And he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.
But mostly, I believe him because I want to.
37
“Please,” I say to Devyn the next morning, hating that I’ve been reduced to begging for something so insignificant, but there you have it. My pride is always the first thing to go. “It’s one afternoon,” I continue, fighting to keep any whininess from my tone, but I have to admit, a teeny tiny bit of whiny sneaks through. “I haven’t had a day off all summer.”
Dev rinses her cereal bowl at the sink and sets it aside. “No? Seems to me you have every weekend off. Which is more than I can say for Zoe or me.”
“What’s more than you can say for us?” Zoe asks as she enters the kitchen in a pair of faded blue sweatpants and a loose pink sleeveless top, hair in a messy bun. Taylor, in her favorite Disney princesses nightgown, sits on her hip.
“Up, Haddy!” Taylor says, throwing herself out of her mother’s arms in her enthusiasm to get to me. “Up! Up! Up!”
I take her from Zoe before she can do a faceplant on the floor.
“I was reminding your sister,” Dev says, as if I’ve somehow ceased being her sister, too, by virtue of my wild, crazy, selfish request, “that she doesn’t have to work weekends while we do.”
“She watches Tay on the weekends,” Zoe points out and I throw her a grateful look.
“Because we both work.” Dev shakes her head as if I’m asking for the sun, the moon and a few stars, just for kicks and giggles. “She wants to take next Friday afternoon off.”
Getting the apple juice from the fridge, Zoe glances at Dev. “So?”
“If she doesn’t work, she doesn’t get paid.”
What goes unsaid is that we need every dollar, every cent from all our paychecks combined, just to make ends meet.
I know this. I know it, but I still want to take the time off.
I never should’ve brought it up with Devyn. Most of the time I come and go as I please—as long as I let either Dev or Zoe know where I’ll be and when I’ll be back—but I know how Dev stresses about money and I didn’t want her to be mad at me.
Not when she’s finally stopped being upset about me and Sam.
“It’s a few hours.” Zoe hands Taylor a sippy cup filled with watered-down apple juice. “What’s the big deal?”
Dev gets this pinched expression that clearly says it’s a big deal indeed and that Zoe’s siding with me isn’t swaying her in the least.
But I appreciate Zoe trying to help all the same.
“Please,” I say again, shifting Taylor to my other hip. “It’s the only time off I’ll take all summer. I promise. And I won’t buy baking stuff this week.” I do some quick mental math. “Or next week. And I can ask Mr. G if I can pick up extra hours--”
“You can’t pick up extra hours after five during the week or any on weekends,” Dev says. “We need you here to watch Taylor.”
My eyes sting with unshed tears. Ugh. It’s official. I. Can’t. Win.
I sniff. Blink back the wetness. “It’s not like I take time off every week or even once a month. I don’t do anything but work and babysit.”
Unlike every other kid I know.
They go on vacations with their family and drive the cars their parents bought them to Ocean City or the Jersey Shore where they spend a fun-filled, sun-filled week with their friends. They go to Lake Erie or an amusement park a few times a month. And when they’re not traipsing around? They get to sleep in until noon, work a few hours here and there, then spend their paychecks totally on themselves, on clothes and fast food and beer and pot.
They don’t have to pay for their own school clothes and supplies, don’t have to pitch in for groceries, or to help cover the electric bill because their family’s one air conditioner uses twice as much energy as the newer, more efficient models.
The new, more efficient models we can’t afford to buy.
And I’m okay with that. Most of the time. Just not right now.
All I’m asking for is one afternoon. A few hours where I don’t have to work or watch Taylor or take Eggie for a walk or cook dinner or make sure Zoe’s scrubs are washed or that there’s plenty of that crappy bagged salad Dev likes to make her lunches out of in the fridge.
A few hours that are just for me.
But playing the poor me card with Devyn is the wrong way to go.
Even if I am feeling more than a little sorry for myself.
