“Right,” I say quietly, remembering that day and the huge assortment of food that took over every square inch of surface in the kitchen. I’d loaded a plate with a sample of everything and brought it outside to Alyssa, who I’d found huddled against the side of the shed, red-eyed and shivering in her thin black dress. It was November and freezing, but we stayed out there for almost an hour, nibbling flaky pastries and watching the dead leaves skim across the grass.
I shove another popcorn bag into the microwave and try to steer us into less depressing territory. “Your mom doesn’t mind us being here while she’s at work, does she?”
The shadow lifts from Alyssa’s face as she pours our drinks. “No. She’d much rather I stay at home than ‘run the streets with my friends,’ as she calls it. She worries when I’m out at night.”
I used to feel bad for her, dealing with such a clingy mother, but now I feel a stab of envy when she talks about her mom’s devotion to her. Mrs. Karalis runs a custom jewelry store downtown—a job she and her husband shared for twenty years before he died—and even with her long hours away from home, she still knows exactly where Alyssa is at all times. My mom was never the overprotective type, but she did use to care about where I was and if I was safe. Now, if I suddenly decided to run away to, say, France, she’d probably just shrug it off.
“What are the guys doing tonight?” I ask once we’re all settled on the living room couch with our snacks, ready to watch Pitch Perfect for the zillionth time. My friends aren’t exactly receptive to my attempts at broadening their movie tastes.
“Video games at someone’s house,” Alyssa says, flicking on the TV.
Sophie props her feet up on the coffee table. “I thought about going to that, but I decided to hang out with you guys instead because, you know, sistas before mistas.”
In an impressive display of timing, my phone dings with a text from Eli. After we left Starbucks the other night, we exchanged numbers in the parking lot before heading to our respective cars. We’ve been texting sporadically ever since, mostly random stuff about our jobs and other mindless chat. He’s the same over text as he is in person—cheerful and open and nice, a fun diversion from all the heavy stuff in my life. I find myself looking forward to his messages, even when he sends me horrible jokes. Like right now.
Have you ever tried to eat a clock?
It’s very time-consuming.
I snort quietly and type a quick response: sigh
He responds with a winking emoji, and I set my phone on the arm of the couch, facedown. When I look over at my friends, they’re both eyeing me suspiciously.
“Who was that?” Alyssa asks.
I lean forward and grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the table. “No one.”
“You were smiling,” Sophie says with a sly smile of her own.
“Yeah, I do that once in a while.”
“No, you were smiling like you were texting with a guy.”
Alyssa turns to her. “What does a texting-with-a-guy smile look like, exactly?”
Sophie lowers her eyelids and stretches her lips into a wide, dopey grin.
“Like you’re on drugs, apparently,” I say, then let out a resigned sigh. “It was this guy I met at work. Um, at the thrift shop. Eli.”
“Eli,” Sophie repeats, drawing out the E sound. “Is Thrift Shop Eli hot?”
An image of him from this morning flashes through my mind. Rita sent me outside to ask him if he’d seen the packages of new clothes hangers she’d bought. When I got outside, I found him in front, digging weeds out of the flower bed. At the sound of my approach, he straightened up and used the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe sweat off his forehead, giving me a glimpse of his defined abs. It took me a several seconds to remember what I was supposed to ask him.
“Maybe,” I admit. “In a tall, built jock sort of way.”
“Oh, he’s a sports guy?”
“Not anymore.” I tell them about his knee, and how he took up an interest in horticulture when he realized he wouldn’t be able to play for a while.
“That must’ve sucked for him,” Alyssa says as she flips through Netflix. “I mean, having to change the course of his whole life like that.”
I shrug and scoop up some more popcorn. “He seems happy. Though I barely know him, so that’s just an assumption.”
“Do you like him?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, chewing. “I mean, he’s that type of guy, you know? Impossible not to like.”
“I think he sounds cute,” Sophie says. “A big muscly guy who likes flowers? That’s adorable.”
Alyssa rolls her eyes. “You think everyone is adorable.”
“That’s right.” She makes the dopey face again. “Especially Zach.”
