by Jordan Ford
“Yes,” I grit out. “We have sugar-free gum. If there’s not any at this counter, you could try the next aisle over.” I look at her friend while I’m saying it and she goes to move, but the short brat grabs her arm to stop her.
“That’s not your job, Sav.” She looks back at me. “It’s hers. Now, would you please serve us properly, or do I need to talk to your manager?”
My guess is that she’s just bored, and tormenting me is making her feel better about life, but having to move from my place behind the register and over to the next aisle is one of the most painful, humiliating things I’ve ever done.
But I do it.
Because I need this job.
Snatching out three different sugar-free gum flavors, I walk them back around to my counter and hold them out. “Which one would you like?”
The short girl sighs. “Again, not the brand we’re used to.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t shop here again,” I snap.
Shit, I can’t help it. This chick is driving me nuts!
She raises one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows at me. “I guess it just goes to show how different people are, even in this small town.”
Ryder Bay has never felt so frickin’ big than in this moment. The chasm between the north and the south has just grown a few miles wider. We’re so obviously divided—the rich and the poor, the snobs and the worthless.
Her green eyes challenge me to battle, and I stupidly engage.
“Yeah, I guess you and I are really different.”
“We most definitely are.” She crosses her arms and gives me a blistering glare. “I am nothing like you, shop girl.”
I give her a hard smile. “You’re right. I do my best to avoid hanging out with bitches, whereas you have to hang out with one every single day.” I point at her, making it very clear who I’m talking about, then quickly swipe all three packets of gum.
The two girls in front of me are momentarily shocked into silence, so I quickly mutter the total before I can think about what I actually just said to a customer. “That’ll be $11.90.”
“Oh.” The short girl looks like she wants to throw up on my face. She points her manicured finger at me. “You are so getting your ass fired. Where’s your manager?”
Shit! I press my lips together and internally give myself a thrashing for running my mouth off.
What other people think of you doesn’t matter. It’s their problem, not yours.
How many times do I have to tell myself that before I’ll just shut up and listen?
Swallowing all my pride in one big gulp, I look the stupid cow in the eye and try to sound sincere. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so rude. Please ignore what I just said.”
This surprises her. She was getting ready for war, obviously hungry for the fight, and I just retreated. Crossing her arms, the bracelets on her wrist clink together and she narrows those green laser beams at me.
“Just let her keep the job, Sky,” her tall friend murmurs, then looks at me. “She probably needs it.”
Sky smirks. “You’re right, Savvy, her poor, pathetic ass probably does. I’ll make you my charity case for the day and let you stay working here in this amazing job.”
Hold your tongue. You can do it, Harley. Hold. Your. Tongue!
“Thank you,” I rasp between clenched teeth. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire as I quickly bag the groceries and hand them over.
With a triumphant simper, she snatches the bag from my hand and struts out the door.
I slump back against the counter and watch them walk to their lush convertible and jump in like two Hollywood starlets. Tires squeal as the rich bitches fly away from the poor, degrading coop they’ve just had to shop in.
I roll my eyes and try to ignore the burning sulfur climbing up my throat.
Apologizing to that girl was like downing a bottle of glass shards.
7
A Slow Trip to Loser-ville
AIDAN
I drive the long way home from the beach, winding my way through the southern streets before finally turning north and heading to my subdivision. It really is a different world up here.
The homes in Ryder Bay south look like they’ve been plucked straight from the sixties. They have hippy beach shack written all over them. It makes me conjure up images of what Ryder Bay must have looked like decades ago—free-spirited surfers living out of cars and vans, smoking pot around a beach fire.
Was that what it was like?
I turn left and drive down each cul-de-sac before getting to my street. Hopefully no one will notice me slowly meandering through our area.
Our houses are big. Two, sometimes three stories. White. There’s a lot of white in our suburb. White with tinted glass. White angles, sharp and clean. Nothing rustic about Ryder Bay’s Clifton Terrace.
I slow as I pass Savannah’s house. She lives about five streets down from mine. A six-minute walk. Her father’s black Audi is parked in the driveway, which means he’s home looking after Savannah’s younger brother and sister. Which means my girl—my ex-girl—is probably not home. She’s no doubt out with Skylar, doing girly shit and getting ready for Craig’s celebration party.
Do I even want to go?
No.
I run a hand through my hair and accelerate out of Savannah’s street.
What will people think if I don’t show up? Will they even notice?
Savvy will be there, looking super hot in whatever outfit she’s “thrown” together.
A grin twitches my lips. She always says that, so casual with a flick of her fingers. “Oh, I just threw this together, no big deal.”
I call bullshit.
Savannah likes to look pretty. She deliberates and carefully selects whatever she’s going to wear. And it pays off, because she always looks amazing.
Amazing…and no longer mine.
My forehead creases just as images of a very different girl swirl through my head. No makeup, no obvious thought put into what she’s wearing. Just a sun-kissed surfer girl who’s passionate about the water.
I wonder what it’d be like to feel that way about something.
