by Dahlia Adler
“Did you even look at any other schools besides CCC?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but the bell over the door dings and cuts him off. The farmhands have arrived. For the next two hours, we serve hash browns and sausage and bacon to leather-skinned men who smell of sweat and cow patties and grunt their thanks between cups of black coffee. My father comes in for an egg ’n cheese to go, and mentions that the power’s back on in the trailer, but doesn’t ask a thing about my weekend before he takes off with a couple other guys from Myrtle Grove. It’s business as usual, and we wipe down tables sticky with syrup and confectioners’ sugar and marry bottles of ketchup and mayo in preparation for the lunch crowd.
“No,” Freckles says out of nowhere as we’re refilling sugar-packet holders.
“No, what?”
“No, I didn’t check out any other schools. I knew I didn’t want to go anywhere else.”
“How?” I stuff in the last packets and cross my arms over my chest. “Tell me. How could you possibly want to be in this place for another two years, or however long you’re gonna be at CCC?”
He shrugs. “What do you want me to tell you? I know you hate it here; it’s basically the worst kept secret in the history of Charytan. But I don’t. I may not want to be here forever, but I’m happy to be here right now.”
He doesn’t sound pissed, just…firm. It makes me sort of jealous, that he likes our hometown enough to be defensive of it. I hope I feel that way about wherever I end up.
“That’s cool,” I say, and I mostly mean it. I still don’t get the Charytan love, but I respect Freckles. “Is it everything you thought it would be?”
“And more,” he responds with a grin. The bell tinkles over the door and we both look up and get into “service” mode, but it’s only Vic.
“Hey, sunshine,” I greet her. “Just saying hi or suddenly desperate for a bacon tuna melt?”
“Can’t it be both?” She hops onto a stool at the counter and pulls a menu from the pile. “Or maybe I’ll get something more interesting today. How’s the…” She scans the menu. “Bacon tuna melt it is.”
“Fries on the side?” Freckles double-checks.
“Obviously.”
Freckles calls back the order and I pour Vic a fountain cola. “Hey, you do that art project yet?” I ask her as I slide the cup over the counter and toss her a straw.
“Most of it. Still annoyed I can’t use any fabric. What am I supposed to do with a painting?”
“What would you do if it had fabric?” Freckles asks.
“Make it cool enough that it’s actually worth hanging up.” She sucks the pop up through her straw, then caps the top with her finger, admiring the way the bubbly brown liquid settles in the clear tube before she sucks it out the other end. I glance at Freckles; he’s watching her lips purse around the straw, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to go into conniptions. “So, what’d I miss?”
I wait a moment for Freckles to respond, but he appears to be a little tongue-tied at the moment. “We were just talking about how Freckles didn’t visit any schools other than CCC.”
“Really? How come?”
“Just knew what I wanted,” he mumbles.
The bell dings again, and this time, it actually requires attention; Old Mrs. Webber is impossible when we don’t get her standard order of fried catfish, white rice, and steamed string beans exactly right. If you’re more than thirty seconds late to bring her a menu—even though it takes her five minutes to wobble to her seat on her ancient cane—she asks to speak to the manager.
Usually, Freckles deals with her, because he’s the one who remains impossibly sunny no matter how unpleasant the customer, but now that he’s got Vic’s attention, I decide to cut him a break. I grab two menus—one for Mrs. Webber and one for her aide-of-the-week, whom she’ll inevitably fire for “stealing”—and dash over to greet them.
Behind me, I can hear Vic peppering Freckles with questions, and I love that she’s humoring him, even though I know she’s not remotely interested in CCC. I doubt she’s interested in Freckles, either, and while I’d love for him to get the girl, I can’t help being glad for that.
Attachments only make it harder to leave, and when we finally get the hell out of here, it’s gonna be on a oneway ticket.
VICTORIA
I’ve never seen a person with as many freckles on his entire body as Freckles seems to have on just his nose. It’s kinda cute. I don’t think I actually know any other red-haired guys. There’s something so…warm about it all. Safe.
