“I walked in first,” Leo says. “And then I told her to come in.”
Works for me.
“You should consider locking your door,” V says. “You never know who could bust in.”
Noted.
“I’m starting to wonder if we should have your head examined,” V continues.
“Because I don’t lock doors?”
“Because you’re making questionable choices.” The glare she sends informs me she’s not thrilled with her newest employee at the Save Mart.
I purposely didn’t tell her it was Scarlett. V’s not a fan. It’s nothing personal. She’s not fond of people in general, but people from school rub her the wrong way more. But Scarlett will continue to have a job there because V keeps her promises.
I understand V. People are overrated, and in this moment, the three other people I allow somewhat in my life are overrated, too.
The problem with having friends is that they have opinions. Wouldn’t be so bad if they could keep their opinions to themselves, but my friends aren’t that way. They’re loud, they’re blunt, and God help me, they’re honest. At least what they consider honest.
From behind thick-rimmed black-frame glasses, Nazareth darts his eyes to V and then back to me. He’s warning me about her mood. I flick my chin to thank him for the heads-up. The kid’s a nerd with muscles and is one of those rare few who only talks when he has something worth saying. His paranoid-weirdo parents don’t have a proper appreciation of him, but I do.
Nazareth has long brown hair that’s pulled back in a rubber band, and the string of tattoos on his right arm is the handiwork of his mother. She gave him his first one when he was ten. I’m sure that wasn’t legal, but his parents aren’t about rules, normal parenting, or normal in general. Oddly enough, he and Leo are in a neck-in-neck race for the most stable household among the four of us, which isn’t saying much.
Nazareth’s parents are nurturing in the free-love, screw-the- government type of way. Leo’s parents are the strict-rules, be-who-I-tell-you-to-be type. Their parents couldn’t get much different, but they at least have dinner on the table every night.
I fist bump with Leo, and he offers me a sly white grin against his dark skin. He’s one of four black families in our small farming town. That’s not always an easy road for him to walk.
Leo’s smile widens. It’s not so much a warning that my ass is about to fried by V, but his amusement of the show to come.
V stretches, reminding me of a cat awakening from a deep sleep. “How are we supposed to stage a decent intervention if you come in late and we have school tomorrow?”
It’s 11:59 on Tuesday night. Earlier today, I picked up Scarlett from her first day of work, and V saw her climbing into my truck. I knew then that my night was going to suck.
With aching muscles, I’m slow as I sit in the recliner. “Text me, and I’ll schedule you in.”
V mocks me with a smirk. “That would require you answering your texts. Where’ve you been?”
“Moving hay.” I baled it a few days ago, and I’ve been moving it to the western barn. Mr. Bergen offered a nice price for it, but I held off accepting. I’m hoping to start a bidding war between him and Mr. Vaughn.
Leo runs a hand through his shoulder-length black curls then starts poking V’s feet to agitate her. It works and she uses her toe to push the side of his head.
Leo grew out his hair when his retired-from-the-army dad made the mistake of telling Leo that he’d never allow a son of his to wear long hair. His dad was a long-deployment guy. Gone more than home. I’m assuming that’s why his dad isn’t aware of how Leo makes his decisions involving authority figures: find what people want from him and then does his best to piss them off. “We would have helped you with the hay.”
I shrug because I’m not good at explanations. “Not ready.”
For people, conversations or help.
That’s the problem with help. Sometimes you only need it when you need it. The other times it’s a burden. “Can we get this intervention going? I need a shower and then I’m going to bed. Speaking of, how long is this going to take? Five minutes? Ten? Maybe cut me some slack and do it in the time it takes to microwave a Hot Pocket.”
Leo chuckles. “He’s fine, V. But we won’t be if he takes off his work boots. That stench will kill us all.”
I finish untying my boot, slip it off and throw it at him. He deflects it then flashes me the middle finger.
“I’m not sure what that is about.” V wiggles her fingers in the direction of Scarlett’s mini-mansion. “But whatever it is, be careful. People say she’s an ice princess for a reason.”
