Shine and Shimmer (Glitter and Sparkle #2)

by Shari L. Tapscott

Marissa wrinkles her nose at the expiration date on the sour cream and then looks up. “Or maybe we could go out for Chinese?”

  ***

  Mountain tourists apparently love Chinese food, because the restaurant is packed. We walk through the doors, and the smell of fried rice, egg rolls, and moo goo gai pan immediately wraps around me like a warm, carbohydrate-ladened hug.

  Thanks to my fast metabolism and crazy cheer schedule, I’ve never gained weight. Since I’ve been nothing but a slug since I got here, I’m a little nervous I might have to start watching what I eat.

  But not today.

  Just after our waitress delivers enough food for a family of four, the bell above the door chimes, and in walks Zeke. He pushes a pair of dark sunglasses back on his head and glances around the room, waiting for someone to help him.

  I’m in the middle of shoving a huge pile of lo mein in my mouth, and I freeze, chopsticks in hand. Chewing quickly, I set the chopsticks aside and place my hand above my eyes, shading my face.

  In front of me, Aunt Marissa raises her eyebrows. “That’s not conspicuous at all. Who are you hiding from?” Then, like a crazy aunt would, she turns in her seat to look behind us.

  “Marissa!” I screech.

  Too late.

  Zeke notices Marissa, begins to smile, and then spots me. His smile doesn’t falter, exactly, but a curious expression stretches across his face. And then, just like that, he strides toward us.

  I don a carefree, nonchalant expression, but I groan on the inside.

  “How are you, Zeke?” Marissa asks, smiling. “I haven’t seen you in forever! Are you visiting your folks?”

  Whoa. Wait.

  “Yes, Miss Marissa,” he answers, the picture of cool. “I’m here for the summer.”

  “How nice!” She cocks her head, a mock stern look on her face. “Are you taking care of those teeth?”

  He grins extra wide, showing off his very nice pearly whites.

  “Good boy.”

  Of course, she knows him. She’s a dental hygienist in a tiny town that only has one dentist’s office. Every six months, while Zeke was growing up, she probably asked him if he wanted peppermint or bubblegum-flavored toothpaste.

  This epiphany doesn’t make this situation any less awkward. Worse, in fact. My aunt’s already examined the very mouth that I’ve been imagining…never mind.

  “Hey, Riley,” he finally says, turning his chocolate eyes on me.

  “How do you two know each other?” Aunt Marissa asks, instantly suspicious.

  Zeke’s smile is doing funny things to my stomach, but I try to look cool and collected.

  He turns back to Marissa. “We met today at the Artisan Festival.”

  Marissa smiles, obviously forgetting her suspicion. “Are you still painting?”

  He nods, pleased she remembered.

  “Good for you.”

  The conversation falls into a lull, none of us really knowing what else to say. Luckily, we’re saved by a waitress bringing out Zeke’s takeout order. She’s pretty with dark eyes and silky black hair that’s tied back in a high ponytail, and the way she smiles at him as she hands over his “usual” makes me just a tiny bit jealous.

  He thanks the girl, hands her a twenty, and tells her to keep the change. I can’t help but notice her cheeks are blushed with pink as she hurries off to another table.

  “I’ll see you around, Miss Marissa,” he says as he turns to leave, and then he meets my eyes. “And I’ll see you Saturday. You need any help setting up your table?”

  Table? Oh, wonderful. I’ll need to buy one of those.

  “That’d be great.”

  He gives me another purposeful nod, and then he’s out the door. I stare after him, smiling like an idiot. When I finally turn back to my food, I find Marissa watching me with a look that’s two parts baffled and one part protective. “Table?”

  Giving up on the chopsticks, I twirl a fork in the noodles on my plate. “I’m going to set up a booth at the festival.” Then as if I need to assure her that I’ve been smart about it, I add, “Linda’s already registered me and explained all the tax stuff.”

  Marissa gapes. “What are you going to sell?”

  I take a bite, chew slowly, sip my tea, and then finally answer, “Soap.”

