Curiouser (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 3)

by Coryell, Christina

“It’s not a diaper,” I insisted, my voice getting slightly louder than I anticipated. “It’s… structurally sound paper underpants.”

  My new fourth period students erupted into laughter behind me, but the potty policewoman was not so easily amused.

  “Fine. She soiled her paper underpants. Please don’t let it happen again.”

  “Absolutely not. We’re one-hundred percent full-out using the potty from this point forward.”

  I can still hear the ringing of their laughter in my ears as I stand at the entrance to the cafeteria. There is no earthly way I’m going to be able to ensure Bailey’s completely potty trained by tomorrow. She’s progressing, but not to the point where I can put her in regular underwear. The entire morning’s roster of students thinks I’m completely insane. And, to top it all off, I forgot my lunch and I’m currently trying to figure out whether or not to actually eat the square pizza on this lime green tray.

  But I’m not crying. I’m not in the bathroom, and I’m not crying.

  Scanning the room, my eyes settle on a table near the back corner, one solitary young lady sitting there with her eyes on her food. Immediately my mind whooshes back to my own high school cafeteria, freshman year, and I see Sadie in front of me.

  She’s sitting there alone, pushing her fork into the pile of rice on her plate, smashing it one way and then the other. I’m fairly certain she doesn’t see me approaching, because she doesn’t flinch when I move next to her. When I place my tray across from hers, her gaze lifts slowly, measuring the space between us in what appears to be an attempt to judge the safety of my presence.

  I don’t say anything as I sit down, and she peers at me from underneath a fringe of black bangs. Her hair wasn’t black last year. If my mind serves me correctly, I think it was a mahogany shade. The roots of her hair would probably give me the proof I need, but I try not to stare.

  “Anybody sitting here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice friendly. Rather than answer straight away, she glances from one end of the table to the other, as though she wants to point out the fact that I should be more observant. I’ve never been good at starting conversations, so I refuse her silent assessment and go on being awkwardly myself. “I hope you don’t mind the company.”

  “Where’s your friends?”

  Sitting at the second table, same as always, but I’m not about to tell her that.

  “It’s just me. Please don’t make me eat alone, Sadie Lou.”

  The mention of her childhood nickname causes her to look me full in the face, and I can see the smeared edge of her black eyeliner where she’s been rubbing it with her finger.

  “Whatever you’re doing, don’t.”

  “I’m eating lunch.”

  “You know what I mean. Don’t pretend you can’t see people looking over here.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I tell her, sinking my fork into my rice and capturing a sticky, tasteless blob in my mouth.

  “Dang it, Alexis, you’re going to ruin your reputation. I don’t mind sitting by myself.”

  “Of course you mind, and how exactly would I ruin my reputation? It’s not…” Leaning closer, I peer over my shoulder before returning my eyes to her. “It’s not contagious, right?”

  It’s been ages since I heard Sadie laugh out loud, and I’m fairly certain the entire student body turned to stare at the both of us in unison.

  “You know what? You’re just naïve enough I can’t tell if you’re being serious or if you’re making a joke,” she says with a grin. “I suppose I’ve been next to you in health class, though, and you got pretty good grades.”

  “Well, I won’t sample your milk, just in case.” We share a genuine smile before we go back to picking at our food. “I don’t see what the big deal is, anyway. Every single person in this school has something secret they’re shoving under the rug. In your case, you just have the misfortune of wearing it like a billboard.”

  “Except you. What secret are you shoving under the rug, little miss perfect?”

  Glancing back at my usual table, I see Cody leaning over to Mindy, whispering something into her ear.

  “Let’s just say I’ve been having to keep some unpleasant thoughts captive today. The past several days, really.”

  “Hardly the same thing,” she argues, shaking her head. I can tell I’m chipping away at her, though, because the side of her mouth tips upward. “I’ll pretend you’re right, just for lunch. I’ve got no worries.”

