“I will. I’ll see you after practice,” I say.
“There’s the church dinner tonight,” she calls from behind me. “We’re going to help serve the food.”
“I’m not going,” I call back. My voice is neutral, but my jaw is suddenly clenched. “Bye.”
Church dinner? I don’t think so. I’ll help God when he helps me.
I close the front door behind me before my mom can respond.
***
I’m distracted at school. Partly because Virginia has been throwing herself at me recently—it seems she wants to get back together—and avoiding her is a feat of both intellect and footspeed. But I’m also distracted because I can’t stop thinking about my ACT scores. They’ll show up sometime today. They might be in already. I’ve checked the site twice since this morning, but I haven’t been able to check in the last two hours.
I really need to do well on the ACT.
I’ve been looking at a lot of colleges. It’s what you do when you’re a senior. You eat, breathe, and sleep colleges. But the one I keep coming back to is in Nebraska. I’d never heard of it until I searched for small colleges, but it’s perfect. It’s far away—far enough away that my dad will stop inviting me to dinner. Far enough away that this little town will be nothing but a speck in my rearview mirror. Plus it’s tiny, and it’s got a good program for what I’d like to do.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a fireman. I loved fire engines; I had eight or nine, each of them bright red. One of them even had a little hose that unfurled. But the thing that made me want to be a fireman most was the seemingly constant presence of Dalmatians. Once I realized that wasn’t how that worked, I reconsidered. For a long time, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life. I thought about being a policeman, like my older brother, Ian, but it just didn’t really click with me.
But last year, I started this web series on American history. I was looking for a way to get my history grade up. I thought I hated history classes, but it turns out I just didn’t like my teachers—because this lecture was awesome. The series was just a video feed from a history professor’s class, and he made the whole thing come alive. I felt like I was there, in 1776, listening to the Second Continental Congress argue about the Declaration of Independence—just from listening to this guy speak. It felt real, and it was really interesting. I went through the entire series in three days, and I looked up more about all that stuff when I finished. After that, I looked up more. And then more, and then more. And I discovered that I really do love history.
So, I don’t know. It would be kind of cool to be able to teach like that, as a professor. It would be cool to be able to make history come alive. And the school I’m looking at has a good history program and good grad programs for teaching. But if my ACT score isn’t high enough, that idea is toast.
When the day ends—this infernally long day of waiting—I go to football practice. It’s a welcome relief, honestly. At least at practice I can work out some of my agitation with sheer physical exertion. There comes a point where you’re so exhausted that you don’t have the energy to be antsy or anxious. I welcome that point now. Jack is on the team, and he provides some comic relief. He can tell I’m tense.
“Dude, lighten up,” he says. “It will be fine.”
He doesn’t know what “it” is, because he doesn’t know why I’m so uptight, but he says it anyway, which is cool of him. Just looking at us, no one would ever think us friends. I’m straight, but even I can recognize that Jack is good looking. I, on the other hand, am about as ugly as they come. It took me a while, but I’ve embraced it. My only other option is to live in constant fear of ridicule, and that sounds miserable.
“Hey,” Jack says, squinting at the bleachers. “What’s going on with you and Virginia?”
I turn to follow his gaze, and sure enough, there’s Virginia—along with her loyal followers.
Look, I’m not the kind of guy to call every ex-girlfriend a “psycho ex.” That’s not me. Sometimes things just don’t work out. I get it.
But Virginia…she’s skirting psycho-ex territory.
I run my thumb over the scar on my lips as I look at her. I’m not certain why we dated in the first place. Virginia’s track record shows that she likes attractive men on her arm; whatever else she might be, she’s gorgeous. I fall short of that standard by a wide margin. I’ve wondered since then if she was just using me to make someone jealous. It seems like the kind of thing she’d do.
“Nothing’s going on,” I say in answer to Jack’s question, grimacing and turning away from where Virginia sits in the bleachers.
“You sure?” Jack says, waving at Virginia. “Because she seems to think something’s going on.”
“I’m aware,” I say, clenching my teeth. I chug some of my water and sigh in relief. It’s pretty cool outside, but after the physical exertion of practice, I’m burning up.
“You gonna get back together?” Jack says, finally looking back to me.
“Definitely not,” I say. The decisiveness in my voice must surprise Jack, because he laughs.
“She’s hot, man.”
“Smoking hot,” I agree. “And totally full of herself. And willing to resort to extreme measures to get attention.” I turn to Jack. “Did you see her at lunch? She was acting like we never broke up. She kept trying to sit on my lap—”
“I saw,” Jack says, his voice dry as he absently kicks at the grass with his shoe. He looks over his shoulder at her. “Would you be annoyed if I asked her out?”
“Would you care if I were?” I say, grinning.
Jack grins back. “Maybe.”
“Have at it,” I say. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe the two of you just weren’t a good fit.”
We definitely weren’t a good fit. Maybe Virginia just wanted Jack all along and was trying to get his attention by dating me. Who knows? So I just shrug. “Could be. Go for it.”
