As I march up and down the soccer field, I remember I was going to give Tiana advice. Except I don’t give a crap about the tournament anymore. Or about Tiana. I hope the Crusaders lose every game tomorrow. I hope they lose every game the rest of the season.
CHAPTER
7
Inever, ever thought I’d look forward to going to a job. That’s how bad my crappy day is going. I take the city bus from school to Grocery Mart. No transfers, so it doesn’t take long. Mom’s shift ends the same time as mine, five o’clock. She’ll give me a ride home. Fun. She’ll ask me lots of questions. I won’t answer them.
As I walk across the Grocery Mart parking lot, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. I have no idea what to expect. Or how much of an idiot I’ll make of myself. From here I can see the staff entrance is closed. No brick props the door open like before. I try the knob. It’s locked. I press the buzzer. I press it again. And again. It feels like I stand there for a year before someone finally opens it.
“What?” It’s a big, older guy I’ve never seen before. He’s got long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. A tattoo of a snake coils up his neck.
“Um … I work here,” I tell him.
He grunts and pulls the door open wider. I step inside.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Gabby.”
“Hutch,” he grumbles. The door slams shut.
I look toward the office. I can see through the windows that the lights are off.
“Jake’s gone home for the day,” Hutch says, guessing my question. “He told me there was a new employee starting. I’m supposed to show you the ropes.” Then under his breath he adds, “I really wish he’d stop hiring little girls.”
Um … okay. “Are Evan and Jo here?”
“No.”
“Oh. Since they were here yesterday, I just figured …”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something metal. It’s the length of his palm. He slides a lever on top with his thumb. A razor blade juts out.
I step back.
He snickers. “Relax. Never seen a utility knife before?”
“Yes,” I lie. Will I always feel like an idiot here?
Hutch turns and walks away. After a few steps, he glances over his shoulder. “Well, come on. I can’t train you long distance.”
What an asshole. I take a deep breath and catch up with him.
Breaking down cardboard boxes is not exciting. But it’s easy to learn. Once Hutch sees I’ve got the hang of it, he leaves me alone. After an hour kneeling on concrete, my knees hurt. I guess I imagined my first day of work would be a little different. Like I’d get to ride on the forklift. And trade insults with Evan and Jo. This is so not fun. I lean back on my heels. My fingers hurt. I flex them.
“Where are you kneepads?” a familiar voice asks.
I look up. Mom shakes her head. “Hutch,” she says in disgust. She marches off.
Two minutes later, she returns with a set of rubber thingies with Velcro straps. She drops them on the floor next to me. “Put these on.” She crosses her arms. “Jake’s going to hear about this.”
“What? No. Don’t get him into trouble.”
She’s frowning, her lips pressed together. “You’re entitled to—”
“Mom, please. Do you want them to think I’m a troublemaker?”
This gets her attention. Her features soften. She shakes her head. “There’s a list of OSHA rules posted outside Jake’s office. Read them. Ask for the safety equipment you need.”
“Fine.” I don’t know what osha is. I don’t care. Mom needs to make up her mind. Am I old enough to hold a job? Or am I a little girl she needs to take care of? “So are you back here checking up on me?”
“I’m just seeing how you’re doing. Meet me in the parking lot when you get off at five. Remember, Abuelita’s for dinner.”
Oh, right. Grandma’s. I’d almost forgotten.
“Well,” Mom says. She gives me a small smile. “Work hard, Gabriella.”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I know I’m being rude. This day has just completely sucked. She opens her mouth like she’s about to scold me. But she turns and walks back to the store.
I’ve just strapped on the kneepads when the loudspeaker shrieks, “Cleanup on aisle five!”
“Hey, girlie!” I hear from somewhere in the warehouse. “That’s you!”
I sigh. Rip off the pads and drop them to the floor. Unless it’s puke, a trip inside the store sounds better than cutting boxes. I get to the end of aisle five. Look at the mess in the middle of the floor. Just my luck, it’s puke. But when I get closer, I see it’s a broken jar of applesauce.