  Shrugging, I stab a piece of pineapple with my fork. “I don’t know if I would go that far. I saw the red pen on your English essay this morning.”

  “Shakespeare,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “Completely Greek to me.”

  “Early Modern English,” I correct. “The outdated words and complex sentence structures make people think it’s Middle or even Old English, but I haven’t heard anybody think it’s Greek before.”

  She gives up on her food and places her elbows on the table, settling her chin on her fists. “Do you ever not pay attention in class?”

  “Sure.” My nonchalance causes her to raise her eyebrows.

  “Other than when Cody’s talking to you?”

  “Hmm, that I don’t know how to answer. He’s awfully distracting.” She laughs again as I try to get a sticky piece of rice to detach from my fork. “Do you remember the time our moms took us to the creek and you caught that frog? You stuck it in my hair and it got hung up in my braid. A couple of the most horrifying moments of my life.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “I don’t know when we stopped hanging out, but we should rectify that situation.”

  That’s a complete falsehood, and we’re both absolutely aware of that fact as we glance at our plates, trying to ignore the obvious. Sadie hasn’t been around anyone really since she started a friendship with her neighbor and his older brother last year. I’m not one to take part in gossip, but I’ve heard things whispered about what they’re smoking, drinking, taking, doing. Some of it might be exaggeration, but circumstances indicate that other pieces definitely aren’t.

  Since she doesn’t offer any conversation, I continue on with my awkward prattle. “You should come over tonight. We could work on Shakespeare together.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “My mom will probably make chicken for dinner. And I promise not to copy your assignment.”

  “You’re such a dork.”

  “Don’t hold that against me! You’ve known that since we were in elementary school.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to, but… You know it’s not a good idea for me to come to your house.”

  “Are you worried about its structural integrity? Sure, you’ve gained a little weight lately, but I seriously doubt the floor will cave in. My dad walks on it all the time, and he’s probably got at least thirty pounds on you.”

  “Alexis, I’m sure your dad doesn’t want a fifteen-year-old pregnant girl sitting at your dining room table.”

  “Because he’s a preacher,” I finish for her, tilting my head to the side.

  “Of course because he’s a preacher,” she whispers, her eyes traveling over my shoulder to stare at the cafeteria behind us.

  “I get it.” Pushing my tray to the left, I lean against the table, folding my arms in front of me. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll tell him to cool it.”

  “Right,” she counters with a fake, rather sad laugh, shaking her head.

  “He’ll listen to me. I know he can come on pretty strong with the love and compassion and all that, but he can hold himself back. I can’t promise he won’t sneak in at least one hug, but…”

  “Very funny.”

  “You know, you can sit at the grown-up table.” Twisting my head to the side, I’m immediately pulled out of my memory by the sight of my classroom neighbor Roger, who offers a lopsided grin.

  “Thank you,” I reply with a hint of sarcasm, but I gratefully follow him so I don’t have the misfortune of making yet another mistak
e.

  “Halfway home, huh?”

  His comment stops me in my tracks, because there’s no way he could know I’m thinking about my own high school.

  “Pardon me?”

  He smiles as he sits down at a table and motions to the spot next to him, where I drop my tray unceremoniously. “Just an expression. The day’s midway to being over, so we’re halfway home.”

  “Oh, sure.” A forced smile graces my face, but I can’t seem to make it convincing.

  My mind’s not really here, anyway. It’s back at my parents’ kitchen table, sitting in front of a plate of spaghetti, watching my dad crack jokes with a very pregnant Sadie Lou. I hadn’t been able to rein him in that night. He showered Sadie with the biggest boatload of acceptance she had seen, and she was a fixture at our home from that point forward. God knew she needed us, and that I’d need her later.

  “Halfway home,” I whisper to myself, staring at that lunchroom pizza, my thoughts held captive somewhere between Kentucky and Tennessee.

  Chapter Nine

  Jake

  Roxanne’s voice filters through my dream and causes me to toss in my bed, clamping my eyes shut against the light coming in around the edges of the curtains.