I’ve never felt that kind of drive or passion about swimming. Maybe I did as a kid, but since I got serious with it, it’s just become something I’ve done because I’m good at it. I don’t hate it or anything, but my eyes don’t dance when I talk about diving into a pool. I don’t think it’s the best thing in the world.
Finally reaching my street, I accept the inevitable and turn towards my place. I pull into my parking space at the bottom of our steep driveway and notice both my parents’ cars are in the garage.
Great. So everyone’s home, then. And they’ve left the door open for me.
Holding in my sigh, I grab my swim bag and get out of the car. As I walk up the internal staircase, I try to put on a brave face. I don’t want to talk about the swim meet.
Actually, I don’t want to talk at all.
Closing the door that opens to the foyer as quietly as I can, I wince when my twerp brother comes sauntering past, ready to head upstairs.
“Nice loss today.” He smirks. “I’m so glad I made the effort to come.”
I hold up my clenched fist in silent warning. “It’s not like you watched the races anyway, you little screen addict.”
He snickers and disappears.
I shake my head and try not to despise him. He’s thirteen and a little shit, but he’s still my brother. Hopefully one day he’ll grow out of his douche-baggery and be someone cool to hang out with.
“Aidan, is that you, honey?” my mom calls from the kitchen.
I iron out my expression, ensuring I’m in neutral before ambling down the two tiled steps and into the open-plan living area.
Our house is white too.
White and shiny, with polished tiles in the kitchen and living area and glass walls so we can look out at the ocean. Uncle Jeff scored us a really nice pad here. Mom was pretty much sold the second she w
alked into the living space. Cliff-top views of the Pacific—you can’t really beat that.
She’s at the counter, chopping bell peppers for a platter she’s preparing. Cheese, crackers, hummus, dips—the works. Dad’s opening a bottle of red so they can start their weekend tradition of nibbles before dinner.
We used to do it as a family, play board games together while we snacked. But not so much anymore. I’m usually heading out with my friends.
Although, I’m not sure I feel like it tonight.
Mom glances up from the chopping board, giving me a bright smile.
It’s forced. I can see the strain around her eyes.
Why didn’t you win today? That’s what she wants to say, but instead she asks, “Where have you been?”
“Just hanging out.” I shrug.
“With Savannah?”
I steal a rice cracker off the wooden tray and shove it in my mouth before I have to answer.
Dad starts pouring wine into two bulbous glasses. I watch the red liquid slosh against the sides. “I feel like we haven’t seen Savvy in a couple of weeks.”
“She’s busy with Skylar this afternoon,” I hedge.
So yeah, I still haven’t told my parents that my girlfriend dumped me. They love Savannah, and they’ll want to know what happened.
How the hell should I know?
She’s not into me anymore. I don’t know what I did or said to make that happen, and maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe it’s been this slow thing that’s happened over time. Me in love and blissfully unaware while my girlfriend feels less and less attracted to me.
It’s freaking depressing.
Mom laughs. “Knowing those two, they’ll be up to their eyeballs in piles of dresses, trying to figure out what they’re going to wear tonight.”
My mom has a really beautiful smile. It’s wide and kind of takes over her face.
I wish I could tell her the truth, but that would eliminate her grin, and I just can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve already disappointed my parents enough for one day.
Dad’s grinning now too as he teases Mom about how bad she used to be.
“I’d be there on time to pick you up and you’d always make me wait. Sweating on the couch while your dad grilled me about where I was going to take his precious daughter.”
“Oh, stop.” Mom flicks a celery stick at him. He catches it and shoves it in his mouth while she tries to stand up for herself. “I wanted to look perfect for you.”
“Baby, you could have been wearing a garbage bag and I would have thought you were perfect.” He hands her a glass of wine and pecks her lips as if I’m not standing there watching.
I grab another couple of rice crackers and turn to leave the room.
“So, what time are you leaving, hon?” Mom says to my back.
“Not sure.” I shrug and spin to face her but continue walking backwards.
“Okay, well, we’re heading out for dinner at Uncle Jeff and Aunt Marlo’s place. Grayson is staying over at Marty’s house.”
I nod, relieved to have the place to myself.
“Not sure what time we’ll be home, but please just make sure you don’t drink and drive, okay?”
“Mom, I never do.”
“I know.” She nods. “If you do want a beer tonight, I’m okay with that, but make sure you take one from our fridge and don’t have any more than that.”
“Mom.” I roll my eyes and tip my head back. We have this conversation every time I go out.
It’s pretty cool that my parents are okay with underage drinking, as long as it’s only a little, but do we have to talk about it every single time?
Part of me wants to tell her that I probably won’t even bother going. Now that I know they won’t be here, I don’t have to make up an excuse to stay home. I can just hide out in my room playing Fortnite. It’s way more appealing than hanging out on the beach watching my friends get trashed and pining for the girl I can’t have.
“I’m just saying.” Mom raises her hands as two white flags. “I don’t want you getting drunk.”