“So, that’s it?” I ask, fiddling with my straw as I continue to look at Freckles until he once again meets my eyes. “You just knew what you wanted, and it was CCC, and you didn’t even look to see if there was anything else out there?”
“Why does it surprise you so much that I only checked out one option? Aren’t you only considering one option? College with Reagan or bust?”
My skin grows warm. “Yeah,” I respond, hating how stiff I sound, “but we’re checking out different schools and stuff. Anyway, college is just one path. People do other things, even if I’m not planning to.”
“Of course. Right. Reagan told me your brother’s in the Peace Corps, or something like that. Some island?”
“Fiji.” I wonder if he’s heard of it. I didn’t know anything about it until Javi went. Of course, no one in Charytan has met Javi, either—not even Rae, except on video chat. Sometimes it feels like he only exists in my head.
He doesn’t ask where it is, just nods and says, “That’s cool. I might like to travel someday.”
“Oh yeah? That doesn’t interfere in your Charytan-for-life plans?”
I expect him to snipe back, make some sort of joke, but instead he blushes, a deep watermelon pink that makes his freckles stand out like spots on a Dalmatian. Immediately I feel guilty for teasing, but he opens his mouth before I can say so.
“I don’t know if I’ll be here for life,” he mumbles. “I just know I like it right now. Anyway, don’t your parents teach at the college?”
“They do.”
“So, don’t they want you to go there? Obviously they think it’s a good enough place to teach.”
Anything’s good enough when you’re just desperate to move somewhere new. The thought immediately makes me feel disloyal, especially since it’s certainly not my parents’ fault we left Arizona. Not to mention that if Freckles believes CCC is a draw, I don’t want to take that away from him. After two years of Reagan’s jadedness and my parents’ complacency-turned-contentment, it’s nice to see actual pride and joy in this town.
“Do you think it’s a good school?” I ask instead. “Are you happy with your classes and stuff?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “I get to take a whole variety of stuff, and it helps a whole lot more with real life than the stuff they make you take in ‘real’ colleges.” The finger quotes are kinda weak, not really angry, just making clear he’s heard this argument before and it rolls off his back. “I can already do the books for this place, and as soon as I’m done with this semester, I’ll have taken enough business classes for Joe to make me assistant manager. I’ve even taken a knife skills course so I can help with prep.”
“Wow,” I whistle, which is literally my only musical skill. “You really do have a lot invested in this place.”
His cheeks start to show that tinge again. “Yeah, this place,” he mumbles, “or maybe one like it.”
And that’s when I realize it. Freckles isn’t this stay-at-home, happy-to-have-everything-remain-the-same-forever guy. He’s got an actual dream, a plan. I suspect even Reagan doesn’t know this, and I wonder what she’d say about it if she did. “So, you want to open your own restaurant someday?”
“Maybe.” He’s not meeting my eyes now. Man, this kid is shy. Have I ever realized how shy he is? Have I ever even had a one-on-one conversation with him before? Suddenly, I can’t remember.
“Bacon tuna melt with fries!”
At the
sound of Hector calling out my order, Freckles all but bolts. I shake my head and turn to seek out Reagan, surprised to realize how many new customers have flooded the place since Freckles and I started talking. Right now she’s taking an order from a family I’m pretty sure isn’t seated in her section. Whoops. Maybe I should’ve let Freckles work instead of asking him a thousand questions.
He returns with my plate, the familiar smells making my mouth water. Bacon tuna melt, when I leave this place, I think I shall miss you most of all. I take a big bite, the cheese immediately burning the roof of my mouth. “Tia Maria!”
“Cheese burn?” Freckles pushes my soda at me and I immediately take a long, loud sip that does little to soothe the sting. “You never learn, do you?”
Okay, it’s possible this happens to me a lot, but I can’t help it. They’re so freaking good. “Totally worth it,” I say, half meaning it.
He grins. It’s cute. “Must be. You do it every time you come in here.”
“I didn’t realize you were noticing,” I say without thinking.