  Confusion clouds her expression. “Soap…? Can you make that?”

  I’m not sure if she’s wondering if I can personally make it, or if it’s possible to make at all.

  “Yeah, sure,” I answer, “the pioneer women did it all the time.”

  My aunt nods slowly. “And…you’re a pioneer woman now?”

  “It’s very trendy.” I lean forward, a little excited. “And you can do all these awesome swirls with different colors. And there are, like, a billion fragrances you can use. How cool is that?”

  “Very cool.” She crosses her arms. “So, you’ve made it before?”

  The waitress drops off the check, and I take my fortune cookie from the top. “Not exactly—but Lauren’s made it, and I’ve researched it.”

  And read horror stories.

  “It’s going to be great,” I add.

  “Great,” she parrots, and then she shrugs and helps herself to more beef and broccoli. A little too casually, she says, “It’s sweet of Zeke to help you with your table.”

  I bite back a grin. “Yeah. He seems…sweet.”

  And hot. So very, very hot.

  She pins me with a look. “Your parents will kill me if I let you date that boy.”

  “Aunt Marissa! He’s just being friendly,” I exclaim, pretending to be offended. “Besides. I’m eighteen.” I lean forward, accusing. “And Mom told me about some of the guys you dated when you were my age.”

  Shaking her head, Marissa tries to hide a smile. “And look how I turned out—thirty-five and single. Take it from me—Zeke is easy on the eyes, but he has “trouble” written all over him. Find yourself a nice boy.”

  As if on cue, Mr. Nice himself walks through the front door.

  What’s with this place? It’s not exactly the only restaurant in town.

  Groaning, I sit back in my seat, waiting for the inevitable. The guy that ran into me today—what was his name, again?—waits patiently at the hostess stand. He’s too busy clicking away on his phone to even look around. Finally, after I stare at him for several moments, he glances up. After he barely acknowledges me with a quick smile, he looks right back down.

  Oddly offended, I turn back to my aunt. Just as we’re standing up to leave, she says, “I have to run to the restroom. Why don’t you wait for me out front?”

  “Oh, okay.” Which means I’ll have to walk past the painfully average guy who just blew me off.

  I debate walking right by and snubbing him, but that’s not really my style. As I’m making my way through the tables, he glances up again, and our eyes accidentally meet.

  “Hey, Riley,” he says, sounding just slightly uncomfortable.

  Oh sure, he remembers my name.

  “Hey…”

  His shoulders relax, and, trying to hide a smirk, he points to his chest. “Linus.”

  I nod like I knew it all along.

  Now, if I were smart, I would have walked right by like this was just a casual, passing greeting, but for reasons unbeknownst to me, I’ve stopped in front of him. Now we’re both nodding.

  “So, I saw you talked to Zeke this morning,” he finally says.

  “Um, yeah.” Then glancing around, I say, “Are you waiting for takeout?”

  “No, I’m actually meeting my parents.”

  My first thought is that he’s a dweeb for having nothing better to do on a Saturday night than have dinner with his parents, but then I realize I’ve just eaten with my aunt, so I’m willing to let that one slide.

  “We’re just grabbing something before I drive them to the airport,” he adds. “They’re off to Florida for the summer.”

  He’ll have the house to himself. I wonder if he’ll venture forth fr
om the basement to play his video games in the living room. How scandalous.

  Without meaning to, I study him. He’s still wearing that odd T-shirt that apparently only gamers understand, but that’s really the only outward sign of his lameness. Other than that, he’s perfectly boy-next-door. As exciting as vanilla ice-cream—and not that wild vanilla bean variety.

  “Okay, well…” I motion to the door.

  “Oh, right,” he says. “Later.”

  Aunt Marissa meets me as I walk outside. She starts chattering on about a conference she has to go to toward the middle of summer, and she distracts me so completely, I don’t have a chance to wonder why I stopped to talk to Linus in the first place.

  ***

  I drum my fingers along the keyboard of my laptop and study the items in my online shopping cart: olive oil, coconut oil, palm oil, castor oil, avocado oil (a lot of oils), sodium hydroxide flakes, all kinds of fragrances, and about fifteen different colors of shimmering mica.