We head back to the locker room. I reek in the way that only teenage boys can, so it feels good to change and shower off. But the anxiety starts to creep in again now that I’m not exhausting myself. I have to force myself not to rush out, but my walk is still more hurried than usual as I go to my car.
When I get home, my mom is nowhere to be seen—perfect. I sit at the computer, placed inconveniently in the middle of the living room, and pull up the ACT site to check my score.
It’s there. The score is there.
And it’s too low.
I try to hold in a groan as I fight the sinking feeling in my gut. This score is too low to be of any use to me. I’m going to have to take the test again.
I should feel relieved that I bothered to take it so early so that I have some retake options left. But I just feel faintly sick.
I close out of the screen quickly when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. My mom is going to ask how I did at some point—if not look up my score for herself—but I’m going to put that moment off as long as possible.
“Cohen?” she says as she enters the room, and I look at her. “Hi, sweetie,” she says, and she smiles.
And just like that, she’s changed—she’s back from the tired, post-marriage version of herself. She’s always back when she smiles. My dad doesn’t make her happy anymore, but at least she has us.
“Hi,” I say, standing quickly and walking with her to the kitchen. How to distract her from asking what I was doing at the computer?
“What were you doing?” she says, leaving me and pulling open the refrigerator.
Crap. “Just checking some stuff,” I say, trying to be both vague and truthful.
She raises one eyebrow, looking formidable. “Like your ACT score?”
Crap again. I shift my weight from one foot to the other as she approaches. I’m a full head taller than her, but sometimes she makes me feel like I’m still five. Finally I sigh. “Yeah.”
“And?” she says, pouring two glasses of milk and passing me on
e.
“Did you already look?” I say, accepting the milk.
“Yes,” she says.
“Then why did you ask?” I say, irritated. “That’s sort of private information.”
“I paid for you to take the test. I’m perfectly within my rights to check your score. Not that I should have to,” she says, looking disapproving. “I would hope you’d tell me what you got anyway.”
“I’m going to have to take it again,” I say, my voice dull.
“You know,” she says, her voice suddenly thoughtful. It’s the voice she uses when she’s latching onto an idea. It’s not my favorite voice of hers. “We could get you a tutor.”
Uh, no. No tutors. I’m not spending my limited free time hunched over the kitchen table, torturing my brain with math problems. Because I’m not stupid; I have good grades. It’s just something about taking tests that makes my brain freeze up.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“Mina’s mother said Mina did well on the ACT,” my mom says, still using that same thoughtful voice. “You could ask her for some help.”
“I’ll be fine,” I repeat firmly.
My mom levels me with an even stare, and I brace myself for whatever she’s about to say.
“I’ll give you one hundred dollars if you get a tutor,” she says, and my jaw drops. “I’ll give you another two hundred if you get your score up by three points.”
What? I pull out a chair from the kitchen table and fall into it, my mind buzzing.
That’s not what I was expecting at all. But…three hundred dollars is a lot of money.
“Deal,” I say before I can even think through all aspects of this.
“Great,” she says, smiling, all sweetness again. “I’m sure you won’t regret it.”
3
Mina
When I show up to work that evening, my mind is still swimming with homework and college applications and school. I’ve planned out my study time; I have a biology test on Monday, and if I can get in two or ideally three good study sessions this weekend, I should be good to go. I can study, take the test, and then forget everything I just learned. There’s only so much room in my brain, and the life cycle of the frog is not high on my list of priorities.
The smell of the flower shop always hits me anew when I arrive at work, even though I’ve been working here for over a year. Somehow that floral scent is still just as lovely to me as it was when I started. I pull on my apron—a neon green monstrosity that clashes abominably with everything about me—and sign in on the computer. Then I shuffle through the crowded back room and out to the counter in the front to find my supervisor, Shana. The shop is, predictably, totally empty.
The first thing I do is dig out the binder we use to request time off. The Quadrantids meteor shower is in early January, and even though it’s months away, I’m not taking any chances. Once I’ve requested a few evenings off, I put the binder away.
“What do you need me to do?” I say to Shana, who’s about halfway through some sort of thick paperback.
Shana holds up a finger, not looking up from her book. I wait for a second until she finishes her page, and then she looks up at me.
“Okay,” she says. Her curly brown hair isn’t quite contained by her ponytail; several corkscrews break free here and there, giving her the look of a spunky lion with a curly mane framing its face. “Sorry. Montgomery is on the trail of the murderer—”
“And something so game-changing happened that you couldn’t put down the book to answer my question?” I say. I smile, amused, and she has the decency to look chagrined.
“We’re caught up for now anyway, I think,” she says. “It looks like it’s going to be a slow evening.”
“Have you read this one before?” I say, nodding to her book.
“No,” she says with a happy sigh, “but it’s great so far. Did you bring anything? What are you reading?”
I should have brought my biology stuff. “I’m not reading anything right now,” I say. “And I didn’t bring anything.”
“You’re welcome to browse my secret stash,” she says, gesturing vaguely to the cupboard beneath the cash register, where I know she keeps several novels. Her nose is back in her book again.
“I’m good,” I say. “I’ll just—” But I break off, because she’s not listening anyway.
