Eye of the Beholder (Stone Springs Book 1)

by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” Jack says.

  “Great,” I say, my smile still in place. It might look maniacal at this point. I can’t be sure. “Is that all?”

  “Yep,” Jack says, pulling his wallet from a back pocket and slapping it on the counter in between us. He pulls out a card and taps it on the counter, waiting for me to ring him up.

  What would it be like to be so confident in your name that you let anyone see your credit card? It sounds nice.

  When Jack has paid, I find him a red rose. I’m tempted to get the one that’s slightly wilted, but because I am a mature woman, I do not. I give him one that’s perfectly blossomed and radiant, and I pretend that he’s not going to give it to someone who’s not me.

  “Good luck,” I say, but Jack is already turning his back to walk away, and maybe it’s for the best—I can’t be sure my smile is convincing, because I can feel my chin trembling slightly.

  Did I mention I’m an idiot?

  I mean, what, did I expect him to like me? Have a crazy crush on me? Secretly be pining for me?

  No. Of course not. So why do I feel like crying?

  “I’ll be there in a sec,” Cohen says to Jack, who’s almost out of the shop by now. Jack raises one hand in acknowledgment before swinging open the door and stepping out into the evening. The little bell over the door jingles, sounding far too cheery.

  Cohen leans forward, and I get a whiff of his cologne. He smells good—familiar. He props his elbows on the counter and frowns up at me. “What’s going on?” he says.

  “Nothing,” I say in a tone that most definitely conveys that I’m lying. I’ve never been a good liar. Lies require confidence, and I am not confident.

  Cohen snorts, raising an eyebrow. “Okay.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me. He straightens up and is just turning around when I blurt out,

  “Virginia? Really?”

  Cohen looks back at me, grimacing. “I know. He has bad taste.”

  “You dated her,” I point out, frowning.

  “I have bad taste too,” he says, flashing me a smile. His smile is his best feature. He comes back to the counter, tilting his head a bit. “You don’t still have a thing for him, do you?”

  To my complete and utter horror, I feel tears starting to prick at my eyes.

  I. Am. An. Idiot. For a lot of reasons, but the biggest one right now is that I’m about to cry, at work, in front of Cohen, about a guy. A gorgeous guy, yes, and one who’s actually nice and funny. But still just a guy.

  It’s just—I at least expected him to know I existed. That he’d seen me before, even. But no—he thought I went to the only other school in town, a tiny Catholic institution. I guess I got too good at being invisible. I’ve never regretted that before, but I do now.

  “No,” I finally say, once I’ve gotten the lump in my throat under control.

  “You’re such a bad liar,” Cohen says, head still tilted. He’s looking at me curiously. “You still like him. It’s been years, Mina. And he—” He breaks off, but he doesn’t have to finish for me to know where he was going.

  “Doesn’t know I exist. Literally. I know,” I say, my voice dull.

  Cohen winces slightly. “Sorry,” he says. He sounds uncomfortable.

  I shrug, trying and probably failing to act like I don’t care. “It’s fine,” I say. “I brought it on myself.” I clear my throat. “You’d better go.”

  “Yeah, I should,” he says, giving the counter a thump. As he’s turning around, he stops suddenly. “Actually…” he says, looking back at me with hesitation. “I wanted to ask you—” He breaks off suddenly, shakes his head, and then says, “Never mind. See you later.”

  I frown with confusion but just say, “Yep.” I watch him leave with the lump in my throat growing ever larger. It’s only when the door closes behind him that I let the tears come. I give myself a few minutes; then I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, grab a tissue, and square my shoulders.

  It’s time to do some reassessing, and some potentially painful self-analysis.

  ***

  While I get ready for bed that night, my self-analysis is mostly complete. And I was right—it was painful.

  Well, maybe not painful. But uncomfortable. Definitely uncomfortable.