“People say that or you?”
“In this specific instance, it’s one and the same. Be careful, okay?”
“Is that my intervention?” I pull off my other boot, and V squishes her nose in disgust.
“Why do boys stink?”
My mouth tips up as I hold out my arms. “Some girls are attracted to all this.”
“Some girls need therapy.” She kicks off the wall, stands and goes into the kitchen. “I need your help, Leo.”
I hear the fridge open, close and then one of the drawers open and close. I don’t bother checking what they’re up to, but instead look out the front window to Scarlett’s. She didn’t say much on the way home, and her silence created a strange pit in my stomach. I can’t admit to saying much to her either, as talking to Scarlett is like handling dynamite.
“What’s going on with you and the Ice Princess?” Nazareth asks. Figures they would leave the “intervention” to the one whose parents try to make him and his siblings participate in a weekly “emotions bonfire.” He hangs with one of us instead.
I give the short explanation. “Scarlett and I were friends once, and Gran made me promise to be nice to her after she died.”
Nazareth’s gaze strays to the kitchen, and he gestures his hand at whoever he’s looking at in a “see, he’s fine” gesture, but V sighs so loudly that my head falls back onto the chair.
“Your turn, Leo,” V says. “Nazareth, that was pathetic.”
Nazareth shrugs at her then at me in apology. Yeah, I agree. People who want to talk feelings suck.
“Okay, dumbass,” Leo says from the kitchen, “let’s try it this way. You have hated that girl since freshman year. You don’t hate people. You avoid them, but you don’t hate. Now you got her a job and are giving the Ice Princess a ride. Your puzzle pieces don’t fit.”
Ice Princess. Since Scarlett and I stopped being friends, she’s built a rep for being aloof. At school, in public, Scarlett is perfect and rarely engages, but no one would mistake her as quiet or shy. Some call her proper, but I say she smiles on cue, because, like my mom, Scarlett’s smile never touches her eyes. Unlike my mom, who cried all the time, Scarlett’s blue orbs stay ice cold.
But I learned the other night she still has fire and that raging temper. To be honest, that gave me hope that my Tink still exists. It also makes me wonder how much of her life is a show, and if it is, I can’t help but wonder why.
“You’re grieving.” V places a plate full of cupcakes on the coffee table. “Grieving can make us do stupid things with the wrong people.”
Is that what she’s scared of? “I’m not rebounding with Scarlett.”
V extracts a lighter from her back pocket, squats next to the table and looks directly at me. “Just be careful.”
I’ve permitted V, Leo and Nazareth to see pieces no one else has, but they don’t know everything. I’ve allowed them this close, but not close enough. Life for them and me is easier that way.
“You’re not the kind of guy to hook up,” V says quietly. “I know hurt, and I know searching for comfort. You’re the type who would regret it. I guess I’m saying, don’t be stupid. You’ve been hurt enough. Don’t bring on more pain than you need.”
After seeing Mom chase after guys for years, I don’t want to kiss someone to feel. I’d rather kiss someone because I�
�m feeling.
Seeking comfort with Scarlett, though … that beautiful long black hair and those gorgeous curves. She’s the type of girl guys nearly break their necks to sneak a peek at. I’ve been looking for years. There’s not a day since sophomore year that she hasn’t taken my breath away. If I was going to seek comfort, it would be with a girl like her, but there’s only one Scarlett in the world, and I can’t go near her, for both of our sakes.
“I’m helping Scarlett with a job,” I say, “and she’s going to help convince my uncle that I should inherit the land when I turn eighteen. That’s all this is.”
“Why wouldn’t you get the land when you turn eighteen?” Lines form on V’s forehead, and I shake my head because that’s not her business. That’s mine.
Knowing I won’t budge, she clicks the lighter and Nazareth turns off the TV. The candle in the center of the cupcake bursts to life. “Leo and Nazareth made these so say thank you.”