  “Hey sugar,” she croons, making me wish I could block her out. Even after two weeks here, I can’t get used to having the woman wake me up every morning. Tossing back the comforter, I stretch my fists in opposite directions and try to work the kinks out of my back. Something has me in knots, and I have a feeling it’s a combination of the blonde who haunts my dreams, Alexis, this lumpy bed, and….

  “I missed you, baby.”

  Blech.

  Pausing at the door to the bathroom, I lean against the frame, blinking back a momentary feeling of dizziness caused by rising from bed too quickly. The instant it passes, I turn to gaze at myself in the mirror, lifting a hand to rub it across two days’ worth of stubble on my cheek. That guy in the mirror looks about as excited as I feel.

  “You got out of her car, Miguel. After telling me you were working late, I watched her drop you off in front of your office.”

  Releasing a sigh of exasperation, I step around the door and into the bedroom, banging my fist loudly against the wall a couple times.

  “Roxanne!” My voice sounds sleep-drowsy and hoarse, so I bang again. “There are people trying to coexist with you.”

  She coughs, and for a second I can smell her cigarette smoke coming through the wall, permeating my clothes, seeping into my skin. That seems ludicrous, so I decide it must be my imagination.

  “It’s time for my programs.” There’s a pause while she coughs again, a little more forcefully this time. “Only time we gotta keep the noise down is at night, when normal people sleep. You need a friend, honey. When I get off the phone with Bud, you come on over here and watch the programs with me.”

  That sounds a little bit like hell on earth.

  Sinking onto the bed, I drop my head into my hands and try to block out the sound of her Latin American soap opera. There’s no temptation to rest on my laurels and postpone finding a job, because sitting here all day listening to Roxanne is not appealing to me in any way, shape, or form.

  Truth be told, she hits a little too close to home. In another city, in another state, in another motel, she could be my mother. A random, aging barfly, chain smoking in the motel room where she’s taken up residence, looking for the next guy. Of course his name is Bud. It’s just generic enough that it can serve as a nickname for every single guy she meets. Can’t remember which man she’s supposed to be with that night? Just refer to them all as Bud, and she has it covered.

  It’s rather amusing that Roxanne spends a little part of each day listening to those televangelists. They’re basically running the same scenario she’s running on guys at night. Step one, convince them they’re not good enough on their own. Step two, let them know you have the answer. Step three, steal their cash. Strangely enough, she shouts out her “amens” to the television next door and has no idea she’s being taken for a sucker.

  And the fact that I’ve just gone down that path in my mind confirms that my reality has turned into some sort of sideshow.

  Fourth stop today, and I can’t seem to make any headway. Downturned economy punctuates every spiel, and I get it, but it’s growing old. Nobody’s hiring for construction jobs, and that’s where I have experience. Sure, I’ve been bartending for a week at an Italian chain restaurant, but that’s nights, and…

  Nah, I’m not going to complain about it. I had a great job that I loved, working with my best friend, and I’m the only reason that gig’s gone.

  This place is a little more highbrow than the others I’ve visited, and part of me doesn’t even want to bother stepping inside. The doors are glass, though, and once the receptionist glances up and sees me, I feel like I have no choice.

  “Hey,” I offer as I step through the door, only realizing it’s not a proper greeting after the word has left my lips. Smoothing my hand across the abdomen of my white Henley, I absently grab the bottom hem of the blue flannel shirt covering it. My jaw clenches in frustration as I wonder why this awkwardness didn’t plague me back in Tennessee. I distinctly remember having no problem commanding a room, or even appearing cool under pressure.

  Kentucky is not wearing so well on me.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Find the words, McAuliffe. Career search… Qualified candidate… Experienced in…stuff.

  A disgusted-sounding laugh escapes, just quietly enough to make the receptionist tilt her head as she stares at me, eyes growing a little larger while waiting for my response.