  Because I am too introspective for my own good. I always have been. That and the fact that Jack literally didn’t know we go to the same school have compounded in my mind, and it led me to ponder my high school experience in somewhat agonizing detail—searching for regrets, but wondering a lot of other things, too. How have I changed? How have I grown? What have I learned?

  And here’s what I’ve come up with: I have spent my high school years cowering.

  Soon I’ll go to college. I’ll go off into the big, wide world—although, you know, not too big or wide, because I don’t think I could work up the nerve to go too far away, like Europe—and I’ll look back on high school and find…nothing. Nothing at all.

  This revelation came when I was brushing my hair in the mirror before bed and then realizing that I look the same today as I did yesterday, and that I looked the same yesterday as I did the day before, and so on and so forth for the last four years. Somewhere in there I got a few curves and adjusted accordingly, but I’ve never taken any risks with my appearance. I’ve just tried to blend in.

  And I’m well aware that I’m no social butterfly. But on top of that, I’ve never taken risks with anything. I drive the speed limit. I keep both hands on the wheel at all times. And I’m not saying that I want to go skydiving or buy a motorcycle or whatever. But this is my senior year, and Jack Freeman didn’t even know we went to the same school. I could have spent the last four years making memories and friends that I’ll have forever, and instead I spent it pretty much alone, hanging out in the well-worn corners of my comfort zone.

  And how pathetic is that?

  Before getting in bed, I pull a clean sheet of paper out of my desk drawer and start a list. I do well with lists. This will be my to-do list; ways to improve myself.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, staring vaguely at my closet door as I think. Finally I come up with number one.

  1) Say what I’m thinking

  That’s a good one to start with. I rarely speak my mind. I just keep quiet. But why shouldn’t my voice be heard? I bite my lip and keep thinking until I find number two.

  2) Remember my worth

  I compare myself to other people, and it needs to stop. Easier said than done, I’m sure, but putting it on the list is a start. I think for another second until I find the last item for my list. Three feels like a good number, and I don’t want to set myself up for failure by trying to do too much at once. I lean over my piece of paper and scribble down number three.

  3) Step outside my comfort zone

  Okay. Say what I’m thinking, remember my worth, and step outside my comfort zone. I can do that. Right?

  Because it’s time for a change. I don’t want to be a cat lady, as much as I enjoy cats. I want to be a people lady. And as late as it is to be realizing this, it’s now or never. And I know the boyfriend thing I daydream about isn’t going to happen. In general I believe that people can change, but the amount of change that would be required for me to snag a guy would be beyond astronomical. And that’s fine. It really is. But I’m done cowering. I’m going to start talking to people and looking them in the eye. I’m going to make friends. Or maybe even just one friend.

  I grab a piece of tape from my desk and tape my new list on the wall, right next to the poster that says “You are enough.” It’s one of my favorite parts of my room; I’ve spent a lot of time just looking at that poster. It’s decorated in bright florals, but more than that, it’s something I need to hear on a regular basis.

  This is my year.

  I mean, probably.

  This is probably my year.

  4

  Cohen

  My car is a piece of junk. It’s old and beat up, and the inside of it smells perpetually
like fast food. It’s on its last legs. I usually don’t care about any of that, because whatever else the car is, it’s also mine.

  But apparently today I care, because today it doesn’t start when I get in and turn the key. It gives a few feeble stutters and then falls silent.

  This is not my year.

  I’m not surprised about the car, but I am irritated. I haven’t taken the bus to school in years, but by now it’s come and gone. I get out of my car, lock it—although I guess there’s no need, since it won’t start anyway—and crane my neck to look at Mina’s house.

  Bingo. Her car is still there.

  I cross the lawn, stepping carefully over the flowerbeds that her mom would flay me for disturbing, and knock loudly on the door. Extra loudly, really, just to make sure she hears me.

  Her front door lurches open, and there she is, wearing one of what must be a dozen gray shirts she owns. Sometimes her shirt is white, I guess. Other than that there’s not much variation. She’s not bad looking; she might even be pretty. It’s hard to tell when you can’t see past the baggy clothes and the hair pulled tight to her head.

