by Amanda Grace
“Okaaaay,” I say, trying to figure out what’s up with her mood flip. She seemed pretty happy twenty minutes ago, on the patio. “Um, let me see your notes.”
“Why? They’re not about a wealthy person,” she says. “You probably can’t relate.”
I stare at her. “Jeez, what’s your deal all of a sudden? Do I need to call off our BFFdom?”
Zoey slumps in her chair. “I’m sorry. I’m just in a mood. Seeing Carolyn here … how excited she was when she saw that big screen … you have no idea how much you have at your fingertips. How many things are just handed to you. If I didn’t have to work at Burgerville all the time, if I didn’t have to help with rent and utilities and think about a thousand things … ”
Oh. That’s what this is? “Look, I know we come from two different … backgrounds,” I say. “But I can’t change that.”
“Whatever,” she mutters under her breath, but her anger has clearly fizzled out. Now she just sounds resigned “Let’s just work, okay?”
“Sure.” The room falls silent and I stare at my empty notebook. “Uh, were you really not going to let me see your notes, though? I’m not sure where to start.”
“I didn’t write them with anyone else in mind,” she says. “They were for my eyes only.”
I stare right at her, and she meets my gaze. And I get the feeling she’s afraid to show me her papers. Like I’m going to laugh at them or judge them or something.
And it’s the strangest thing, but as I stare back, I realize that I want Zoey to trust me, that it’s suddenly the most important thing. I want her to see there’s more to me than the things she keeps mocking. I want her to know that I know she’s kept my secret—what little she saw of it—and I’m willing to keep all of hers.
Without breaking eye contact, she slowly lets go of the notebook and I slide it toward me.
The notes don’t appear to be organized, and her writing is frenetic, angled, scribbled in haste. Like she was taking notes about a movie without taking her eyes off the screen.
Dawn to Dusk. Research working environment—hot like Burgerville? First Aid kits?
Hierarchy—supervisors also lower class like Rita is at Burgerville? Is that what they are destined for in 1790, too—no ability to claw up? Lower class for life?
Any way to escape future—opportunities? Or are they stuck like me?
RESPECT—any from upper class? Or are they all like Olivia?
I swallow as I keep scanning the notes. This one page is like seeing her innermost thoughts.
It’s like seeing how she sees herself. The down-trodden, the trapped, the stepped on.
“I just got an idea,” I say.
“And?”
“Instead of writing our parts as factual essays, we should write a fictional account from two people.”
“Like, a short story?”
“Yeah. And our characters should know each other,” I say.
“Why would they know each other?”
“Because the factory where your character works is owned by my character’s family,” I say, for some reason getting excited. “So my character can visit the factory, and she’ll actually see your character working.”
“And mine would see your character, too … ” Zoey says, her voice trailing off.
“Exactly,” I say. “So not only do we, as writers, compare and contrast the characters, but they’ll see the differences between them themselves.”
“And we could alternate the narrative. Start big picture, the basics of their day. The luxuries or lack thereof,” Zoey says, warming to the idea. “And then once they actually get to the factory, they’ll see each other from afar, and make assumptions about one another. And then we’ll slowly boil it down, from those first impressions to the dreams and desires of women back then.”
I grin. “Exactly. Almost like a feminist approach to everyday life—these two girls, trapped by who they are, taking control of their own lives. We could cover a single, fictional day, going back and forth between their points of view, ultimately building toward the moment when they realize they have more in common than they ever thought.”
She sits back in her chair, staring at me like she can’t believe I thought that up. “I like it.”
“I thought you would,” I say, pushing her notebook back toward her. “It’ll delve much deeper than what we’d originally thought. The papers will no longer stand alone as comparisons; they’ll be pretty intertwined.”
“Then I guess you’d better quit slacking and start putting together some notes.”
“I will. But this is going to take more collaboration. You know that, right?” I say.
“You start brainstorming, and I’ll write my first scene and email it to you,” Zoey says. “If you think it works, you add yours and send it back. Each scene should just be a couple of pages, and we’ll each have to write one every other day, to keep it moving and finish on time.”
“Okay.” I dig a pen out of the front pocket of my backpack. “Here’s my email address. Once you send me your scene, we’ll go from there.” Just as I finish writing the dot com part, I glance up at her and scribble down a little more. “And my cell number. In case we need to get together, or you want to ask about my character.”
“Okay,” Zoey says. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow, after my shift.”
“Ugh, you have to work on Sunday? Again?”
She nods. “I don’t always, but one of my coworkers talked me into swapping.”
“Oh. Okay, well, I’ll start brainstorming.”
“Sounds good,” Zoey says. “Anyway, I should probably get back home so my mom can use the car.”
“Sure you don’t want to let your sister finish the movie?”
“Some other time, maybe?”
“Yeah. Totally.”
Ten minutes later, I’m in the office alone, scribbling down notes. My pen flies across the page, word after word, idea after idea.