The mention of Zach makes me think of Dawson, which makes me think of my promise to him—that I’d subtly dig for answers from Alyssa and find out why she’s apparently avoiding him. Only I have no idea how to go about it.
We’re ten minutes into the movie before I gather the nerve to bring it up. “Um, Lyss?”
“Yeah?”
“Oooh!” Sophie gasps, like she just thought of something amazing. She leans over Alyssa’s lap to look at me. “If you start dating Thrift Shop Eli, we can double-date. I’ve never done that with either of you guys.” She glances at Alyssa and adds, “And if Alyssa finds someone, we can triple-date. Even better.”
I could kiss her. She just gave me the perfect opening without even trying. “Or if Dawson finds someone,” I put in.
Alyssa nudges Sophie off her lap and stares hard at the TV screen. “Guys, I am not dating Dawson.”
“Why not?” Sophie asks. She holds up a hand and starts counting off on her fingers. “He’s smart. He’s cute. He’s nice. And he likes you.”
I keep quiet so Lyss doesn’t feel like we’re ganging up on her, but in my head I’m thinking Go, Sophie, go.
“Are you not attracted to him?” Sophie presses in her curious-but-pushy way. “Is that it? Are you not attracted to guys?”
“Can we just watch Pitch Perfect?” Alyssa picks up the remote and hits the volume button.
“Or maybe you’re bi, like Jasmine?” She raises her voice to be heard over the movie. “A lot of people are bi, you know. It’s a thing.”
“You know what else is a thing?” Alyssa says, making her eyes wide like she’s about to impart an outrageous truth. “Going through high school without dating. It’s not that uncommon. Some people just don’t want to date.”
“And that’s fine,” I say, though I feel disappointed for Dawson. I’m not surprised, though. Alyssa has never shown any interest in having a relationship, and the few crushes she’s had involved fictional people. It never seemed to matter before. But now there’s Dawson, who I’d hate to see hurt for loving someone who has him securely placed in the Friend Zone.
Sophie stares at her for a moment, then sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s your business, and I shouldn’t push you to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
Alyssa relaxes against the back of the couch. “Thank you.”
“What I should do is go get one of those yummy triangles. I’ll risk your mother’s wrath.” She jumps up and skips out of the room.
“Tiropitakia!” Alyssa yells after her.
I start laughing and, after a moment, Alyssa joins in.
Chapter Eleven
WHENEVER IT’S SLOW AT WORK, SCOTT, MY SUPERVISOR, keeps me busy chopping fruit. That’s what I’m doing Monday afternoon when I hear a familiar deep voice behind me at the register.
“Can I get a large Booster Berry?”
My knife stills, and I turn away from the counter to see Eli. His dirty-blond hair is damp and he’s wearing a black tank top, giving me and everyone else an unobstructed view of his muscled arms. He smiles at me and lifts his hand in a small wave.
My coworker Kyle is on cash, and even from a few feet away, I can tell he’s trying hard not to stare. Kyle’s nineteen and skinny with gauges in
his ears and tattoos covering both arms, but despite looking like he belongs in a punk band, he’s the shyest person I’ve ever met.
“Sure,” I hear him say in an abnormally high voice. A minute later, he’s by my side. “Did you see that guy?” he whispers as he reaches into the fridge beside me for the yogurt.
“Yeah.” I finish with the pineapple and scoop the chunks into a bag. As I turn to put it in the still-open fridge, I catch Eli’s eye and smile. “I know him.”
Kyle’s eyes get round. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Can you put in a good word for me, then?”
I laugh. “Go make the Booster Berry, Kyle.”
He heads for the blenders, almost colliding with Scott as he suddenly emerges from the back of the store. “Go ahead and take your break now, Morgan,” he says as he breezes by me.
Great timing. I rinse my hands in the industrial sink and untie my apron. By the time I grab my purse and come out from behind the counter, Eli has his smoothie and he’s lingering by the door. His size makes the small store seem even smaller, like the walls are shrinking around him.