  She’s got the coolest eyes I’ve ever seen, though, one blue and one brown. They’re slightly narrowed at me right now.

  “Willy,” I say. I think I’m the only person who calls her that, although she has been called Wet Willy by a lot of people. I give her a smile—mostly to dispel the slight awkwardness I feel after our run-in at the florist’s last night. Talk about uncomfortable. She clearly still has a thing for Jack, who just as clearly does not know she exists.

  Well, now he does, I guess.

  “Coco,” she says, her voice flat as she steps out of her house and locks the door behind her.

  I wince. “All right. Point taken. Hey, can I get a ride to school? My car won’t start.”

  “Your car is a piece of junk,” she says, looking to where it’s parked on the street.

  “It’s not a piece of junk,” I say, even though I thought the same thing not five minutes ago. I follow her down the little paved path that runs through her lawn.

  “Why did you bang on the door so hard?” she says over her shoulder.

  “I just wanted to make sure you would hear me.”

  “I think the whole neighborhood heard you. Where’s Lydia?”

  Good question. My twin sister is involved in everything. It’s exhausting to remember what all she does, so I don’t try. “Student council, I think?” I shrug. “I’m not sure. But she left early. So…can I get a ride?” I eye her hopefully.

  “Yeah, sure,” she says, gesturing to the passenger side of her car as she walks around to get in the driver’s seat. “But you’ll probably have to slide your seat back. Tall people don’t usually sit there.”

  She’s right; when I get in the car my legs crunch up almost comically, and I immediately adjust the seat. Her car is ten times cleaner than mine, and there’s no fast food smell.

  I feel my phone buzz and pull it out as I buckle my seatbelt. Safety first and all that.

  It’s Jack, asking me about my plans after football and telling me that Virginia agreed to go out with him. Better him than me. I text him back, and I’m just pressing send as I realize Mina’s talking to me.

  “Hmm?” I say. “Oh, sorry. I was texting Jack.”

  “How’s Jack?” she says, and she sounds sort of funny. She keeps her eyes on the street as we pull away from her house—something I appreciate—but I can still see her face turning slightly red.

  “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” I say, grinning.

  “No,” she says, sounding defensive now. She turns down one street, then another, and then we’re to the main road. “I don’t care at all.”

  “You as much as admitted you still like him,” I say. I let my smile fade, because her face is really red now, and I don’t want to be a jerk.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get over it.”

  I shrug. “All right.”

  “So,” she says quickly, her voice squeaky. It’s something I’ve noticed happens when she’s uncomfortable. “How are college applications going?”

  I groan. This question makes me want to bang my head against a wall. I get why everyone keeps bringing it up. I do. It’s my future. But thinking about college just makes me think about the ACT, and that just makes me stressed.

  “Not great,” I say, and my mom’s suggestion from the other morning rushes back to me. My pride doesn’t want me to do this, but…well, if I want any chance at getting into a good school, it needs to happen. Before I can chicken out like I did last night at the florist’s, I say, “Actually…”

  I do have to fight the urge to fidget with my phone. Asking for help makes me nervous.

  “What?” Mina says, actually looking over at me. “What’s wrong?”

  She sounds nervous, too. She’s probably imagining all sorts of terrible things I could be preparing to say. I guess I should put her out of her misery.

  I take a deep breath. “I need a tutor,” I say. “To help me up my ACT score.”

  Mina is silent for a second, and then she says, “Oh. Is that it?” Her eyes are back on the road again, and she sounds relieved.

  “Kind of,” I say.

  “You sounded like someone had died.” She adjusts her hands on the steering wheel and looks over at me again as we wait for the stoplight to turn green.

  “I wasn’t done,” I say, forcing myself to keep talking.

  “So someone did die, then?”

  I smile. “My dignity, maybe.” I take another deep breath. “My mom told me that you did really well on the ACT.”

