by Sarah Dessen
“For me, too,” she said, peering down into the water. As I stepped up beside her I saw it was too dark to see anything, but you could hear the pump going, the distant waterfall. “I mean, a lot’s happened since you left, Ruby.”
I glanced back inside. Jamie was gone, but Cora remained, and she was looking right at me. “Like what?”
Peyton glanced over at me, then shrugged. “I just . . .” she said softly. “I wanted to talk to you. That’s all.”
“About what?”
She took in a breath, then let it out just as Roscoe popped through the dog door and began to trot toward us. “Nothing,” she said, turning back to the water. “I mean, I miss you. We used to hang out every day, and then you just disappear. It’s weird.”
“I know,” I said. “And believe me, I’d go back to the way things were in a minute if I could. But it’s just not an option. This is my life now. At least for a little while.”
She considered this as she looked at the pond, then turned slightly, taking in the house rising up behind us. “It is different,” she said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”
In the end, Peyton stayed for less than an hour, just long enough to get a tour, catch me up on the latest Jackson gossip, and turn down two more invitations to stay for dinner from Jamie, who seemed beside himself with the fact that I actually had a real, live friend. Cora, however, had a different take, or so I found out later, when I was folding clothes and looked up to see her standing in my bedroom doorway.
“So,” she said, “tell me about Peyton.”
I focused on pairing up socks as I said, “Not much to tell.”
“Have you two been friends a long time?”
I shrugged. “A year or so. Why?”
“No reason.” She leaned against the doorjamb, watching as I moved on to jeans. “She just seemed . . . sort of scattered, I guess. Not exactly your type.”
It was tempting to point out that Cora herself wasn’t exactly in a position to claim to know me that well. But I held my tongue, still folding.
“Anyway,” she continued, “in the future, though, if you could let us know when you were having people over, I’d appreciate it.”
Like I’d had so many people showing up—all one of them!—that this was suddenly a problem. “I didn’t know she was coming,” I told her. “I forgot she even knew where I was staying.”
She nodded. “Well, just keep it in mind. For next time.”
Next time, I thought. Whatever. “Sure,” I said aloud.
I kept folding, waiting for her to say something else. To go further, insinuating more, pulling me into an argument I didn’t deserve, much less want to have. But instead, she just stepped back out of the doorway and started down the hall to her own room. A moment later, she called out for me to sleep well, and I responded in kind, these nicer last words delivered like an afterthought to find themselves, somewhere, in the space between us.
Chapter Seven
Usually I worked for Harriet from three thirty till seven, during which time she was supposed to take off to eat a late lunch and run errands. Invariably, however, she ended up sticking around for most of my shift, her purse in hand as she fretted and puttered, unable to actually leave.
“I’m sorry,” she’d say, reaching past me to adjust a necklace display I’d already straightened twice. “It’s just . . . I like things a certain way, you know?”
I knew. Harriet had built her business from the ground up, starting straight out of art school, and the process had been difficult, involving struggle, the occasional compromise of artistic integrity, and a near brush with bankruptcy. Still, she’d soldiered on, just her against the world. Which was why, I figured, it was so hard for her to adjust to the fact that now there were two of us.
Still, sometimes her neurosis was so annoying—following along behind me, checking and redoing each thing I did, taking over every task so I sometimes spent entire shifts doing nothing at all—that I wondered why she’d bothered to hire me. One day, when she had literally let me do nothing but dust for hours, I finally asked her.
“Truth?” she said. I nodded. “I’m overwhelmed. My orders are backed up, I’m constantly behind in my books, and I’m completely exhausted. If it wasn’t for caffeine, I’d be dead right now.”
“Then let me help you.”
“I’m trying.” She took a sip from her ever-present coffee cup. “But it’s hard. Like I said, I’ve always been a one-woman operation. That way, I’m responsible for everything, good and bad. And I’m afraid if I relinquish any control . . .”
I waited for her to finish. When she didn’t, I said, “You’ll lose everything.”
Her eyes widened. “Yes!” she said. “How did you know?”
Like I was going to go there. “Lucky guess,” I said instead.
“This business is the only thing I’ve ever had that was all mine,” she said. “I’m scared to death something will happen to it.”
“Yeah,” I said as she took another gulp of coffee, “but accepting help doesn’t have to mean giving up control.”
It occurred to me, saying this, that I should take my own advice. Thinking back over the last few weeks, however— staying at Cora’s, my college deal with Jamie—I realized maybe I already had.
Harriet was so obsessed with her business that, from what I could tell, she had no personal life whatsoever. During the day, she worked at the kiosk; at night, she went straight home, where she stayed up into the early hours making more pieces. Maybe this was how she wanted it. But there were clearly others who would welcome a change.
Like Reggie from Vitamin Me, for example. When he was going for food, he always stopped to see if she needed anything. If things were slow, he’d drift over to the open space between our two stalls to shoot the breeze. When Harriet said she was tired, he instantly offered up B-COMPLEXES; if she sneezed, he was like a quick draw with the echinacea. One day after he’d brought her an herbal tea and some ginkgo biloba—she’d been complaining she couldn’t remember anything anymore—she said, “He’s just so nice. I don’t know why he goes to so much trouble.”
