We were small, but tightly-knit together.
Like the normal cliques, however, our table had the daily gossip, rumor check, who was dating who, and the trading of food or money. If it was a Friday, it was who was dating who, food or money trade, and what were our weekend plans. I didn’t contribute much, especially to the gossip part. Gossip and drama was sort of junior high. I remained quiet unless spoken to.
Like when Ashley suddenly asked me, “Hey, is the trip still on for next weekend?”
Smiling, I answered, “Yeah. We’re leaving Friday morning. Anyone who’s going needs to get a pre-excuse form and clear it with their parents. Just like last year.”
“Sweetness.” She grinned.
“Is James coming this year?” Cheyenne flicked her eyebrows teasingly. The pixie’s pale cheeks blazed. She looked away. “Maybe.”
“Oooooh,” Chanel and Cheyenne cooed together.
“James and Ashley sitting in a tree!”
“We’re not coming in your tent after midnight!”
“Oh, stop it!” Ashley laughed and chucked a chip at them. It hit Cheyenne’s forehead, leaving a spot of orange dust. We all giggled as she wiped it off her head.
I was taking a sip out of my juice bottle when I felt a buzzing against my thigh. Setting the bottle down, I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out my phone.
“Who is it?” Cheyenne asked, glancing over my shoulder.
“Not sure.” It was a text, but a number showed up that I didn’t recognize. I could’ve just deleted it, but then I’d spend the rest of the day wondering who it was and what it had said. So I opened it.
I hope you know it took scissors and a screw driver to pry that wad of hair out of Trent’s toilet seat. Hahahaha!
Chanel choked on her soda as she read over my shoulder. My stomach rolled, and immediately I cursed myself for not deleting the message.
A group not too far from ours was making an unusual amount of racket. We looked up and—surprise!—Trent’s posse was only two tables away, staring in our direction. The boys were laughing so hard their faces were turning colors. I caught sight of Derek’s hat covering his shaved head. Our eyes met. He winked and blew me a kiss.
I tensed. “Wonderful…”
“I don’t think it’s over.” Chanel’s eyes narrowed.
Derek’s cell was back in his hands, a devilish smile on his face. Trent and Scott, the two closest to him, were observing as he typed a new message. They didn’t crowd around each other when it was just normal texting time. They were up to something.
“Oh, frick.” My phone’s screen lit up and vibrated against the table, receiving. The screen displayed a new message from the same number. Cheyenne and Chanel pressed against me, preparing for round two.
You want to see it? “Oh, for frick sake!” Chanel threw in some extra cuss words. By this time we’d gained the attention of nearly all the surrounding tables. “That does is. I’ll handle this!”
“Nelly, don’t,” I said, but she was already out of her seat, strutting away. “Forget it! It’s not a big deal!”
“No, no.” She waved a hand at me, not listening as usual. She click-clacked right over in her black pumps to Derek’s table, not even radiating the fear most seniors faced when approaching the popular table. She was a mouse entering the lions’ den, and she didn’t even care. Then again, this wasn’t the first time Chanel had more confidence than I, and it was that confidence that often got her (or us) into trouble. How much trouble was she setting us up for this time?
Everyone watched as her hands slammed down on their table. Cheyenne chewed her nails beside me. “Oh, boy.”
“What’s up, babe?!” Derek greeted her loudly, like he was worried we couldn’t hear him.
Chanel’s mouth moved, speaking quick, tense words. The footballers all huddled up around her, especially Trent who was by her side and sneaking peeks at her behind. Derek laughed. He started talking again, though now we couldn’t hear. Whatever he said, it had been calm, probably arrogant.
My group sat stiff and silent as onlookers. Chanel spoke again. Then Derek. Chanel smiled; so did Derek. Then suddenly there was action, and Chanel’s hand came up and whipped Derek’s hat into the air and across the floor. I flinched as there was a table-wide, “OOOoooohhh.” Derek’s annoying, haughty smile was starting to decay. She’d made him mad this time.
“Somebody better go save her before she’s crunched into their new football,” Ashley recommended, eyes wide.
I scuffed and stood up. “Damn it, Chanel.”