  It’s just about everything I need to get started, and the only thing causing me to hesitate is the total. That’s a lot of babysitting money.

  But maybe I’ll make it back? Isn’t that the point, after all? It’s a perk I hadn’t considered when I first agreed to all this.

  After positioning the cursor over the “confirm order” button, I close my eyes and click. Peeking one eye open, I see a confirmation page with a printable receipt. Feeling slightly ill, I send the page to my email and close the laptop.

  I found the rubber kitchen gloves I’ll need under Marissa’s sink, a dusty stick blender she said I could use in the cupboard, and I bought a pair of safety goggles at the hardware store down the road. Now I just need to buy a scale, and I’ll be all set.

  It’s after eleven, and Aunt Marissa has already gone to bed. I’m too wired after my shopping spree to go to sleep. Maybe I should go for a run? I peek through the blinds and promptly change my mind.

  This isn’t the large town I grew up in. There are bears here. Mountain lions. Other nocturnal creatures capable of eating humans that I’m probably forgetting about at the moment.

  And it’s too late to text Lauren. She’s never been much of a night owl.

  I end up lying on the bed, still fully dressed, staring at the ceiling, thinking—like my mind is prone to do when there’s nothing to distract me.

  It’s so still here, so quiet; it’s easy for my brain to wander, to think back to high school and the beginning of summer. It’s still a little surreal that it’s all over. I’ve graduated; High School Riley is gone. Just a memory. Who am I now?

  I’ve always been “that girl.” You know which one I’m talking about—cheerleader, FBLA, honor society—the whole nine yards. The achiever, the bright-eyed and bubbly It Girl. Loved and hated, adored and envied.

  Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. I love being that girl, have since I was little and saw my sister, Harper, take on the role herself. The whole world was at her feet, and I followed right behind her.

  Just like Harper, I always had the right boyfriend (except for that little hiccup during senior year when I fell for Harrison)—usually a football or soccer player. But even though I was perfectly happy, I have never been in love. Still, I’ve had a pretty perfect life.

  But sometimes? Sometimes I want to be like one of those girls from my books who catches the eye of the guy who hangs out with the wrong crowd but secretly has this really huge heart. The kind of guy who, on the weekends, volunteers at local animal shelters or reads to old people at retirement homes. Then, at night, he goes home and dreams about his seemingly unattainable life goals (or something like that).

  Up until today, I’d never met this guy. He’s an elusive creature, one who simply cannot be found under the shade tree just off the school grounds where the smokers gather to share cigarettes. Trust me, all you find there is greasy hair, some badly done tattoos, an overdose of high school angst, and a restraining order waiting to happen.

  But Zeke. He’s a romance novel come to life. Tall and strong, with those piercing chocolate eyes that make a girl want to melt right there at his feet—he’s perfection. No doubt about it, he’s not the kind of guy you want to bring home to your parents.

  Which is perfect, because I’m so sick of being the girl who makes all the right decisions.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “What is all that?” Marissa asks, peering over my shoulder.

  I heft a huge box onto the plaid-covered kitchen table and take a kitchen knife to the packing tape. “My soap-making supplies arrived today.”

  “Careful,” Marissa says, like I’m still ten years old. “Cut away from yourself.”

  I give her a look over my shoulder, but she only laughs. Still, I angle away from the blade and open the box. I must admit, I’m a little excited. Who would have thought?

  The moment I pull the flaps open, I’m hit with a strong pear and apple fragrance.

  “Oh, wow.” I look over my shoulder. “That smells really good.”

  “It’s awfully strong,” Marissa says, “did something break in there?”

  Oh, no.

  I riffle through the packaging, pulling out tubs and pots and bags. I finally reach the bottom, and, sure enough, a thick oily liquid has slicked-up the bottom of the box and the bottle of castor oil.

  “Ew,” I say as I pull the culprit out. The cap on the fragrance oil bottle doesn’t appear to have been screwed on well, and the foil wasn’t completely sealed.