Dev gets a travel mug from the dish drainer and slams it on the counter. “You’re seventeen,” she says as she fills it with coffee, her movements irritated, her body stiff. “Not seven. You don’t need entertained every day of the summer. We all work.” She gestures to the three of us. “We all pitch in.”
Taylor, sensing the tension, lays her head on my shoulder while she drinks her juice, her fingers twirling my hair around and around and around.
“Why do you want Friday afternoon off?” Zoe asks, opening a can of ginger ale.
Breakfast of champions, right there.
I shrug, feeling hot and itchy, uncomfortable and irritated. To soothe myself, I start swaying with Taylor. “I don’t know.”
Zoe, in the act of taking a sip of soda, stops. “You don’t know?”
“Sam wants to take me somewhere,” I mutter, defensive. “It’s a surprise.”
All he’d told me was that he wanted to do something special with me next Friday and to let Mr. G know I could only work until noon that day.
Devyn and Zoe exchange a knowing look and Zoe smirks. “Ah, the old I-have-a-surprise-for-you line. Yeah, I fell for that once.” She nods at Taylor. “Got a seven-pound, five-ounce surprise that time.”
“God, don’t even joke about that,” Dev says, then gives me a searing look. “And you, don’t fall for that. Ever.”
“It’s not a line.” I flop onto a kitchen chair and turn Taylor so that she’s sitting on my lap. “And if it is one that other guys actually use,” I tell Zoe, “you should be ashamed of yourself and embarrassed, because it’s terrible.”
“What can I say?” Zoe asks with another sip of her soda. “I love me a good surprise. Especially one that lasts a lifetime.” She turns to Dev. “Let her take it off. She deserves it. If it bugs you, I’ll give you the money for her wages for the day.”
“That’s not the point,” Dev says but I can tell she’s weakening—a rare sight indeed.
“No, the point is that she’s seventeen. Let her have a little bit of fun.”
Yes, yes, there’s definitely weakening going on, I can see it on Dev’s face. In how her shoulders lower. I bite the inside of my cheek, hold my breath, trying not to look too anxious. Too hopeful.
Finally, she sighs. “Fine. One afternoon. One,” she repeats, holding up a corresponding finger.
I can’t help but grin. Give Taylor a celebratory bounce that gets her giggling. “Got it.”
“Woo hoo. A whole afternoon of freedom.” Zoe stretches her legs out, points her toes. “A reprieve from this prison you’ve been sentenced to.”
“A prison. Yes,” Devyn says dryly. “That’s exactly what it’s like. Although, last time I checked, no one was forcing you to stay locked up here.”
“And give up special times like this with my family? I couldn’t possibly leave.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Dev gathers her things, then gives Taylor a kiss on the top of the head. “See you later.”
I wait until I hear the front door close before saying to Zoe, “Thanks for getting her to ease up on the work assignment.”
“What are big sisters for?”
“Up until this moment I thought they were for making younger sisters’ lives miserable, reminding us how struggling will make us stronger, tougher and better able to cope with the world, and generally kill our spirit.”
“All true. But we’re also bad influences—walking, talking, living examples of what not to do to completely screw up your life.” She nods at Taylor. “You’re welcome.”
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Taylor starts singing softly to herself, some made-up song about Eggie and Cinderella and Olaf from Frozen—an interesting threesome for sure. She wasn’t planned. Wasn’t expected. Wasn’t wanted. Not at first.
But then she arrived, all tiny and pink and wrinkly. Helpless and blameless for the challenges her existence created.
Another Jones girl ready to take on the world.
It’s up to us to make sure she doesn’t get totally crushed by that world first.
I hug Taylor closer and she snuggles in, curving her warm body against my chest, her uncombed hair all fuzzy in the back, like cotton candy. “Your life isn’t completely screwed up.”
Zoe snorts and turns the can of soda in her hands around and around and around. “Yeah, well, I’m not even twenty. Plenty of time left to mess up some more. Plenty of time,” she continues softly, looking at Taylor, “to mess up both our lives.”