Derek’s rear had left his chair. Now he stood, glaring down at his intruder. I didn’t think he’d be animal enough to harm her, but I wasn’t going to risk it. He was in football, after all. Tackling was not necessarily frowned upon.
“You just leave her alone,” Chanel was saying as I came within earshot. “You’re being a big, fat, ass wipe and you know it!”
“If I were your size, toothpick, I wouldn’t be talking.” Derek was somewhere between a joke and a threat.
“You wouldn’t hit a girl. And even if you did, I’d beat the life out of you.”
“You wish to make a wager?”
“Damn right I do, you mother—”
“Nelly,” I hissed, intervening as I came around the table. I latched onto her arm and gave it a gentle tug. “Stop it. He’s not worth it.”
She glowered at me, cheeks pink and puffed up like a chipmunk—which they only did when she was really mad.
“Yeah, listen to your friend.” Derek’s smile returned. He sat back down, as if this battle was done and won. “And here,”—he threw a Ziplock bag at me— “Thought you might like that back.”
The table burst into guffaws as I caught it, memories of Friday pouring over me like rotten milk. Inside the bag was a heap of snarled, pale hairs. My face was hot as I dragged Chanel away. She yelled over her shoulder at them, and while all of this had been done in my defense, I was annoyed. There are some fights you pick, and some you don’t. You should never pick a fight with a prep or a jock— unless you have, like, celebrity status (unlikely).
*
“Hey, Rosie,” called the man behind the shop counter. He had a heavy European accent and a short black ponytail. “How are you, lovely?”
“Hey, Joe.” I smiled, crossing the shop floor. The smell of cotton and new rubber filled the air. It was a calm reassuring odor, especially after a day of cafeteria food and the kid in my last class who reeked of cigarette smoke. “Where’s dad?”
“He’s in the back. He’ll be out in a minute.” Joe was flipping through a parts magazine, sipping a cup of coffee. This was not an uncommon activity for him. “He’s looking through the new shipment we got in this morning. Telling Preston and Race what he wants on the display.”
“The new apparel, right?” I asked, dropping my purse under the counter. “Since I don’t think we’ve got any more space for quads out here.”
Looking around, one could easily see there were motorcycles, dirt bikes, and four-wheelers of every kind on the floor. They took up most of the room and were even hanging on special stands in the walls. If dad had anymore coming in, we’d have to get another building.
“Yes, well, business is slow right now.” Joe tossed the magazine aside. “Unusual for October. The temperature’s perfect right now. Especially for a good ride in San Bernardino. Speaking of which,”—he turned to smile at me— “you ready for the trip this weekend?”
“Oh yeah.” I wasn’t about to admit that I forgot about it. “Major ready. I could leave this afternoon and be happy.”
He laughed. “I think we all could.”
“Do you think there will be a lot of us again this year?”
“It’s probable.” Joe nodded, knowing last year’s group had been big. “However, my concern doesn’t lay on how many of us are going, but how we’re all going to get there. My truck’s been giving me quite a fit lately. I’m praying the bloody thing will hold up for the drive there and ba
ck.”
“Oh, yeah.” I frowned. Joe’s truck was up there on the aging scale. I knew it was his faithful companion, but he really needed to look into getting a new one and I knew he could afford it. But everyone knows a man and his truck… it’s like parting a woman from her favorite purse.
I was about to open my mouth when the phone rang. Joe moved to pick up the phone by the computer. “Cory’s Rider Supply, this is Joe… Uh-huh… Oh! Hello, Mr. Baxter… Yeah, let me go check that for you. I’ll be right back.” He pressed hold and hung up the phone. “Rose, watch the counter a moment?”
“Of course.” I wondered why he even asked anymore. He’d known me since I was in diapers and I was as good as an employee.
“You’re a doll.” He pointed at me and grinned, then disappeared around the corner.
I jumped up to sit on the back counter as he left. My eyes wandered, making sure there weren’t any new quads or motorcycles I’d missed from Friday. It only took me a second to scan the whole floor and know there wasn’t anything I hadn’t already seen; no new shipments while I’d been gone over the weekend, though I’d make a mental note to go snoop around in the girls’ clothing section once Joe was back.