“Because he likes you,” I said.
She jerked her head, surprised, and looked at me. “What? ”
“He likes you,” I repeated. To me, this was a no-brainer, as obvious as daylight. “You know that.”
“Reggie?” she’d said, her surprised tone making it clear she did not. “No, no. We’re just friends.”
“The man gave you ginkgo,” I pointed out. “Friends don’t do that.”
“Of course they do.”
“Harriet, come on.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I mean, we’re friends, but the idea of something more is just . . .” she said, continuing to thumb through the receipts. Then, suddenly, she looked up at me, then over at Reggie, who was helping some woman with some protein powder. “Oh my God. Do you really think?”
“Yes,” I said flatly, eyeing the ginkgo, which he’d piled neatly on the register with a note. Signed with a smiley face. “I do.”
“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” she said, her face flushing.
“Why? Reggie’s nice.”
“I don’t have time for a relationship,” she said, picking up her coffee and taking a gulp. The ginkgo she now eyed warily, like it was a time bomb, not a supplement. “It’s almost Christmas. That’s my busiest time of the year.”
“It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”
“There’s just no way,” she said flatly, shaking her head.
“Why not?”
“Because it won’t work.” She banged open the register drawer, sliding in the receipts. “Right now, I can only focus on myself and this business. Everything else is a distraction.”
I was about to tell her this didn’t have to be true, necessarily. That she and Reggie already had a relationship: they were friends, and she could just see how it went from there. But really, I had to respect where s
he was coming from, even if in this case I didn’t agree with it. After all, I’d been determined to be a one-woman operation, as well, although lately this had been harder than you’d think. I’d found this out firsthand a few days earlier, when I was in the kitchen with Cora, minding my own business, and suddenly found myself swept up in Jamie’s holiday plans.
“Wait,” Cora said, looking down at the shirt on the table in front of her. “What is this for again?”
“Our Christmas card!” Jamie said, reaching into the bag he was holding to pull out another shirt—also a denim button -up, identical to hers—and handing it to me. “Remember how I said I wanted to do a photo this year?”
“You want us to wear matching shirts?” Cora asked as he took out yet one more, holding it up against his chest. “Seriously? ”
“Yeah,” Jamie said. “It’s gonna be great. Oh, and wait. I forgot the best part!”
He turned, jogging out of the room into the foyer. Cora and I just stared at each other across the table.
“Matching shirts?” I said.
“Don’t panic,” she said, although her own expression was hardly calm. She looked down at her shirt again. “At least, not yet.”
“Check it out,” Jamie said, coming back into the room. He had something behind his back, which he now presented to us, with a flourish. “For Roscoe!”
It was—yes—a denim shirt. Dog sized. With a red bow tie sewn on. Maybe I should have been grateful mine didn’t have one of these, but frankly, at that moment, I was too horrified.
“Jamie,” Cora said as he bent down beneath the table. I could hear banging around, along with some snuffling, as I assumed he attempted to wrangle Roscoe, who’d been dead asleep, into his outfit. “I’m all for a Christmas card. But do you really think we need to match?”
“In my family, we always wore matching outfits,” he said, his voice muffled from the underside of the table. “My mom used to make sweaters for all of us in the same colors. Then we’d pose, you know, by the stairs or the fireplace or whatever, for our card. So this is a continuation of the tradition.”
I looked at Cora. “Do something,” I mouthed, and she nodded, holding up her hand.
“You know,” she said as Jamie finally emerged from the table holding Roscoe, who looked none too happy and was already gnawing at the bow tie, “I just wonder if maybe a regular shot would work. Or maybe just one of Roscoe?”
Jamie’s face fell. “You don’t want to do a card with all of us?”
“Well,” she said, glancing at me, “I just . . . I guess it’s just not something we’re used to. Me and Ruby, I mean. Things were different at our house. You know.”
This, of course, was the understatement of the century. I had a few memories of Christmas when my parents were still together, but when my dad left, he pretty much took my mom’s yuletide spirit with him. After that, I’d learned to dread the holidays. There was always too much drinking, not enough money, and with school out I was stuck with my mom, and only my mom, for weeks on end. No one was happier to see the New Year come than I was.
“But,” Jamie said now, looking down at Roscoe, who had completely spit-soaked the bow tie and had now moved on to chewing the shirt’s sleeve, “that’s one reason I really wanted to do this.”
“What is?”
“You,” he said. “For you. I mean, and Ruby, too, of course. Because, you know, you missed out all those years.”
I turned to Cora again, waiting for her to go to bat for us once more. Instead, she was just looking at her husband, and I could have sworn she was tearing up. Shit.
“You know what?” she said as Roscoe coughed up some bow tie. “You’re absolutely right.”
“What?” I said.
“It’ll be fun,” she told me. “And you look good in blue.”