  “I need a job. It feels like I’ve been all over this city, and no one’s hiring. I’m sure this place isn’t going to be any different, but what the heck, right?” Man. “I’m sorry. It’s been… I’m not having a great day, but that’s no excuse to be rude. I apologize.”

  Apology evidently not accepted, because rather than replying, her eyes dart around me as she avoids me altogether.

  “Regina, did my two-thirty ever show up?”

  The sound of a male voice draws my attention to my right, and I cringe at the thought that someone else might have heard my little outburst.

  “No, sir. No sign of him.”

  “Hmph.” The man steps up beside me, crossing his arms over his chest. His weathered no-nonsense face seems even more work-hardened due to the fact that he’s wearing a deep gray T-shirt with the company logo on the front. “People are undependable anymore. Flat undependable. And lazy. Back in my day, you showed up early for a job interview.” He pauses and looks in my direction. “Like this guy. He’s early. What’s your name, son?” I decide not to waste any time before taking part in the offered handshake.

  “Jake McAuliffe, but I’m not on your schedule.”

  “Then you’re earlier than I thought. Come on.”

  He turns the corner into a room marked only by a wooden desk and half a dozen hard hats scattered on pegs on the wall and sitting on bookshelves. A couple are yellow, but most are white, with one scuffed version that looks about twenty years old. His leather chair groans as he sits in it, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he grabs a cheap pair of drug store glasses from his desk.

  “Jake, you said?” His words are straight to the point as he places the glasses on his face and glances at the papers on his desk. “The guy who needs a job bad enough to burst in here and verbally vomit all over my receptionist?”

  Ouch.

  “It was uncalled for, no question. Frustration is starting to wear on me.”

  “Well, at least you want to work. This generation seems to be lacking in that characteristic.” He grabs a business card from the top drawer of his desk and flips it across toward me. “Bob Phillips. I’m looking for a site manager. You have to have experience in general framing and electrical or you’re of no use to me.”

  “Sure, I do. Have experience, I mean.”

  “You get fired from your
last job?”

  If the questions were any more rapid-fire, I’d swear I was at a shooting range.

  “No, sir. I recently moved here from Tennessee.”

  “And you didn’t have a job lined up before you moved? That isn’t very good planning.”

  Part of me wants to drop the business card on the desk and thank him for his time, but this is the closest thing to a real interview I’ve had in this town.

  “I didn’t give it a lot of thought. My ex moved here with my daughter, and I followed them here.”

  He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest as he regards me over the frames of his glasses. “That speaks to your moral aptitude. The fact that you’re devoted to your family indicates that you’d apply yourself at your job.”

  Maybe I could get this guy to write a letter to Alexis. Jake is not a deadbeat. She’d probably demand that it be notarized and witnessed by a judge.

  “Well, I have another appointment in just a minute, but see Regina at the front desk and have her give you an application. Just fill it out and make sure you list your references, and I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you.”

  For a brief moment my outlook actually looks a little brighter, until I sit down to begin filling out that application. Address…I don’t know? Room eleven, right next to Roxanne? Listing my job experience doesn’t make me feel special, either, since I have that big break during the time when I couldn’t find a job thanks to Alexis. But those things are trumped when I get to the section marked references. There’s absolutely no getting around it.

  I have to list Cole Parker. His words from our last conversation ring through my mind.

  Lousy friend. Have a little self-control.

  So I hand my application to Regina with a forced smile, knowing full well the only job I’ll have at the end of the week will be recommending wines that complement fettucine alfredo.

  The sun banks off the top of that white-sided house in such a way that it almost blinds me when I turn my truck into the driveway. I could try to blame the fact that I almost sideswiped that Mitsubishi on the glare, but it’s more likely a result of my slight distraction. The fact that I haven’t set foot on this property since the day after we arrived is likely not going to sit well with Alexis, and definitely won’t aid in proving to her that I want a relationship with Bailey.