There’s an itchy sensation at the back of my neck, like a spider crawling over my skin, and I rub at it, but the feeling of unease remains.
It isn’t like Zoe to be so serious. So somber.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You’re acting weird. Did you get fired or something?”
“Mowah juice, Mama,” Taylor says, thrusting her cup at Zoe. “Please.”
“I still have a job,” Zoe assures me as she takes the cup and stands. “I still have two of them.”
I wait until she hands Tay her refilled cup. “What is it then? Something’s wrong, I can tell. You look…” Like a vampire—pale face, dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes. “Tired.”
“I work until three a.m. and between my two jobs, I put in twelve hours a day, not to mention I have a two-year-old who tosses and turns all night and refuses to be potty-trained.” She gives Taylor a significant look but Tay’s too busy chugging apple juice to notice or care. “I look tired because I am tired. I’m always tired.”
Guilt pinches me hard. “Maybe I shouldn’t go with Sam--”
“Oh, you should go,” she assures me. “The world isn’t going to fall apart if you have fun for a few hours.”
But now I’m not so sure. Not nearly so desperate to have those precious few hours to myself. Not when neither Dev nor Zoe get them. “What about Taylor? Who’s going to watch her while you’re at Changes?”
“I’ll ask Carrie.”
“What if she can’t? Or won’t?”
“Then I’ll figure something else out.” But I must not look convinced of her capability to do that because she rolls her eyes. “I’ve got this. Believe it or not, there are a few things I can manage to do all on my lonesome.”
“I know,” I say, but I’m biting my lower lip.
Because while I’m sure she could manage to work two jobs and raise a toddler on her own, she doesn’t have to. Devyn and I are always there to help with childcare and extra expenses. There with shoulders to lean on when her heart gets broken yet again. It’s not that she’s lazy or stupid or incapable.
It’s that she’s too soft. Too open.
Way too vulnerable.
“But if something happens,” I continue, “or if you can’t find a sitter, then I’ll cancel.”
“Nothing’s going to happen and I’m going to find a sitter. You worry too much.”
“Maybe you don’t worry enough.”
She waves that away. “Why bother? It’s a waste of time. What’s going to happen is going to happen.”
“Wow,” I say, deadpan. “That’s deep. And so inspiring.”
“You want inspiring? Watch a TED talk. You want the truth? This is it,” she says, leaning forward—the better to pin me to my seat with the intensity of her gaze. “All we have is what’s in front of us. Here. Now. So when something good comes along—like the chance to take an afternoon off and spend it with a boy who’s crazy about you—you need to go. You need to enjoy yourself. But mostly, you need to remember that the good things in life don’t last. Not for us, anyway. Which is why you have to grab hold and hold on to them for as long as you possibly can.”
38
When Sam pulls into the driveway over a week later, I run to the Explorer, getting there before he can get out. He reaches across the passenger seat to open my door for me from the inside. I flashback to another day, another car, and another Constable boy doing the exact same thing.
Not exactly who or what I want to be thinking about right now or, you know, ever, so I shove the memory aside.
Smiling, I climb in, then lean over and kiss his cheek. “Hi.”
He slides his gaze over me, his voice a husky murmur. “You’re beautiful.”
Warmth fills me, a combination of embarrassment and pleasure. I want to insist I’m not. I’ll never be beautiful, not like Whitney or Abby. My skin is too pale, my freckles too numerous. I want to point out the weird shape of the tip of my nose, that my face isn’t symmetrical, my chin too pointy.
But Sam already knows all that. He’s looking at me, isn’t he?
He sees me. He knows me better than anyone else.
And he thinks I’m beautiful.
It’s a gift. One I won’t refuse.
“Thank you,” I say. “You, too.”
He laughs, but I’m not joking. There is no boy more beautiful than Sam Constable. His hair is combed back, all dark and wavy, and he’s wearing khakis and a deep green polo. He’d told me to wear something “cute but not too dressy” and I settled on Zoe’s sleeveless blue and floral print sundress.