  She’s quiet for longer than a second this time. I can see the wheels turning in her mind, extrapolating where this conversation might be going. When she speaks again, her voice is somehow cautious and squeaky at the same time. “I did do well” is all she says.

  All right. Just ask her. It’s not a big deal.

  Except…it feels like a big deal.

  “Well,” I say, and my forced casualness sounds bizarre when I compare it to my inner state, “if you have some free time, maybe you could…you know. Help me.”

  There. Done. Sure, I’ve moved well into my fidgeting habit as I turn my phone over repeatedly in my hands, but that’s fine. At least I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she says slowly. “I’ve got a lot of commitments already—”

  “Like what?” I say, a lurch of anxiety seizing my chest.

  “Like school. I study a lot.” She sounds slightly defensive.

  “Okay, and what else?”

  Her face is reddening again. “And I work. And I’m filling out college applications.”

  “All right. School and work. Is that it?” I know I’m being obnoxious, but I need help. If I don’t get my score up, I won’t get into anyplace worth attending. “Mina, I really need help,” I say. “If I want any chance of getting into a good school, I have to get my test score up. Please, will you at least think about it?”

  And then a crazy thought hits me. A bargain I could make. Stupid, desperate, and far-fetched.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I say, and I can hear the desperation in my voice, but I go on. “If you tutor me for the ACT, I’ll help you get Jack to ask you out.”

  Even as the words come out, I know they’re insane. Mina will never go for this.

  Her head turns slowly to face me, her eyes wide. “What do you—”

  “The road!” I almost shout, because she’s rapidly approaching the car that’s stopped suddenly in front of us. Mina slams on the brakes, and the whole car lurches to a stop.

  “Sorry,” she says, sounding breathless. She eases the car back into motion. “But what do you mean?”

  I feel relief flood through me. Her reaction tells me that I’m on the right track.

  I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “You’re clearly still into Jack. If you tutor me, I’ll help you get him to like you. I can’t guarantee anything, obviously, but I know him better
than almost anyone. I know what he likes.”

  “Yeah,” Mina says, sounding annoyed—a rarity for her, although it seems to come out around me more than anyone else I’ve heard. “He likes Virginia.”

  “Eh,” I say, waving my hand. “She has a tendency to flit from guy to guy. It won’t last.” I pull out my water bottle and take a drink.

  “That doesn’t change the fact that Jack likes her,” Mina says, still annoyed. “Which doesn’t make sense, by the way. She’s psychotic.”

  I give a burst of laughter, and the water in my mouth sprays out. It would normally be embarrassing, but it’s just Mina—and anyway, I’m still laughing. “She is,” I say, wiping the wet spot on my shirt and pants. “She really is.”

  “Cohen, you got water on my glove compartment!” she says, looking quickly over at me and then back at the road.

  “It’s fine,” I say, still grinning. “I’ll wipe it off.” When I’ve used my backpack to wipe down her car, I say, “All right, so Virginia might be a hurdle. But we could deal with that. I honestly think we could. I’m serious. I could help you. I could at least give you a chance.”

  Mina thinks for a minute. Then she says, “You’re a terrible person for bribing me with this.”

  “And I feel bad about it. I really do.” Eh. Debatable. “But I really need help.”

  Mina sighs as we pull into the school parking lot. “I’ll think about it,” she says. She pauses, and then she goes on, “How much higher do you need your score to be?”

  “A few points or so,” I say. It’s not quite the truth—five points or more would be ideal. But I need this.

  She pulls into a parking spot, turns off her car, and eyes me. “I’ll think about it,” she says again. “Now hurry up and get out before any of your friends see you with Wet Willy.”

  I give a snort of laughter but open my door. “Thanks for the ride, Willy,” I say, swinging my backpack over my shoulder and facing her again. “I’ll text you later? About the tutoring?”

  “Meh.”

  I grin. “I’ll take that as a yes. Thanks, Mina.” I straighten up, close the passenger door, and walk away, hoping my shirt will dry before anyone notices the big wet spot.