Brittany Bends

by Grayson, Kristine

  “I know that, honey,” Mom says softly. “All I’m trying to say is that how you look is part of you, and it’s something you’re going to have to accept.”

  “I don’t know why it’s a problem,” I say. “I look like Anna and Ingrid and Hilde. And you.”

  “Yes.” Mom has a tone in her voice I’ve never heard before. “You look just like me at that age.”

  My gaze meets hers. “This all happened to you,” I say. “And you think it’ll happen to me.”

  “I hope you’ll be smarter than me,” Mom says. “I made mistakes.”

  “Like my dad,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “I can’t consider that a mistake. If I hadn’t met your father, I wouldn’t have you.”

  My eyes fill with tears. Damn drama queen. I will them back. “I’m a lot of trouble.”

  “No, honey, you’re not,” Mom says. “I’m happy to have you here. I wished I could have had you from the start.”

  “But you didn’t,” I say.

  “Caring for a baby with magic is hard,” Mom says. “If I knew then what I know now, I would have insisted on going to Mount Olympus to raise you or having your father send someone here to help. But then, I didn’t know what to do. I was really alone.”

  “You have family here,” I say.

  “And they had no idea who your father was. I didn’t tell them, and I couldn’t tell them about you. Not the magical part.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Have you read Faustus yet?” Mom asks.

  “I’m trying to,” I say.

  “What that play says, in part, is that magic is a tool of the devil.”

  “But the devil isn’t real,” I say.

  “Why not?” Mom asks. “Zeus is.”

  I frown at her. “Magic isn’t a tool of any devil.”

  “I know,” Mom says. “But my family would think it’s a sin. That’s why we’re really careful, honey.”

  “They’d hate me?” I ask.

  “No,” Mom says. “They think you’re wonderful. But they won’t understand the magic. They never will.”

  I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  Anna stomps down the stairs, Eric behind her. They’re arguing about chess moves, of all things.

  “I think we can have dinner now,” Anna says as she hurries past us.

  Eric glances at both of us, frowning, then keeps going.

  Mom reaches out her hand and takes mine. “I advised you to take drama for a reason.”

  “Because it would be easy, you said.”

  She shakes her head. “Because drama—literature—teaches us about ourselves. The best way for you to learn our culture is through the arts. And you will need extracurriculars, so why not drama?”

  “Why do I need extracurriculars?” I ask.

  “Because I’m sending you to college,” Mom says.

  I’m shaking my head even before she finishes the sentence. “There’s no need, Mom. I won’t be caught up enough to go to college, and you can’t afford it, and—”

  “We can afford it if you get a scholarship, and put in the work,” Mom says. “Extracurriculars help.”

  From the kitchen, Ivan yells, “Mom! Dinner!”

  She smiles. “I’m not usually the one who’s late. Shall we?”

  “You’re not going to help me get out of this play,” I say.

  “No, I’m not,” she says. “But you can quit if you want to.”

  I know she hates that word “quit.” And I know she used it on purpose. “But you’ll have to drive me—”

  “We have four cars in this family,” Mom says. “Someone can drive you until you learn to drive.”

  “Me? Learn how to drive?” I’m not sure how I feel about that either. I like the idea of the freedom, but cars are big scary things, and I have trouble getting in and out of them, let alone commanding one.

  “Not this winter.” Mom puts her arm around my shoulder and steers me toward the dining room. “But maybe next summer.”

  Next summer. That’s a long ways away. I haven’t thought that far ahead. I have trouble thinking about the Winter Holidays coming up. Crystal, Tiff, and I promised we’d get together then, but I have no idea how we’ll pull it off.

  There’s no money for travel.

  Maybe Megan will have an idea. I haven’t asked yet though.

  Mom and I step into the dining room. Everyone else is sitting at their spots. Two gigantic bowls of macaroni and cheese glisten orangely. Two more bowls have hotdogs cut up into the mac and cheese. A bowl of salad sits on the table untouched.

  The mac and cheese steams.