We eat dinner at Grandma’s house one Friday every month. She’s my dad’s mom. Dad’s the oldest of four brothers. They’re all married and have kids except for Mike, the youngest. He’s twenty-three and my favorite uncle. We have a lot in common. Like being picked on by my dad.
The table is crowded with aunts and uncles and the two girl cousins who’ve had their quinceañera—me and Teresa. She’s sixteen and still into boy bands. Probably a virgin. We have nothing in common and hardly ever talk. The little cousins race around the house, screaming. I glance at Mike across the table. We roll our eyes at the same time.
Uncle Mike is gay. I think I’m the only person in the family who knows. A year ago he went to one of my basketball games. Afterwards he took me to Denny’s. While eating a Grand Slam, I realized we were checking out the same cute guy at another table. There were other clues too. Like he hardly ever dated, and he’d never had a serious relationship with a girl. So at Denny’s I plain out asked him. He said, “Yeah, I am. But if you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”
“That’s cool,” I said. It is cool. I get it. My super-conservative family will totally freak if they find out. We always got along great, but since then, Mike and I talk about pretty much everything. No subjects are off limits.
After dinner I help clean the kitchen. Then I look for Uncle Mike in the living room. He’s not there. I walk down the hallway. His door is open a crack. I push it the rest of the way. He’s sitting on his bed reading a textbook. Wearing bright orange earplugs.
I wave to get his attention. He pulls out the plugs and smiles. “Hi, Gassy.”
“Hi, Micro.” I sit next to him and lean my head on his shoulder.
“Bad day?” he asks.
“Super sucky day.”
“Me too. I’m thinking of hiring a female escort to these family dinners.”
I look at him. “Still not enough money to move out?”
He shakes his head. “Long way to go.” Then he sighs. “I feel lonelier than a pig in a chicken coop.”
I laugh. “Lonelier than a what?”
He shrugs. “Don’t question. My mind is messed up.”
I punch his arm. “It is not. You’re brilliant. The best uncle ever.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks, Gabs. Tell me about your sucky day.”
I think about it. “That pig in the chicken coop thing?”
“Lonely, huh?”
I nod.
“That bites.”
“Yeah. It does.”
CHAPTER
8
It’s Saturday morning, not even eight o’clock. I’m barely awake. The two hours working with Hutch yesterday were so bad, I thought about quitting. But here I am, walking across the warehouse parking lot. I’ve decided to give it one full day before I tell my parents no mas trabajo.
The brick is back in the door. No buzzer. Thank you, God. I reach to pull the door open when I hear, “Good morning,” behind me. I’m totally relieved to see it’s Evan and not Hutch.
“Hi,” I answer.
His shoulders are sagging. Dark circles shadow his eyes. He’s gripping a cup of McDonald’s coffee like it’s a precious elixir. He shoves the door open with his foot. “After you.”
I slip inside and he follows me.
Li
ke a robot on autopilot, he walks up to a machine hanging on the wall. Picks out a yellow card from a rack. Pushes the card into the machine, which goes kachunk. He slips the card back in its slot, leans against the wall, and closes his eyes. Sips his coffee.
I’ve seen enough hangovers. I figure that’s what he’s got. Even though I hate to disturb him, I think I’d better. “Um … am I supposed to use that machine?”
He opens one eye. Says slowly, “No one told you about the time clock?”
I shake my head.
He shakes his head.
He steps over to it, scans the yellow cards, and pulls one out. Then he ka-chunks it into the time clock. “Gotta do that to get paid,” he mutters. He returns to his wall-holding position.
“What about yesterday? I worked two hours!”
He cringes. “Quiet! Work it out with Jake.” Then he says, “I didn’t mean to snap. The caffeine hasn’t hit my bloodstream yet.”
The door flies open. In sprints Jo. “Crap, crap, crap!” With a quick glance at the timecards, she picks one out and slams it into the clock. Ka-chunk. “Crap.”
She slides the card back in its slot. Takes a deep breath. “God, my head hurts.” She looks at me. “Hi. It’s Gabby, right?”
