tomorrow.”
“Just one? Your mother will never know.”
Alyssa’s eyebrows shoot up. “Have you met my mother?”
Sophie frowns and shuts the fridge. Mrs. Karalis is pretty protective over her cooking. One time she scolded me for swiping a tiny piece of baklava off a tray that was meant for someone’s sick aunt. The weird thing is, she wasn’t even in the room when I did it.
“Tiropitakia,” I mumble, trying to recall the taste. “I don’t think I’ve eaten that since—” Suddenly, I remember exactly when I last ate that dish, and I clamp my lips shut before I can finish my sentence. But Alyssa catches on anyway, and a shadow passes over her face.
“My father’s funeral,” she finishes for me, her eyes on the cupboard as she takes out three glasses. “My aunt Cora brought them to the reception we had here afterward.”
The Girl You Thought I Was Page 7