“Are you trying to kill me?” I ask. “A bullet to the head would be faster and more humane than food poisoning.”
Leo punches me in the shoulder, I punch him in the back and he grins as he drops onto the couch. “Don’t trust the frosting. V stuck her tongue in the container.”
I lower my head because I hate to do this. “My birthday isn’t until May.”
“I know.” V stands and rubs her hands against her jeans, which are more rips than material. “This is to celebrate our anniversary.”
I glance at Leo and Nazareth for an explanation, but they don’t give me a thing. “Anniversary of what?”
“Of when you and me became friends. Leo is next week and Nazareth is in November. It’s not every day when people who are lost find a way to be lost together. Now, make a wish and blow out the candle.”
My throat thickens. She’s never done this before, but this obviously means something to her. I’m a jerk because I don’t know how to tell her that she, Nazareth and Leo mean something to me, too. Doing what I’m told, I make a wish then blow out the candle and plunge us into darkness.
SCARLETT
Two hours a day, after school, I stock, sweep floors and clean the bathroom. Best parts about the Save Mart? Number one: it’s next to the library so I’m only lying about where I’m at by ten feet. Number two: Dad doesn’t check in on me because it is after school and he doesn’t have time. Number three: Mom and Dad don’t shop here and neither do their friends. This place sells generic labels, and my mother would have a hot flash at the idea of being seen someplace so cheap.
The manager of the store offered to let me work weekends, and while the lure of more money was appealing, I declined. Mom and Dad believe I’m studying with Camila after school at the library. Regular work on the weekends might press my luck.
Like he has for the past week, Jesse’s waiting for me in his ancient red pickup truck in the last spot of the parking lot. He has a blue baseball cap over his red hair and he drums the steering wheel as if he’s listening to the beat of an amazing song.
Typically, walking to Jesse’s truck feels like tiptoeing along a plank of a ship in the middle of the ocean, and each step is mental preparation for the long drop. He’s not exactly a conversationalist. Then again, neither am I. Our ride home is silent, and it’s awkward. But today, I’m skipping to the truck because I got paid.
Metal grinds against metal as I crack open the passenger door then heave myself into the truck which is higher off the ground than should be legal. My first inhale is of Jesse—turned-over earth, cut grass and a summer breeze mixed with a rich, spicy scent that I can’t quite describe. The scent is calming and each inhale makes me warm all over.
The pleather seat I’m sitting on is ripped, and I have no confidence in the aging seatbelt as I click it into place. With one hand on the wheel, Jesse glances over at me as if he’s curious. “You’re in a good mood.”
I wave my paycheck in the air. “I got paid.”
Jesse offers me a hesitant smile, the type that ghosts the Peter Pan one he gave me regularly when we were children. For some reason, I blush.
Maybe it’s because of the way his green eyes glow, maybe it’s because Jesse is beautiful with how he’s currently looking at me. Maybe it’s because Jesse is huge in this small cab. He encompasses every inch of it, and I’m scared if I move just the slightest we might touch, setting off the same sparks of electricity that happened at Glory’s.
I glance away, yet Jesse still watches me. Under his attention, my skin becomes sensitive, as if his gaze were a brush of his fingers. After several beats, he looks away, turns over the engine, and we sputter and backfire our way out of the parking lot.
Because his air conditioner is busted, both windows are rolled down and my hair blows wildly in the wind until I take a ponytail holder off my wrist and tie my hair into a bun.
Jesse’s dressed differently today. More like I would have thought he should have dressed for his grandmother’s funeral. Instead of jeans, a T-shirt and work boots, Jesse’s in a long-sleeve blue gingham button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, tan slacks and black boots that appear shined. He’s cleanly shaved, and I have to admit I miss the red scruff on his jaw.
I’m tempted to ask him where he’s going, but decide I won’t like his answer because it appears he’s dressed to go on a date. Though it’s stupid for me to care. What he does is not my concern. To keep myself from asking, I open my paycheck then frown. My ten dollars an hour wasn’t nearly as promising on paper as it sounded in theory. Taxes, social security and who the hell is FICA?