I scoot out from behind the counter and start wandering the shop instead. It’s not very big, and the colors and decorations are maybe more garish than I would prefer, but I would spend all my time here if I could. We keep the walls lined with things like vases and candles and soaps to buy, and then there’s a big flower display in the center of the shop. Right now it’s a pleasant conglomeration of fall bouquets, with oranges and reds and yellows in abundance. Not my favorite color palette—I’m a spring girl—but still beautiful.
I restrain myself from touching any of the arrangements as I circle the display; our boss, Gina, doesn’t like other people messing with her personal arrangements unless we have permission. Still, I can’t stop myself here and there from tucking a few flowers back or pulling some forward just a bit. Gina has hidden all the helenium at the back of the display so it won’t be as visible—or in some places, she’s woven it in with other flowers. She wants it to sell, but she thinks it’s ugly, which is sad. It doesn’t need to be prettier, and it doesn’t need to be hidden. Yes, all flowers look and smell unique, but isn’t that what makes them beautiful?
So I bring some of it forward. Just a little bit. Because that’s my job. To make the flowers look pretty. I’m just doing my job.
I hear the bell over the door jingle, and I jump, whirling around and yanking my hand away from the display as though I’ve been slapped.
“Welcome to Gina’s,” I say automatically—and too soon, because the customers aren’t even through the door yet.
My heart, instead of slowing down like it’s supposed to, picks up in speed when I realize who’s coming through the door.
It’s Jack. Jack and Cohen. They enter and stand awkwardly for a minute, looking completely uncomfortable to be in a florist’s.
Not as uncomfortable as me, though. I scamper back behind the counter, almost tripping over my feet in the process. Shana looks up at me in surprise.
“Girl, your face is as red as—” she begins, but she cuts off as she sees our customers. “Oh,” she says, a knowing look on her face. “Guys. All right, you take this one. I’m going to the bathroom.”
“What?” I hiss. “You’ve had this whole time to use the restroom!”
“Hope you’re feeling flirtatious,” she says, grinning mischievously. She slips into the back, and I’m left alone with Jack and Cohen approaching the counter.
Shana is going to find all her mystery novels missing when she gets back. I will make sure of that.
Jack and Cohen are inching painfully slowly to the counter—like their manliness hinges on who gets there slower—but they finally reach it, and I try to smile.
It doesn’t really work. I think it’s more of a scrunched grimace. “How can I help you today?” I say, my words more squeak than speech. I avert my gaze slightly, hoping Jack doesn’t notice that my eyes are two different colors.
“Sorry?” Jack says.
“You sound weird,” Cohen says, frowning. “Are you sick?”
“No,” I say. “I just—” No, actually; sick sounds like a good excuse. I fake a cough. “I mean, yes. Sorry. What can I do for you?”
“Jack needs some flowers,” Cohen says, giving me a funny look—like he knows I’m not really sick.
“Obviously,” I say before I can stop myself. “What kind of flowers?”
Cohen grins, but Jack eyes us. “Do you guys know each other?” he says.
“We’re neighbors,” Cohen says, still grinning cheekily. The action pulls at his scar, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “We played together when we were still in diapers—”
“Shut up,” I say. “Please,” I add, sin
ce I’m a professional and am supposed to be selling flowers.
“Oh, yeah?” Jack says, smiling. His dimples are adorable. “I bet you’ve got some good stories about Cohen. Where do you go to school? Blessed Trinity High?”
My face, which I’m certain was already red, goes even redder, and I can feel my heart plummet in my chest. Where do I go to school? We have classes together. We’ve had classes together for years. He doesn’t recognize me? I mean, I never expected him to know my name or my hopes and dreams and fears. But—
My railing thoughts screech to a halt as I realize Jack and Cohen are both looking at me expectantly. Cohen must see something in my face that screams for the need of rescue, because he says,
“Jack wants to ask a girl out. Do you have any romantic flowers?”
Ask a girl out. Of course he wants to ask a girl out.
I am such an idiot.
All right. I can be upset later. Right now I just need to be professional. I can do that. I can look Jack Freeman in the eye and pretend I haven’t been crushing on him for years only to find out that he literally was not aware I existed.
“We have lots of romantic flowers,” I say, and miraculously I’m able to pull out a smile as I lean against the counter a bit. “But do you know what her favorite flowers are? Those will be more romantic than anything else.”
Jack looks at Cohen, whose voice is flat as he says, “She likes red roses.”
“Red roses, then,” Jack says to me. He leans in a bit, almost conspiratorially, and says, “Cohen gave me the go-ahead to ask out his ex.” He grins, looking proud of himself.
Disbelief floods through me. Virginia? Jack is asking out Virginia? She’s insane! She would like red roses. I glance at Cohen, and he nods discreetly, looking as though he questions Jacks’ judgment.
I question Jack’s judgment.
But then again, Virginia is probably on her best behavior with someone like Jack. And she’s certainly gorgeous.
The injustice.
“Right,” I say, finding my voice. “Red roses are—” Cliché? Overdone? Overrated? “—lovely. I’d recommend just one. Lots of people think it’s more romantic.”
Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1) Page 2