  “Yay!” Ingrid says. “You’re here. We can eat.”

  My stomach growls. If you’d asked me before I moved here if I would eat something that looks like plastic food, I would’ve said no. And if I had said yes, I would’ve thought that I would’ve hated it.

  But I secretly like this stuff. I like all of it.

  I even like that weird moment before we eat when Karl says grace. Maybe it’s because we all join hands. Maybe it’s because we are quiet for just a minute.

  Maybe it’s because grace is all about saying thank you.

  I don’t know. But I’ve gotten used to grace and plastic food.

  I guess I can get used to being Helen of Troy.

  If I try hard enough.

  I hope.

  NINE

  SATURDAY COMES AROUND pretty fast. I have to be at the store by nine, and that takes some doing because everyone wants to sleep in. Karl finally agrees to drive me, not because he wants to, but because he thinks Mom deserves at least one day of rest and, as he said, we all know that’s not Sunday.

  I’m wearing an old blue-and-white sweatshirt with the head of a Spartan on it. At least, that’s what everyone tells me is a Spartan. I don’t think of Spartans as this two-dimensional square-jawed guy wearing a Trojan helmet, but what do I know? Besides, it’s the team logo.

  The shirt started out as Eric’s, then Lise stole it and ripped it, and then she gave it to me as a junk shirt. It’s too big, but I’m wearing a t-shirt underneath—also blue and white, also with a Spartan on it. But this t-shirt was once Leif’s and now he’s too broad for it. Or something.

  My jeans are also hand-me-downs, this time from Mom. They’re her painting jeans, so they’re covered with splotches of white, pink, and yellow paint. I don’t know where the white came from, but the pink is from Hilde and Ingrid’s room, and the yellow was apparently part of the kitchen before Karl decided to make it open concept or whatever it is.

  Mrs. Larson gave Mom a start-time for me, but neglected to say when my shift would end. So, Karl handed me one of the precious no-frills cell phones. I’m supposed to call home when I’m done and someone will pick me up.

  I don’t use the phones very often. All I know is that I tap one of the buttons until I see the word “home” on the screen, and then tap the “call” button. I hope all of that works.

  But I don’t have a lot of time to think about it.

  I arrive five minutes early because Karl says early is on time, and on time is late. The door’s unlocked, even though the front of the store lights are off and a big Closed sign dominates the empty display window. I step inside.

  The store smells like fresh paint and sawdust overlaid with a coat of varnish. Those are all smells I wouldn’t have recognized at a year ago, but now I know them like the back of my hand. The Johnson Family Manse often smells like one or the other of them or all of them in a slightly different combination.

  I shout hello, and someone shouts something from the back. As I wait, I look around. Shelves cover the entire back wall now, and a whole pile of boxes sits beneath the lip of the display window. Four check-out counters dominate the area right in front of me, and all four have computers with screens that glow faintly in the gloom.

  “Hello?” I call again.

  “Hello!” Mrs. Larson comes out of the back. She looks younger than she did on the day of m
y interview. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and she’s wearing a white t-shirt with the name of a local hardware store emblazoned across the front. Her jeans are ripped. “Welcome, welcome.”

  The warmth in her voice makes me smile.

  “Come with me,” she says. “I’ll show you where to put your coat.”

  There’s a tiny employee room near the one and only bathroom. A small coat rack fills one entire wall, and some big bulky coats hang on the rack. I use the only remaining hanger and hang up my coat.

  Mrs. Larson tells me I can put my purse inside the coat, and it should be safe. Then she sweeps her hand toward the office door.

  “I’m afraid I have more paperwork for you, and then we can get to work. But first, let’s punch you in.”

  She hands me a white plastic card with my name typed along the bottom. “This is your punch card,” she says. “Treat it like a credit card and don’t get it near magnets.”

  Like I have a credit card.