“Right.”
“Good memory,” Evan says, his eyes closed. “I forgot.” He opens one eye at me. “Sorry.” He takes a long drink from his cup.
I shrug.
“Is this your first day?” Jo asks.
“No. Yesterday.”
Evan pops both eyes open. He and Jo exchange a glance.
Jo says, “You trained with Hutch?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say.
Evan gives me that lopsided grin. “And you’re back at work today? Wow. I guess that explains the time clock.”
“Hutch is a jerk,” Jo says. “Ex-biker, ex-Marine, ex-con.”
“Ex-human being,” Evan adds. “Oh, and he loves this job.” Evan stretches his arms out and groans. “And I love coffee!”
“So, um, did you guys party last night or something?” I ask.
“Friday night? Duh,” Evan says. Jo smiles. “Most nights. Duh.”
Evan empties his coffee cup in a long gulp. He wanders toward the office. Throws the cup in a trash can. “Yo, J-man!” he calls.
A second later, Jake walks out of his office. He’s carrying a piece of paper. “Morning.” He scratches under his Dodger’s cap. “Big Eddelsten shipment this afternoon.”
Jo whispers in my ear, “Canned goods.”
“Otherwise, same old.” Jake holds the page in the air. “Who wants this?”
Jo and Evan hesitate. Then Jo snatches it.
“Okay, get to it.” Jake turns for his office then twists around. Looks at Jo. “You’ve been late a few days in a row.”
“I know,” she says.
“Well … stop it.”
“Right, boss.” She salutes.
He tugs the brim of his cap.
Jo shows me the page. Looks like a computer printout. Names and numbers. I don’t understand any of it.
“Stocking sheet,” Jo informs me. “Stuff the store needs from the warehouse.”
And that’s how my workday begins. Stocking shelves with Jo. The printout starts to make sense once we’re using it—aisle number, product name and code, amount needed. Jo never makes me feel like an idiot. Even when I ask what I think are idiotic questions. It’s a major improvement from yesterday. I actually feel like I’m learning something.
We’re in the warehouse loading a cart with packs of paper towels. Neither of us say much. But it’s a comfortable quiet, just working together, getting stuff done. It’s nice not having to listen to Randi whining about her boyfriend. Or my parents nagging me about school.
Suddenly Jo says, “Hey, lunchtime.”
“Really?” I ask.
“I know, it’s totally fun stocking shelves, right? You can keep working if you want.”
My cheeks warm. “No, that’s okay.” But I am surprised how fast the morning went.
We grab sandwiches from the Grocery Mart deli. Jo, Evan, and I park ourselves at a picnic table behind the warehouse. Evan was helping to unload a truck all morning. I guess his hangover is gone. He’s all angular lines and hyper energy again.
“So, Gabby,” he asks. “Do you talk a lot or something?”
“Ha-ha,” I say. I’ve heard that joke all my life.
“It’s short for Gabriella, right?” Jo asks.
I nod.
“Pretty name,” she says.
“I guess.” I’ve heard that all my life too. For me, a name is just a name. But I’ll play along. “Jo is short for … Josefina?”
“Joelle.”
“Oh. That’s nice. And Evan is for … Evan.”
“Yeah,” Evan mutters. “That’s as short as it gets. Call me Ev and I kill you.” The threat includes a crooked smile.
I can’t help smiling back. Our eyes meet. His gaze slides down to my lips before going back to his sandwich. The lingering look leaves a tingling in my belly. How old is Evan? Younger than Uncle Mike, I think. But older than eighteen if he’s working full time.
Jo says, “Big plans tonight, Gabby?”
I’m so focused on Evan, her question startles me. “Oh. Not really. I’m grounded.” I cringe inside. Did I just say grounded? It sounds so … teen.
Jo laughs. “Really? You seem pretty wholesome. Like you never get in trouble.”
“I get into trouble all the time.” I’m not smiling when I say it. I don’t want them to think I’m some little kid.