“Want me to take you someplace to cash it?” Jesse asks.
His question stops me cold. I don’t have a bank account so I’m not sure I can cash my check. My mother doesn’t have a bank account either, and I’m not sure if she has ever owned one. Her name isn’t even on Dad’s accounts. She just has a credit card she shares with Dad.
Since I’m a minor, I’m required to have a parent sign for me to open an account, and my father continuously tells me that there’s no reason for me to have one when he’s more than happy to cover my expenses.
“I guess you don’t cash checks,” Jesse continues with a grin like we’re sharing a joke, but I don’t find him funny. “You probably put it in your overflowing savings account. Tell me which bank, and I’ll take you there. When you enter a bank, do angels sing and do the people who work there fall to their knees like you’re royalty?”
Embarrassment of my reality sweeps through me, and it’s chased by a shot of anger. Every time I start to think Jesse has a shred of something redeemable in him, he speaks. I shove my check back into the envelope, cross my arms and wish for the awkward silence to return.
Jesse narrows his eyes on me. “What can you possibly be mad about?”
He is living proof that boys are incredibly dense. “You insulted me.”
“I what?”
I gesture at the road because his attention is on me and not on driving straight. Dying is not on my list of things to do for the day.
He looks forward, and the tendons in his neck are strained as if he has the right to be annoyed. “I didn’t say anything bad to you.”
I roll my eyes, and he catches it. “Is this how you want to play this out, Tink? I get you a job, drive you home and then you find the slightest reason to get upset?”
“You make wrong assumptions about me, and I don’t appreciate it. And where do you get off calling me Tink? Like you and I are somehow friends.”
Red splotches appear on his face. “Do you need to go to the bank or not? And I’m not insulting you with asking. I’m being nice. You should try it sometime.”
I want to kill him, but then if I did I wouldn’t have a ride.
“Home or bank, Scarlett?” Jesse stops at the light on Main Street and looks over at me. “Third time I’ve asked the question, and last I checked it’s proper to answer, even for you.”
My spine goes rigid. “You mean even for an ice princess?”
Jesse’s lips th
in out. “Home it is, then, or down the street from home since you can’t stomach me dropping you off at your driveway. For the record, you are an ice princess. I get you a job, give you a ride and you can’t stand to let your mommy and daddy see me with you. That’s cold, even for you.”
The light turns green, and his truck barrels down the road. Obviously Jesse believes the speed limit is more of a suggestion than law. It should take longer than it does to reach the road that leads to my house and Jesse’s trailer, but that’s what happens when you do fifty-five in a thirty-five then eighty in a sixty.
Like I asked on Tuesday, he drives halfway down the mile road then stops. The manners my mother drilled into me are begging for me to open my mouth and say, “Thank you for the ride,” but my pride is demanding that I leave the truck, slam the door behind me, then stomp down the road. Because I’m torn down the middle, I don’t do either. I’m paralyzed, and I stare straight out the window.
“Are you getting out or not?” Jesse sounds as exhausted as I feel.
“Why did you get me the job? In fact, why are you picking me up from work and taking me home?”
“Being neighborly,” he bites out. “It’s what decent people do.”
“For years you’ve frozen me out. I take that back, you froze me out after you spent weeks saying terrible things about me at school. Things that have clung to me like mud I can’t wash off, and now you’re doing nice things to be ‘neighborly’?”
“What do you want me to do here? Because anything I do or say is going to piss you off.”
He’s right. I fist my paycheck, reach to the floorboard for my purse and when my fingers grab air, I go numb. My pulse beats hard in my ears, and I quake. I forgot my purse, which means I forgot my cell, which means Dad is going to catch me in a lie. How could I be so stupid?
Sweat breaks out along my brow. I need my purse. I need my phone. If Dad finds out I have a job … I cover my cheek with my hand, wondering how painful the slap would be.
“I forgot my purse at the store.” My voice is strained, hoarse.
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