“You didn’t have to stop dicing fruit on my account,” he says as I approach him.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just on break.” I grin at him and step outside into a solid wall of heat. Eli follows me, smoothie straw clamped between his teeth. “Isn’t it enough that we work together at the thrift store?” I tease. “You have to show up at this job too? Stalker.”
He releases the straw. “Hey, I didn’t even know you were working today. For your information.”
I give him a mock-suspicious look and gesture to the spacious set of concrete steps leading up to a giant office building across the street. “I usually sit over there on my breaks.”
“Mind if I sit quietly beside you and drink my smoothie?”
“If you insist.”
We cross the busy street and find a shady spot on the stairs, off to the side so we won’t block the general flow of traffic. As usual, Eli lowers himself to sitting slowly and carefully, wincing a little on the way down.
“My knee always aches after the gym,” he explains. He told me over text the other day that he went to the gym four or five times a week, both to work out and to build back strength in his knee, using exercises he learned in physical therapy.
“You want some of this?” Eli holds up his perspiring smoothie cup. “More satisfying than boring old water.”
Though I’ve made dozens of Booster Berry smoothies, I’ve never tasted one. I lean over and take a sip from the straw, acutely aware that his lips were in the same spot just moments ago. The tartness of the berries makes my mouth water. “Pretty good,” I say, chasing it with a sip from my water bottle. Sweat beads on the back of my neck. It’s much too hot for pants and a polo.
We sit quietly for a few moments, listening to the loud grinding noises coming from a construction site a few blocks away. Pedestrians pass in front of and beside us, but I don’t people-watch the way I normally do when I’m sitting here alone or with Dawson. Every bit of my awareness is centered on Eli. The freshly showered scent of him. The way his fingers are wrapped around the cup. The bulging muscles in his calves. The fact that I’ve been thinking about him all week, hoping I’d get to see him again before my next shift at Rita’s. And now here he is, which makes me wonder if he’s been thinking about me too.
Okay. It’s too damn hot out here. I glance at the time on my phone and stand up. “Break’s almost over,” I announce, wobbling on my feet a bit. Maybe I’m developing heatstroke.
“I’ll walk you back,” Eli says, positioning his right leg to take his full weight as he stands. For a second, I consider offering to help him up, but then I realize it would be like a paddleboat pulling a barge. Bad idea.
Neither of us says a word on the short walk back to Royal Smoothie. Then, just as I’m about to tell him good-bye and slip back into the lovely air-conditioning, Eli clears his throat.
“So,” he says, scraping his straw against the plastic cup lid. I’ve always hated that sound, but I try to ignore it.
“So,” I echo.
“So. I was thinking.”
I squint up at him, but he’s gazing intently at the brick wall beside us. “And . . . ,” I say slowly.
“That new Leonardo DiCaprio movie looks pretty good.” He looks at me for a second, then back at the wall. “I mean, if you like Leonardo DiCaprio. And movies.”
Oh. Okay. I get it now. After all the semiflirtatious banter and the Starbucks nondate and the regular texting, I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s asking me out. But for some reason I’m a little stunned, even though there’s clearly something happening between us. Sophie would call it chemistry.
“I do,” I say over the screeching sound of truck brakes. A sidewalk in the middle of the city isn’t the most convenient spot to accept a date. “My friends think I’m kind of obsessed, actually. I have this huge collection of DVDs and Blu-rays. So yeah, I love movies. And Leo.”
Eli takes a drink from his cup, which by now is dripping condensation all over his shirt and the pavement. “Awesome. So you want to go see the nine thirty-five show tomorrow night?”
I want to say yes right away, but for some reason I hesitate. How long has it been since I’ve been on a date? Months. And I don’t particularly want to get into a relationship when I have so much going on—the tension with my dad and Rachel, my diversion obligations. Even worse, Eli is connected to one of my diversion obligations, and he doesn’t even know about it. Or about me. Dating him would mean living a lie.
Then again, I’m already living a lie with most of the people in my life. What’s one more? I like Eli, and I want to spend more time with him outside work. Even if it means keeping a few secrets. Fun and simple, I remind myself. That’s all this has to be.