The blush comes rushing back with such a vengeance that I’m pretty sure I can feel heat radiating from his skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I make Freckles kinda… nervous.
Miraculously, he notices then that his coworker is handling an entire diner full of customers on her own.
“I gotta help out,” he says apologetically and then slides out from behind the counter. But before he leaves me completely, he turns and says, “I’ve got class tonight at six. You’re welcome to come with, if you wanna check it out.”
My immediate instinct is to say no—what’s the point, really?—but I don’t wanna offend him after I just embarrassed him. Plus, my mom’s teaching tonight, same time slot, and it might be nice to surprise her and then hitch a ride home. “I rode my bike here,” I tell him. “Can you fit that in your car somewhere?”
“I’ve got a bike rack.”
“Perfect.” I smile before taking a bite of a fry, and I see his eyes move to my mouth.
Okay, it’s possible I might’ve been a tad bit off when I thought he had a crush on Rae.
No matter. Freckles is a local boy, and I’m obviously not gonna be a local girl much longer. I’m just gonna see what’s got him so smitten about a community college, surprise my mom, and then hitch a ride back home. No harm, no…whatever.
By the time I take another bite of my sandwich, it’s gone cold.
“And down there is the library, and around the corner is the cafeteria.” Freckles finishes the grand tour with a flourish of his arm. “And the food doesn’t even suck!”
“Well, it’s no Joe’s, I’m sure.”
“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Nothing worth burning your mouth over.”
I laugh, and he glances at his watch. “Yikes, I’m gonna be late. You sure you don’t want to come to class with me?”
“Thanks, but Intro to Microeconomics? Pass.”
“It’s Macroeconomics.”
“What’s the—you know what? Never mind. Just go before you’re late. And thanks for the tour.”
“You’ve got my number now,” he says, waving his phone, “so if you end up needing a ride home…”
“I’ll let you know,” I assure him.
He smiles, nods, and ducks his head as he jogs down the hall to his class, leaving me alone in what’s far more familiar territory than he apparently thinks. Okay, maybe I let him believe I barely knew the place even though I’ve been here about a zillion times. It is my parents’ office, after all. I even knew full well that the cafeteria food didn’t really suck. But he seemed so happy to show me around, and who am I to rain on his parade?
I wander back slowly in the direction of my mom’s classroom, taking my time to look at the flyers on the walls—petitions for new classes, sign-ups for guitar lessons and self-defense… My hands tighten up into fists and I immediately picture myself in one of those karate outfits, facing off against Ashley Martin. I like the way it looks. I picture signing up for it, being one step closer, and I like the way it feels.
The sound of a door slamming in the distance pulls me out of the reverie and I continue on down toward the ASL classroom, with its confusing combination of sign language posters and biblical-themed dioramas, since it’s where they teach the Gospels on Sundays. I’m almost there when I hear a familiar trilling.
“Tighter stitching, Kelly! Tight, tight, tight! Don’t let that birdie fly away!”
I hide a laugh behind my sleeve and watch from the doorway as Miss Lucy, legendary Fashion Design instructor at CCC for the last gazillion years, flits around the room, tapping students on the shoulder with a stiff measuring tape as they bend over brightly colored fabrics, feeding them through sewing machines. They’re shockingly well-equipped for a CCC class, but rumor has it that some rich relative of Miss Lucy’s donates something new to the department every year.
I’m about to keep walking when suddenly one of the students holds up what she’s been working on and I gasp out loud. It’s beautiful. The deep purple-blue shade is unlike anything in my closet, and the complicated beadwork that twines around the single strap and flows seamlessly into the asymmetrical neckline of the Grecian-style gown is nothing short of masterful. A similar, even more complicated pattern belts the drop waist, and just looking at it all, my heart aches that I don’t own it, can’t put it on immediately and dance around my room.
Of course, the embarrassing sound of my admiration carries, and the whole class looks up to see me standing there, drooling over some stranger’s handiwork.