  “Then wave it in front of the time clock.” She points to this little computer thing attached to the wall. “You have to see your name on the screen. Once you do, then you’re clocked in and you’ll get paid. You also have to wave it as you leave. This tracks your hours for me. Since you get paid by the hour, this makes sure we’re accurate down to the minute.”

  Okay. I get it now.

  “Go ahead,” she says. “Try it. Let’s see if it works.”

  I wave the card and my name appears, just like she says. My stomach is all twisty, because when I was magic, technology didn’t work really well for me. But I’m not magic now, so I’m hoping this will work okay.

  “Now,” she says, “more paperwork. When you’re done, leave everything on my desk and come out to the warehouse.”

  She leaves me in the office with a pen, a clipboard, and pages of paperwork. I try to read the accompanying paperwork—the explanations and stuff—but they’re more confusing than Doctor Faustus. At least in that, I can follow the action of the play. This just explains stuff with more stuff I don’t understand.

  I think I’ve signed everything, then I head to the back.

  The warehouse isn’t as big as some warehouses I’ve been to. I’d actually call it a back room. But it is a lot more organized than it was just a few days ago. Boxes still litter one area, but a thin boy from my math class stands in the back with an X-Acto knife, breaking down empty boxes and throwing them on a pile.

  Another boy, who I recognize from the halls, is putting stickers on decorative cardboard boxes that he pulls out of a larger undecorated box. He hands the smaller boxes to the heavyset guy I’d seen the first time I was here. That guy puts the boxes on the shelf.

  “We’re unpacking,” Mrs. Larson says, “and familiarizing ourselves with inventory. Go talk to Mr. Davis. He’ll tell you what to do.”

  She nods toward the heavyset guy. He’s wearing the same kind of plaid shirt that he wore a few days ago and has on suspenders to keep his baggy pants up. He grins at me when I come closer.

  “C’mon, hon,” he says. “Let me show you how to use a dolly.”

  I’m thinking dolls, but he takes me to this metal contraption with a handle and two wheels at the base. He loads boxes on it, then tips it back and waves me over. I’m supposed to wheel that thing to an entirely new area of unfilled shelves.

  It takes me a while to get the hang of the dolly. I have to load boxes onto it and then hold it properly so that I can slide the boxes off of it. It’s weird work: lifting, carrying, moving, driving the dolly, unloading, and then doing it all over again.

  If I still had magic, I could do it all in an instant, but I honestly don’t mind. I get into the rhythm pretty quickly, and I can actually see what I’ve accomplished, which isn’t like anything else I’ve done (except cook—and I’m not allowed to do much of that yet).

  I move boxes for a long time. It seems like hours, but I know it’s not, because I’m entitled to a break in the morning sometime, and those regulations Mrs. Larson had me read say I’m supposed to have lunch after four hours.

  Mr. Davis showed me how to pick up a box so that it doesn’t hurt my back, but after a few loads, I feel the lifting in my legs and arms. I feel like I’ve stretched them out. My hands are getting sore too from the box edges, but I like the feel of the cool metal dolly handle under my palms. That’s kinda soothing.

  Mr. Davis calls me Dolly Girl whenever he needs something, and then he giggles. He says, “Hey, Dolly Girl! Here’s another stack of boxes!” or “Doing great, Dolly Girl!”

  He makes me smile, but he makes Mrs. Larson wince every time he says it. Finally, she tells me that I shouldn’t take him too seriously, a command I’m not sure how to follow, since he’s the one who is giving me orders. She also says I should ignore his language because she can’t educate him out of it.

  I have no idea what she means by language. He isn’t swearing and Mom wouldn’t bark language at him for any reason. He’s organizing me and the two boys (whose names I didn’t catch), and he keeps us moving.

  Finally, he calls a break, and we get to sit down in the break area. We have to pay for soda and stuff, which I didn’t know, and we were supposed to bring a lunch, which I also didn’t know. So I get myself a drink of water.

  When I sit down, my knees actually creak. My arms are shaking. I drink the water. Then Mr. Davis asks if I have some quarters. I have to confess that I only have a five, and that’s because Karl gave me the money for lunch when he found out I hadn’t packed one.