“I won’t get drunk,” I mutter and turn to escape.
“When you see Savvy tonight, say hi from us,” Dad calls out. “We miss seeing her around here. Make sure she knows she’s welcome anytime.”
I wave my hand in acknowledgment before disappearing from view.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I brush past Grayson without talking to him and shut my door. As soon as that wood closes behind me, I shut my eyes and plunk down into my beanbag at the end of my bed.
My fingers tremble as I scrape them through my hair.
Shit. This is messed up.
A vibration in my back pocket alerts me to the fact that I’ve got a text, and probably a couple more that I ignored while driving. I yank out my phone to check them.
Craig: Party starts at eight. Be there.
Simon: You going to the party? Can you pick me up?
Jonah: Si says you can be driver tonight. Pick me up at eight.
Simon: Dude, are you there?
Me: (To all) Have to bail tonight. Have a good one.
Before I can get any reply texts, I switch off my phone and dump it on the bed behind me. Simon will get it. He’s seen how heartbroken I’ve been over Savvy. Craig and Jonah will hassle me senseless next time I see them, but I don’t give a shit.
I’ve been dropping in the ranks for a few months now. I don’t even know when it started happening. I can’t think of one specific turning point; it’s been more like a slow deterioration into Loser-ville.
Savvy dumping me was the last straw.
I don’t want to be around my friends while they laugh and get drunk tonight.
I just want to disappear.
Picking up the controller off the floor, I set up for a new game of Fortnite Battle Royale. If anything can distract me, it’s getting lost in a fictional world where I have to kill as many people as I can to survive.
Hopefully the distraction will make me feel better.
8
Best Friends and Question Marks
HARLEY
Monday already.
Yay!
That’s sarcasm. The yay part.
I’m not one of those “I love school” kind of students.
I go to school because I need a high school diploma, and that is the only reason.
Flicking my skateboard up, I grab the end and tuck it under my arm. I have a couple of different boards—a long one, which I prefer, and then my shorty, which is the only one that fits in my locker at school.
I wrestle it into the tight space and yank out my chemistry book.
I still don’t know why I have to take chemistry when I have absolutely no interest in it. I’d like to know whose brain fart it was to make all students study science. Next year will be physics. Oh joy! Thankfully I can select most of my other classes. I’ve decided to ignore all of the guidance counselor’s advice and just take the subjects that are mildly interesting to fulfill my graduation requirements. I figure, what’s the point of suffering more than I have to? I may as well enjoy my final year.
It’s not like I can afford to go to college, and there’s no way I’m smart enough to get a scholarship. I’m probably eligible for some financial aid, but the big question is whether Mother Dearest will make up the deficit. I guess it depends what mood she’s in when I ask her.
I find it best not to think about it.
Who knows what I’ll end up doing, but at least I’ll have my diploma. Maybe I can eventually save up to attend a community college or something. Apparently there are some good ones in San Diego. I still have time.
Slamming my locker shut, I swing my bag off my shoulder to fit the textbook into it.
It’s kind of scary to think that I only have one year and about four weeks of high school left.
I’m excited about the freedom of not studying, but if I’m honest, I’m terrified about the big question mark that looms over my future.
&
nbsp; Yes, I have time. If I live to like ninety years old, eighteen isn’t even a quarter of my life done.
I could travel, surf the globe, and get a whole bunch of life experience before figuring out what I really want to do with my life.
Surf the globe? With what money, dumbass?
I ignore the voice of practicality and figure dreaming never hurt anyone.
White beaches, blue ocean, exotic food. Oh yeah, I can see my future already.
“Morning, HQ.” Jed stops beside me, breaking my fantasy but not my smile.
Jed—aka Jeremiah Elijah Dellaney—is my best friend. BMF in Jed speak—Best Male Friend. I seriously do not need the M part in the middle because I have no other friends. He is it. My best friend. My BF. Although, I think deep down he hopes I’ll get some girly friends one day. It’ll give him someone to flirt with.
I spin to face him, and my grin grows a little wider. He’s wearing his standard horizontal stripes and a pair of black jeans. It doesn’t matter what time of the year it is, what day, what season—Jed lives in black jeans and bright stripy T-shirts. He’s sporting a hot pink and cobalt blue stripe today, and damn if he doesn’t pull it off like a king.
“I know.” He points to himself. “I look hot, you don’t have to say it. FFG is working it today, baby.”
I laugh and shake my head. Jed’s always doing that, making jokes to cover up the fact that he’s a big guy. I kind of hate that he calls himself FFG. It stands for Funny Fat Guy. I think he does it as a way to counter the inevitable bullying.
He got it pretty bad in middle school. We weren’t friends then. He didn’t move to Ryder Bay until a couple of years ago. If we had been friends back then, I would have kicked their asses.
Jed’s not actually that fat.
I mean, yes, he’s round and he has a bit of a belly on him. There’s some chub under his chin, and when he runs, things wobble. But I love him just the way he is. He’s like a cuddly bear—not that I’ll ever tell him that.