“Sorry,” I say, taking a step back, my face growing hot. “That’s just…really, really beautiful. The beadwork…it’s amazing.”
“Maybe from afar,” the girl holding the dress says sourly. “Up close, it’s a big ol’ mess. Look.” She pushes it toward me, and I hesitate only a moment before crossing into the classroom and carefully taking the dress from her hands. Yes, up close it’s a little clearer that the stitching isn’t as even as it could be, that the beads aren’t spaced perfectly, but it’s still glamorous and glorious and I can’t believe such a thing was made in this room, in this community college, in this town.
“Okay, it’s not one hundred percent,” I concede, “but it’s really, really good.”
“Michelle is very, very hard on herself,” Miss Lucy clucks. “Practice makes perfect, my sweet! Well, practice and a bit more patience. You rushed through the beading here, just as you rushed through the lining. Finishing first isn’t finishing best, Michelle.”
Michelle bites her lip. “I really thought I had it.”
“I know you did, dear, but chiffon is a very tricky fabric. We’ll practice again next class.” As if on cue, the bell rings, and everyone stands and starts putting away supplies, disentangling threads, draping fabrics on mannequins, setting pins, and clearing desks. It’s a weirdly pleasant-looking ritual. Michelle half-smiles at me on her way out, and as everyone starts filing out past me, I realize I should leave too. I turn to go, but then I hear Miss Lucy call, “You! Gasper. Stay a minute.”
I’ve met her once, but clearly I’m not all that memorable. Or she doesn’t quite have all her marbles. Or both. “I’m sorry if I interrupted.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “I’ve seen you here before.”
“I’m Ana and Roberto Reyes’s daughter. They both teach here.”
It’s clear she finds my lineage totally uninteresting. “You’ve watched my class from the hallway before,” she says impatiently. “You’re interested in clothing design. Are you considering taking my class?”
She has a slight twang, a little like the accent Reagan’s mom puts on, which weirds me out. She sounds sweet but firm at the same time, like I imagine a good teacher should. Like my favorite teacher back in Arizona did, but none of the ones in Charytan do. At CHS, they just sound bored out of their minds, except for Mr. Pratt, my history teacher, who gets really passionate about all the different ways “decent, hardworkin
g folk” (a.k.a. white people) get shafted in this country.
“It’s just interesting to see what people are working on,” I say, looking around the class at the half-dressed mannequins. “I’m not…this isn’t where I’m going.”
She nods, but if she’s curious where I am going, she certainly doesn’t show it. “You don’t have to wait until next year, you know,” she says over the half-glasses I’m pretty sure are just for show. “We have some high school students take classes here for credit. I’m sure you could arrange something with your school, if you’re interested.”
Yes, I’m interested! my brain screams, but my mouth feels as if it’s been glued shut. This isn’t my future. I’m not gonna be one of those CCC kids who never leaves the town, the state, the country. Rae and I have plans. We’re gonna see things, do things. We’re gonna live together and I’m gonna join a sorority. I’ll probably travel some, like Javi. I won’t be here forever.
“Thanks,” I manage finally, suddenly feeling a burning desire to grab Freckles and have him drive me home. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER NINE
REAGAN
Things move a lot more smoothly when it’s me and Freckles. I like Mitch Macklin okay, on account of he’s not a raging asshole like a bunch of other guys in this town, but if he gives a shit about a single thing that doesn’t have to do with his band, I have no idea what it is. I’m not sure he’s ever even smiled at a customer. He lives in the trailer park next to mine, so I know he needs the cash, but what he’s gonna use it for…I have no clue. There’s no way he plans to go to college. Mitch is one of those guys who thinks superstardom is gonna pull him out of this place.
Which means he’s doomed to stay here for life.
“Little help here?” I try not to snap, but I’m buried under a mountain of onion rings, chili dogs, and cups of pop big enough to use as baby bathtubs, while he rocks back and forth on a stool behind the counter, “manning the register” even though no one’s lining up to pay, tapping his fingers in a frantic drumbeat on his ripped jeans.