“Okay,” I tell him. He visibly relaxes, his face lighting up in a smile and his shoulders loosening. I like that I can make him nervous. And happy. “You want to pick me up?”
“Sure, if you tell me where you live.”
I open the door to Royal Smoothie. Cool air trickles out, making me shiver. “I’ll text you my address.”
He nods, backing away. “Awesome,” he says again. “See you tomorrow.”
I wave at him and go inside. Kyle is still by the register, now replenishing the straw dispenser.
“What’s going on tomorrow?” he asks when I join him behind the counter. He obviously overheard our last exchange. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’m not in the mood for raging jealousy.”
I smile mysteriously and start chopping into some mangos.
Later, after I shower off the day’s sweat and fruit slime, I lounge on my bed with Fergus and my laptop.
It’s been weeks since I logged on to Tumblr and browsed through the shoplifting blogs. There are dozens of new entries. Lists of tips and tricks I already know about. Personal stories. Most of the entries, though, involve people’s hauls. One blogger I follow, a girl called lucylifts, posted a picture of the two hundred dollars’ worth of makeup she lifted from Sephora. Impressive, considering how hard it is to steal from there.
Reading these blogs makes me feel both sentimental and angry. I miss taking things, miss the strange, comforting high it gave me. Even the humiliation of getting caught and punished hasn’t helped curb the impulse. But at the same time, I know it’s wrong to feel this way. I shouldn’t want to steal. I shouldn’t miss doing something that has disappointed my father and caused so much damage. Not to mention the moral and legal issues involved with it. I should want to quit, to reform. And deep down, I do. It’s just that I have no idea how to start.
Discouraged, I hit the Facebook button on my task bar, making lucylifts’s blog disappear. My little chat icon is alerting me that I have a message. It’s from Sophie, sent a half hour ago while I was in the shower.
I want to see a pic of Thrift Shop Eli. Does he have a Facebook page?
I send he
r a question mark, to let her know that I both saw her message and have no idea. Then I immediately click on the search bar and type in his name.
He’s the second person on the list of results. Eli Jamison, Waverly High. When I click on it, his page comes up private. We need to be Facebook friends before I can see his statuses and pictures. Also, his avatar is just a hockey team logo, so Sophie will be disappointed.
I click back into the chat box to tell her what I found. Or didn’t find. We message back and forth for a few minutes and then she logs off to go back to whatever she and Zach are doing at his house. I’m still on Eli’s page, my cursor hovering over the friend request button. Nah. Too presumptuous. Instead, I head over to Google to see if he has any other social media accounts that I can cyberstalk.
His name brings up hundreds of hits, but none of them are about him, at least on the first few pages. Too broad. I type in his full name—Elias Randall Jamison—plus the name of our city, in hopes that it will narrow down the results.
Nothing again, at least not at first glance. But when I continue to the second page, a line of text catches my eye.
For the past fifteen years, Dr. Randall Jamison and his volunteer surgical team have been providing free cleft lip and cleft palate surgery for children in need.
I click on the corresponding link, which brings me to an article in a small local paper, and read more about this Dr. Jamison. He’s an oral maxillofacial surgeon—whatever that means—and every few years he goes on missions to underdeveloped countries, where he fixes children’s faces and teaches other surgeons his techniques. He changes lives, basically, and all on his own dime.
Dr. Randall Jamison. Nowhere in the article does it mention his family, but I know, somehow, that he’s Eli’s father. I lean toward the screen to get a closer look at the head shot that accompanies the article. Dr. Jamison is handsome and beefy looking, with graying blond hair and a wide, slightly mischievous grin. A mirror image of Eli’s.
I shut my laptop and flop back on the bed. Fergus, who’s wedged himself between my pillow and the wall, glares at me for a second and then rolls over on his back, demanding tummy rubs. But I’m not in the mood to indulge him right now. Eli’s father is a big-deal surgeon, not to mention a selfless humanitarian. His aunt runs a not-for-profit thrift shop to raise money for people with intellectual disabilities. His mother and sister are probably saintlike too. And of course, Eli himself is pretty amazing, at least from what I’ve witnessed so far.
The Girl You Thought I Was Page 8