  So Mr. Davis goes over to the Coke machine (that’s what he calls it, even though it looks like it doesn’t have any Coke), and buys me a lemon-lime Gatorade—his treat, he says. I’m not sure if I should take stuff from people I work for, but one of the kids—whose name, it turns out, is Nathaniel (“Not Nate,” he tells me firmly. “No one should ever call me Nate”)—says I should drink it because it has electrolytes, which will make me feel better because I’ve been sweating.

  I blush—jeez, me and blushing. I don’t like thinking about other people seeing me sweat. Athletes do it, but I’m not an athlete. I’m just working.

  Like the mortals do back home. The people that Hera says are beneath us and Tiff says are there to do the things we don’t want to waste magic on (although, she says now, she’s learning that she was wrong), although my brother Hephaestus always tried to tell us we should value mortals who worked, because it was noble.

  I’m not sure about noble. Most of the family ignores him because he’s always grimy from his work on his forge, even though he does make the best jewelry and everyone loves Hermes’ sandals and winged helmet, which Hephaestus both designed and made.

  I’ve always liked Hephaestus, even though he’s really old (older than Athena) and never really says much. He once told me there’s value in work that the rest of the family doesn’t understand.

  I don’t know about value, but I do know about sore muscles. And grime. I’m new to grime, but I know I’m coated in it. The boxes give off dust, apparently, and we’re moving stuff around. Before we go back to work, I go into the bathroom and take off my sweatshirt. The t-shirt is almost too much, given how hot I am.

  I leave my sweatshirt with my coat and purse and get back to work. For another hour and a half, I’m Dolly Girl, and then Mr. Davis sends us away for an early lunch. I’m ravenous and buy a full-sized sandwich at Subway, which I devour. I’ve never been so hungry in my whole life.

  By the time I’m back at work, Mrs. Larson takes pity on me and tells Mr. Davis to give me work I can do sitting down.

  So I learn how to use the label gun—which is a real trick—and I spend the afternoon comparing prices, using the label gun, and making sure I put the right label on the right product.

  Who knew there were so many details in putting together a retail store?

  By the time afternoon break comes around, Mrs. Larson watches me stand up and groan just a little. She puts her hand on my back and says, “Let’s figure out your schedu
le for the week.”

  Then she leads me into the office.

  My heart’s pounding for no good reason. Or maybe it is a good reason. I have no idea what she thinks of the job I’ve done. But she wants me to continue, so I guess I did okay. I don’t know, and I don’t want to ask, and I’m worried, and she says, “What’s your schedule look like?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” I say. “Mrs. Schmidt put me in this contest play as part of my grade and there will be rehearsals, which Mom says have to work around my job, and I have a standing appointment on Sunday—”

  “With God, I know.” Mrs. Larson smiles at me. “I’ve known your mom a long time.”

  I frown, and try to parse what she’s said. I don’t think she’s talking about my father’s family, but I don’t know exactly.

  “Can you work after church?” she asks, and I let out a breath of air. She doesn’t mean a god. She means the same God that the Johnson Family says grace to every day.

  “Um,” I say, “I have another appointment after that. It’s…personal.”

  Lise says that when you use the word “personal” at a job they have to respect it, and not ask about it.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Larson says. “Why don’t we just do Saturdays and Wednesdays after school for now, and when you know your play schedule, you tell me and we’ll work around it, okay?”

  I let out a breath. That was easier than I expected. “Okay.”

  “So,” she says, “I’ll see you on Wednesday. Now, don’t forget to clock out.”

  “I’m sorry.” I’m so dumb. “I don’t know what ‘clock out’ is.”

  Mrs. Larson looks up, and grins. “Of course not. It’s your first job.”

  She leads me back to the little computery thing on the wall.

  “Now,” she says, “wave your card in front of that until you see your name.”

  I wave my card, and the tiny screen says, “Thank you, Brittany Johnson.”

  Even the machines are nice here.