“Ooh,” Evan murmurs. “All the time.” I feel him looking at me again. It makes me squirm. I keep my eyes on my turkey sandwich.
“Do you get into trouble for partying?” Jo asks.
“Maybe,” I lie. It’s one of the few things I haven’t been punished for. Partly because I haven’t gotten caught. Mostly because I haven’t partied much.
“We’re having a little get together at Jo’s tonight,” Evan says. “If you want to take the chance.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe.”
Before I clock out that afternoon, Jo writes her address on a piece of paper. I stuff it in my pocket, just to be polite. I have no intention of going.
CHAPTER
9
Ihear people complain about buses all the time. They’re crowded and stinky. They’re never on time. The drivers are rude. It’s all true. And I would rather drive a car. But as long as I don’t have a car to drive, I’m okay with Rabid Transit. It gives me time to veg.
The bus has just come to another stop. A bunch of people get off and on. I take a deep breath and rest my elbow on the ledge under the window. For the heck of it, I imagine sneaking out of the house tonight. It would be easy. I’ve done it a bunch of times. Especially when Tony and I first discovered we were more than just friends. We’d camp out behind the metal shed in my backyard and make out. For hours. We haven’t done that in a long time.
I press my chin on my hand. The bus starts moving again. Getting to Jo’s wouldn’t be a problem, either. When she gave me her address, I didn’t have to ask for directions. Her apartment building is less than a mile from my house. An easy walk.
The bus bounces. I lower my hand to my lap. The thing is, I hardly know Jo and Evan. They’re older than me. Even so, they treat me like an equal, not a kid. It’s kind of how I feel around Uncle Mike. Plus, I like Jo. She’s nice. Fun. I think I can trust her. I like Evan too. I’m not so sure I can trust him, but he does seem like fun. I deserve to have fun. I don’t deserve to be a prisoner in my house.
My corner is next. I reach up and yank the cord. The bell dings. As I walk the five blocks home, I see a couple of kids shooting baskets in their driveway. The room in my brain that hides things opens for a split second. I catch a glimpse of the basketball tournament. I see me playing. I feel how much I really want to be there. I quickly close the door. In its place I stuff images of Randi telling me we’re not friends any
more. Of my teammates in the lunchroom pointing at me, laughing. My parents telling me I’m not as good as my sister.
I need something new.
I figure finding Jo’s apartment in this big complex should be easy. Just listen for the loud music. But that pretty much describes every unit of the Ramona Heights apartments. Rap, rock, and salsa pound from behind open and closed doors. I pull the note out of my pocket: 236. I check the number above the closest door: 134. She must be on the second floor. I look up.
A familiar form leans against the upstairs railing. Evan is holding a can of beer and smoking. He gazes into the distance. He looks … good. Can’t say I’ve ever noticed a guy’s jaw before. But from this angle I see how perfect his is. Square. Strong.
It’s like he feels me staring. He suddenly looks down at me. “Hey, it’s Talks-a-lot. Didn’t think you were coming. It’s kind of late.”
“Yeah. Hi.” I couldn’t leave until after my parents went to bed, around eleven. But I won’t tell Evan that. I want him to think I have other places to go. Other people to see.
He flicks his cigarette butt over the railing. It lands on the cement not far from my feet. “Come on up,” he says.
I find the stairs and make my way down the second-floor hallway. Evan has disappeared. The door to 236 is closed. The base track of an R&B song thumps from inside. I feel timid all of a sudden. Then I tell myself, “You’re here to have fun. So … have fun.”
Taking a deep breath, I reach for the knob. Wait, should I knock? The door opens.
“There you are,” Jo says, smiling. She grabs my hand and pulls me inside. “This is Gabby,” she announces. There are a whole lot of people scattered around. They’re draped on the couch. Lounging on the floor. Milling in the kitchen.
Someone says, “Hey.”
Someone else waves.
Then they go back to whatever they were doing. Which seems to be drinking and smoking pot and making out. A bong is getting passed around.
“Booze in the kitchen,” Jo says. “Help yourself.”
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