It’s easy to think of all the ways my character would be different than hers.
Zoey
Olivia’s been on my mind all day while I clean the stupid fryers and run the tomato slicer and sweep the floors, all things that have nothing to do with her.
The mere idea of Olivia herself doing such chores, actually, brings a funny picture to mind. I bet she could rock the visor, though.
The thing is, there was something in that look she gave me when she said she wanted to read my notes. It was this long, lingering gaze that I could practically feel, like a heavy blanket draping over me. In that one crazy moment, I would have given her whatever she wanted, my notes included.
She probably uses that look a lot to get what she wants. She could use it on teachers and boys and daddy dearest.
And so I let her see my notebook. I let her read my unfiltered thoughts, the things I’d been scribbling down at Burgerville the day before. The despair and the frustration as I watched the minutes of my break tick away, as I smelled the grease leaching into my clothes, as I listened to the horrible pop music crackling through the overhead speakers.
I’d braced myself for some kind of uncomfortable laugh. For her to look up and smile and shove it back at me with a look that said she felt sorry for me.
But the strangest thing happened instead.
It was like she understood me. Like she knew exactly how I’d felt as I scribbled those things down.
And her new idea for the project is genius. It’s just too bad I have to stay up late tonight to finish it. All I really want is to crawl into bed.
I shove a bag of fries and unsold burgers into my backpack. Carolyn won’t be awake, but she’s not opposed to eating reheated fast-food for breakfast, so I’m not about to let them go to waste.
I’m the last out the door tonight, just like on a lot of other nights. No one likes the closing shift because of
all the cleaning, so I get it more often than others.
After zipping up my jacket, I pull my backpack over my shoulders and walk over to the alarm. I glance outside for the first time in more than half an hour—it took that long to wipe everything down and mop—and my heart sinks.
It’s pouring.
I pull my hood over my head, punch in the code, and hit arm. And then I dash out onto the sidewalk, locking the door behind me.
The sky’s a dark, angry black. There’s no way this storm is going to let up any time soon. I’ll just have to move quickly and dream of the hot shower I’ll take when I get home. I can’t get that soaked in just a mile, right?
Just as I step into the rain, a sleek silver car pulls into the parking lot. Between the tinted windows and the raindrops, it’s impossible to see inside.
It looks familiar. It looks …
Like Olivia’s car.
It pulls up beside me at the curb and the window glides down. “Get in,” Olivia says, hitting the unlock button.
I don’t say a word, just round the car and climb into the passenger seat. As the door slams shut and the rain drips from my hair, into my eyes, I realize how wet I am just from dashing around the car.
“Uh, sorry about the water,” I say, trying not to lean back too far and let my wet jacket touch the seats.
“Don’t worry about it. The leather holds up to just about anything,” Olivia says, putting her window back up. “Liam puked in the back seat once.”
I cringe and glance back.
“I had it detailed,” she says. “Made him pay for it.”
“Oh.”
She doesn’t put the car in drive right away. “Were you really going to walk in this?”
“No, I have a Pegasus around back,” I say. “I tied it up by the dumpster.”
She snorts. “I’m being serious.”
“I was there, wasn’t I? And do you see a car sitting around waiting for me?”
“Where’s your mom?” she asks.
“Busy,” I say. She’s probably just watching TV, but to pick me up, she’d have to get Carolyn out of bed, and I’d never want her to do that.
“Oh. Uh, so tell me which way to go.”
“South on Division.”
She puts the car into gear and heads out of the parking lot, gliding smoothly onto the street.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “Because, um, you didn’t have to do this for me.”
“I know. And besides, I was being kinda self-serving. You need to get your scene done. I want a good grade in the class.”
“Afraid your perfect 4.0 could get marred?”
She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “I have a 2.7.”
“You do not,” I say, my mouth dropping.
“I do. I’m not actually that smart, you know. I struggle to pull Bs, and then math drags it down from there. And I just bombed another test. This assignment is important, which makes you, by extension, important.”
“Huh,” I say, leaning back in the seat as I watch the windshield wipers fly back and forth and back and forth. “So I finally discovered one tiny thing about you that’s not perfect.”
“I’d see being a bitch as a pretty big personality flaw,” Olivia says.
I stifle a laugh, glancing over at her to figure out whether she’s being serious or just mocking what I said about her.
“I mean, sometimes you’re actually pretty nice,” I say.
“Thanks.” A smile plays at Olivia’s lips. The way the street lamps and the passing headlights illuminate her, she looks kind of beautiful. For once, she’s looking at me with respect and it seems so genuine.
Olivia and genuine are not two words I’ve ever thought together in one sentence.
“Do you work this late every night?”
“No,” I say. “Nobody really works full time, so they can avoid paying benefits.”
“That’s something you should talk about,” she says.