“Okay,” I say, after I’ve shut my door and buckled up, “enough with the secrecy. What’s the surprise?”
It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times I pester Sam about what this big surprise is, he hasn’t let anything slip.
Who knew he had it in him to be so secretive?
Checking for traffic, he glances at me, then pulls out onto the street. “If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise anymore.”
“That’s fine with me.” I’ve never been big on surprises. I’d rather know exactly what’s going to happen. “At least give me a hint.”
“One hint,” he says, taking a right onto West Washington Street. “We’re going out of town.”
“Not fair. I already knew that.” There’s nothing to do in town on a Friday afternoon wearing what Sam called “cute but not too dressy” clothes. “I get another hint.”
“Nope. You’ll just have to wait and see.”
With an eye roll, I slump back against the seat. Wait and see?
Talk about torture.
We get on the highway and head south. Sam must sense my irritation, my unease, because he glances my way. Lays his hand on my thigh just above my knee. Gives me a light squeeze. “Trust me?”
I look at that hand, so warm and solid and steady, then move my gaze up to his face. Eyes on the road, strong, handsome profile to me, he brushes his thumb against my skin.
Trust him?
I settle my hand on top of his and answer the only way I can. “Absolutely.”
It’s raining when we arrive in Pittsburgh three and a half hours later, and continues, steady and hard, while we’re stuck for another thirty minutes in Friday lunch-hour traffic. We’re on the other side of one of the rivers, the city to our left looking gray and gloomy.
Inching forward, the wipers moving back and forth consistently, Sam checks the directions on his phone.
“Shit,” he mutters, glancing up at the barely moving vehicles in front of us. “We’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?”
He just shakes his head. Sam’s surprise is being ruined by the rain, the traffic, and his inquisitive girlfriend.
“At least let me help with the directions,” I say and he shoots me a frown. “If you keep checking your phone, you’re going to get into an accident. And then the surprise will really be ruined.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says because I am wise and right and convincing. He holds the phone out to me only to withdraw
it when I reach for it. “Promise you won’t look at the end destination. Just the directions on the way.”
“I promise.” He doubts, though, because he doesn’t hand over the phone and I give him my most solemn, sincere look and make an X over my heart. “Cross my heart.”
Once the phone is in my hand, it’s a tough promise to keep but I manage.
It was so sweet of Sam, setting up this surprise, driving all the way to Pittsburgh for it. I don’t even care what it is anymore and I doubt it’ll be better than the drive down, talking to him, just being with him. It’s already been one of the best Friday afternoons of my life. Whatever happens next is a bonus and I make another promise, this time to myself, to act properly thrilled, excited and grateful no matter what’s at the end of these directions.
Even if it’s a Pirates game and I have to spend the next six hours sitting in the rain watching baseball.
Please, please, don’t let it be a Pirates game.
Ten minutes later, we cross one of the many bridges and head toward the city, then take a right onto Penn Avenue. A few blocks later, Sam pulls into a parking garage, gets his ticket, finds a spot and turns off the ignition.
“Come on,” he tells me. “We’re late.”
I don’t bother asking late for what—wouldn’t matter if I did as Sam is out of the car and hurrying around the back to open my door.
“Come on,” he repeats, holding out his hand. Even in his impatience, he’s more patient than any real, live human boy should be.
Trust me?
That’s what he asked when we started this little adventure.
That’s what he’s asking now.
It’s always something with boys, isn’t it?
I unbuckle, slide my hand into his and get out. He shuts my door and starts jogging through the parking garage and out the door.
Which wouldn’t be a problem if I wasn’t wearing a short dress, wedge sandals and, oh, yeah, it wasn’t still raining.
Thrilled and excited and grateful, I remind myself as we hurry across the street. Thrilled and excited and grateful.
Head down, I let Sam tug me along and we weave around the few other people dashing through the rain, dodge umbrellas and puddles until he stops suddenly and I run into him with so much force, I bounce back a step.
The Art of Holding On Page 26