  “I’ve lost about half of it,” I say, disappointed.

  Marissa mumbles her condolences and then begins examining packages. Her brow wrinkles when she gets to the double-packaged bottle of sodium hydroxide and reads the warning that’s printed in big, bold letters on the side. “What’s this?”

  I take it from her, a little nervous as well. “It’s lye.”

  She eyes it but doesn’t mention it again. We open everything, and by far my favorites are the shimmering pots of mica. I bought every color available.

  “Is this a messy process?” Marissa finally asks.

  Slowly, I nod. “I think it might be.”

  The kitchen table is already a wreck, and we only unpacked the box.

  Eying her kitchen nervously, she says, “My friend Susan works at the school district. Since it’s summer, maybe you can use the old home economics room at the high school.” She digs her phone out of her purse and wanders off, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll just give her a quick call.”

  I clean the oil off everything as Marissa greets someone on the other line. Her voice fades as she retreats to her office in the back. After I’m finished, I carry everything back to my room, one armload at a time.

  ***

  With all my new soaping supplies packed into the trunk of my car, I sit in the local high school parking lot and stare at the front doors uncertainly. Susan assured Aunt Marissa it would be fine for me to make soap in the seldom-used home economics room as long as I clean up after myself, but I’m still not sure.

  I glance at the clock. I’ve already sat here for five minutes.

  This is ridiculous.

  With a grunt, I pop my car’s trunk and swing the door open. After gathering all my stuff, I make my way into the building with two huge canvas bags draped over my shoulder.

  It’s weird to be back in a high school only a few weeks after graduation. It’s even weirder to be in a different high school. Apparently, there are summer classes today, so a woman sits in the office, reading a paperback romance. When she sees me, she quickly closes the book and sets it on the desk, back-side up.

  I smother a laugh and adjust my load. “My name’s Riley. I’m here to use the home economics room?”

  The woman smiles and rises to her feet.

  “Of course.” She walks into the hall to join me. “Let me show you where it is.”

  We wander through the halls and eventually step into a large room with five kitchenettes. The floor’s covered in hideous yellowing linoleum, and
the countertop is orange. At least it all looks easy enough to clean should something go horribly awry.

  “Here you go,” the woman says. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  She leaves me standing by myself, uncertain where to start. With a deep breath, I set my bags on one of the counters. I’ve saved the recipe I’m using in a file on my tablet, and I pull it up now, reading through it once more before I begin.

  Easy enough.

  Taking more time than necessary, I set my ingredients out and shuffle them into a perfect line. It’s only once they’re on the counter that I realize I forgot to buy a scale. The recipe is in ounces, and according to everything I read, you’re supposed to measure the ingredients by weight.

  How did I forget that?

  I frown at the recipe and then glance at one of the measuring cups I brought with me. It has ounce lines. Do you have to measure by weight?

  I’ll have wasted a whole day if I pack up and leave now. I paid an extra twenty-five bucks to have the supplies rushed to me; I can’t lose a day. I pick up the measuring cup and study it. I’m sure this will work fine, at least for today. I’ll buy a scale tonight.

  After glancing out the door to check that no one is outside to see me, I slide goggles over my face and pull on gloves.

  I feel like a mad scientist. All I need is a lab coat.

  Carefully, I measure out my ingredients. Eventually, I come to the lye. I’m not going to sugar-coat it; I’m terrified of this stuff.

  What if my measurements are off because I’m doing it by volume instead of weight? I don’t want to end up with lye heavy soap.

  I’ll just put in a little less. Only a little—just to be sure that my soap is safe to use. With visions of lawsuits dancing in my head, I spoon the lye flakes into the cup.

  Then I take another deep breath and begin.

  I’ve melted my oils and mixed them together, just as the recipe stated, and set them aside. Now, with a trembling hand, I sprinkle the lye over the water. I angle my face away from the fumes as they begin to rise, careful not to breathe them in, and gently stir until all the flakes have dissolved. Cautious, I place my hand on the outside of the container. It’s hot. This is some creepy stuff.