This was little comfort, though, a week later, when I found myself posing by the pond, Roscoe perched in my lap, as Jamie fiddled with his tripod and self-timer. Cora, beside me in her shirt, kept shooting me apologetic looks, which I was studiously ignoring. “You have to understand,” she said under her breath as Roscoe tried to lick my face. “He’s just like this. The house, and the security, this whole life. . . . He’s always wanted to give me what I didn’t have. It’s really sweet, actually.”
“Here we go!” Jamie said, running over to take his place on Cora’s other side. “Get ready. One, two . . .”
At three, the camera clicked, then clicked again. Never in a million years I thought, when I saw the pictures later, stacked up next to their blank envelopes on the island. HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM THE HUNTERS! it said, and looking at the shot, you could almost think I was one of them. Blue shirt and all.
I wasn’t the only one being forced out of my comfort zone. About a week later, I was at my locker before first bell when I felt someone step up beside me. I turned, assuming it was Nate—the only person I ever really talked to at school on a regular basis—but was surprised to see Olivia Davis standing there instead.
“You were right,” she said. No hello or how are you. Then again, she didn’t have her phone to her ear, either, so maybe this was progress.
“About what?”
She bit her lip, looking off to the side for a moment as a couple of soccer players blew past, talking loudly. “Her name is Melissa. The girl my boyfriend was cheating with.”
“Oh,” I said. I shut my locker door slowly. “Right.”
“It’s been going on for weeks, and nobody told me,” she continued, sounding disgusted. “All the friends I have there, and everyone I talk to regularly . . . yet somehow, it just doesn’t come up. I mean, come on.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to this. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “That sucks.”
Olivia shrugged, still looking across the hallway. “It’s fine. Better I know than not, right?”
“Definitely,” I agreed.
“Anyway,” she said, her tone suddenly brisk, all business, “I just wanted to say, you know, thanks. For the tip.”
“No problem.”
Her phone rang, the sound already familiar to me, trilling from her pocket. She pulled it out, glancing at it, but didn’t open it. “I don’t like owing people things,” she told me. “So you just let me know how we get even here, all right? ”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I said as her phone rang again. “I just gave you a name.”
“Still. It counts.” Her phone rang once more, and now she did flip it open, putting it to her ear. “One sec,” she said, then covered the receiver. “Anyway, keep it in mind.”
I nodded, and then she was turning, walking away, already into her next conversation. So Olivia didn’t like owing people. Neither did I. In fact, I didn’t like people period, unless they gave me a reason to think otherwise. Or at least, that was the way I had been, not so long ago. But lately, I was beginning to think it was not just my setting that had changed.
Later that week, Nate and I were getting out of the car before school, Gervais having already taken off at his usual breakneck pace. By this point, we weren’t attracting as much attention—there was another Rachel Webster, I supposed, providing grist for the gossip mill—although we still got a few looks. “So anyway,” he was telling me, “then I said that I thought maybe, just maybe, she could hire me and my dad to get her house in order. I mean, you should see it. There’s stuff piled up all over the place—mail and newspapers and laundry. God. Piles of laundry.”
“Harriet?” I said. “Really? She’s so organized at work.”
“That’s work, though,” he replied. “I mean—”
“Nate!”
He stopped walking and turned to look over at a nearby red truck, a guy in a leather jacket and sunglasses standing next to it. “Robbie,” he said. “What’s up?”
“You tell me,” the guy called back. “Coach said you’ve quit the team for good now. And you had that U scholarship in the bag, man. What gives?”
Nate glanced at me, then pulled his bag farther up hi
s shoulder. “I’m just too busy,” he said as the guy came closer. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah, but come on,” the guy replied. “We need you! Where’s your senior loyalty?”
I heard Nate say something but couldn’t make it out as I kept walking. This clearly had nothing to do with me. I was about halfway to the green when I glanced behind me. Already, Nate was backing away from the guy in the leather jacket, their conversation wrapping up.
I only had a short walk left to the green. The same one I would have been taking alone, all this time, if left to my own devices. But as I stepped up onto the curb, I had a flash of Olivia, her reluctant expression as she stood by my locker, wanting to be square, not owing me or anyone anything. It was a weird feeling, knowing you were indebted, if not connected. Even stranger, though, was being aware of this, not liking it, and yet still finding yourself digging in deeper, anyway. Like, for instance, consciously slowing your steps so it still looked accidental for someone to catch up from behind, a little out of breath, and walk with you the rest of the way.
The picture was of a group of people standing on a wide front porch. By their appearance—sideburns and loud prints on the men, printed flowy dresses and long hair on the women—I guessed it was taken sometime in the seven-ties. In the back, people were standing in haphazard rows; in the front, children were plopped down, sitting cross-legged. One boy had his tongue sticking out, while two little girls in front wore flowers in their hair. In the center, there was a girl in a white dress sitting in a chair, two elderly women on each side of her.
There had to be fifty people in all, some resembling each other, others looking like no one else around them. While a few were staring right into the camera with fixed smiles on their faces, others were laughing, looking off to one side or the other or at each other, as if not even aware a picture was being taken. It was easy to imagine the photographer giving up on trying to get the shot and instead just snapping the shutter, hoping for the best.