“Benefits? No one at Burgerville is going to get benefits. It’s practically part of their business plan.”
“Yeah, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant in the assignment. There probably weren’t any benefits back then, either. No paid time off or health care.”
“Right. So I guess things haven’t changed much in a hundred years,” I say.
“I mean, some stuff has changed. You are in a BMW 3 Series. With the flick of a button, your butt can be warmed,” she says, tapping something on the dash. “Also you’re totally fogging it up in here.” She flips on the air, blasting it at the windshield.
“Sorry,” I say. “And thanks. I don’t think I’ve said that. Thank you for the ride.”
“You have my number now. You can always text if you need one.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “Take a left up here.”
Olivia puts on her blinker, and for a while, the rhythmic clicking is the only sound in the darkness. We glide around the corner, and tiny square houses pop up on either side of the car.
“I’ve never been down this road,” she says. And then she squeezes her lips together as if realizing how insulting it was to say that. Of course she hasn’t been down this road. Her kind don’t have any reason to be down this road.
“Pretty trees,” she says, as if to make up for pointing out our differences.
She’s trying to be … nice. What a weird thing. I’m riding in Olivia Reynolds’s BMW and she’s trying not to hurt my feelings.
“Yeah, I planted them myself,” I say.
“Really?”
“No.” I laugh. “God, they’re probably like thirty or forty years old.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Why are you doing this, really?” I ask, turning away so I don’t have to look her in the eyes.
“To repay you. For the zoo.”
“You didn’t have to do that. It wasn’t a favor to be repaid.”
“I know. But it meant a lot to me.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning my head back against the seat. “As long as I’m not your project.”
“Project?”
“You know, charity case. Project. I don’t need you sweeping in and picking me up, or giving my sister your old stuff.”
“Right. Sure. I mean, I don’t really see you like that. So it’s not a big deal.”
“Really?”
Olivia laughs. “This is why you don’t have friends, Zoey. You’re too suspicious. Sometimes people can just be nice, you know.”
“I guess.”
The car falls silent for a while, the only sounds coming from the wipers as they whip back and forth. Then Olivia crinkles her nose up. “You smell like French fries.”
“I have a to-go bag in my backpack. I get a free meal after every shift.” I sigh, as quietly as possible, as I watch the rain stream down the passenger window. I reach up and paint a zigzag in the fog with my finger.
“Go left on Stewart,” I say. “My house is the third one on the right.”
And then I brace myself for her reaction when she sees it.
Olivia
Her house is hideous.
I can tell she’s embarrassed by how fast she grabs her bag and shoves the car door open. I try to focus my eyes on her and not the crumbling structure behind her, try to act like I don’t even notice it, but it’s hard not to.
I can’t believe it’s even livable.
“Uh, thanks again,” she says, leaning over, one hand still on the door. “For the ride.
“I mean, I didn’t want you to melt.”
Her nose crinkles up. “I’m not the wicked witch.”
I grin. “I meant like sugar, because you’re so sweet?”
“Right.” Zoey laughs. “Whatever. See you later, okay?”
She slams the door a little too hard and then
rushes across the lawn. I wait, watching, until she shoves her way inside and the door shuts behind her.
Right then. Time to go home.
I turn around in an adjacent driveway and then head back the way I came. Our homes aren’t that far apart by car, but it would be a long walk. And while I’m not positive, I’m pretty sure she must have walked home that first time Liam brought her over. I don’t remember him leaving at all, but Zoey left at some point.
I leave the radio off as I pass by dozens of darkened houses, some of them boarded up. My thoughts swim in and out.
There’s something enigmatic about Zoey. She’s like a puzzle where the pieces don’t fit. One minute she’s angry and lashing out and another, like that moment when I took her notebook, she’s vulnerable. She’d hate it if I said that. I know her well enough to know that about her, anyway, even if I haven’t quite figured out what she’s all about.
Soon the houses get bigger, the paint gets brighter, the windows get larger. And then I’m rounding the bend and pulling onto Ruston Way, gliding up to our condo building.
A short elevator ride later and I’m inside our place, which is as dark as the streets I just finished driving.
“Liam?” I call out, my voice booming in the space. “Hello?”
He’s gotta be home from the beach by now. We have class in the morning.
I flick on a light, and he leaps up so fast I screech and jump backward, slamming into the wall.
“SURPRISE!” he screams, throwing his arms up.
“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me,” I say, my eyes sweeping over the thing in his hand.
A present. It’s a little box, wrapped in silver paper with a pink bow.
He gives me a toothy grin. “Sorry. I heard you coming and couldn’t resist.”
“Next time try harder,” I say. “What’s that?”
He steps forward, holding the box out. “For you. Happy birthday.”
“I didn’t get you anything.” I figured if he wasn’t even going to see me on our birthday, we were skipping the presents, too.
“That’s okay.”
I accept the tiny box, slipping my finger under the wrapping paper.