Recreational vehicles were dad’s life. He knew more about motorcycles and quads than anyone I knew and he’d gotten me hooked on them, too. He gave me my first quad when I was eight and even though the thing was mouse-sized to me now, I’d adored it as a kid. They were fast and loud… which was why mom hated them. She thought little girls should be playing tea party in the backyard, not tearing it up with a motorized vehicle. I often thought that was the first big strike she made against dad, and after I got in my first crash and was sent to the hospital, I think that might’ve been another.
My eyes squeezed shut. Don’t think about mom, I thought. It will only frustrate and depress you. The phone rang again just as I’d shoved her image from mind. I leapt off the counter, reaching for the cordless on the front desk. “Cory’s Rider Supply, this is Rose.”
“Uh, yeah hi.” A young, masculine voice came through the line. “I was just wondering if you guys were carrying the new quads by Honda. The, um, I think it’s the new 350 X-Cells? Does that sound right?”
“Oh!” For once I actually knew what the customer was asking for. This tended to be where I’d say, ‘can you hold a moment?’ Then I’d turn it over to Joe or dad, who were usually standing nearby. “Yeah, the new two-thousand and eight models, right?”
“Yeah! The ones by Honda.”
The bell on the front doors rang, signaling incoming customers, but I didn’t look up. “Yes, we are carrying them. We’ve got yellow and green. ” I glanced up at the brand new quads, shining in the sunlight. They were the only X-Cells stationed on the floor right now.
“Awesome! Alright, I’ll come check it out.” The customer sounded pleased.
“Great. Thanks for calling.” There was always a satisfaction when I knew I’d done something right in the business world, no matter how big or small the task.
Hanging up, I scribbled a note on a sticky pad for dad, stating that he had a customer interested in his new quads. I stuck it on the computer, where either he or Joe would be sure to find it.
Arranging my mouth into a polite smile, I turned to greet the customers who’d entered while I was on the phone. I was expecting to see the usual twentyfive year olds taking a Monday off from work, or the dad-types with their eighties mustaches and T-shirts tucked into their jeans (we got a lot of those).
I wasn’t prepared to come face to face with three stunning teenage boys.
Circling one of our older Polaris four-wheelers, the tallest of the bunch had a head full of platinum blonde curls and blue, almost indigo, eyes. His dark jeans were quite a contrast to his pale skin, the purple t-shirt surprising me (the guys I knew wouldn’t be caught dead in lush pastel colors). The second boy, who was sitting on a Kawasaki bike in back, was thin-framed with round, freckled cheeks. His dark hair was layered to the back of his neck. Another skinny jean wearer, only his shirt was white instead of purple. And then there was the last boy…
It was hard not to stare.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he followed his friends in silence, like a ghost. His skin was a little darker than theirs—like he’d actually spent a day in the Los Angeles sun. His hair intrigued me. Dark chocolate in color, it was dreaded and pulled through the back of a baseball cap.
I realized my jaw was hanging open so I snapped it shut, grateful none of them had noticed. Actually, I was surprised none of them had noticed. They examined a few of the finer dirt bikes close by, yet they were unaware of my existence. Their voices were low as they motioned towards bikes and quads. It was hard to hear what they were saying.
I was still gawking when Joe came around the corner. He nearly took me out as he snatched up the phone by the computer and jabbed a button. “Hello? Sorry that took so long,” he apologized loudly to the person he’d put on hold. “Had a bit of a mess in the back room. Yes. Yes, we have three left. Can I hold one for you?”
I stiffened as Dreadlocks Boy rotated his head. His dusty blue eyes met mine, and I was caught between the idea of looking away or speaking. Speaking is more professional, my brain gabbed. It’s your job to assist customers if you can. It’s the right thing. The appropriate thing.
So I opened my mouth, only to realize there were no words coming out. Oh no, I didn’t know what to say! My brain came closer to automatic lockdown the longer we stared. Why couldn’t I speak? I didn’t even get this nervous around Paul.
Realizing I looked like a loon, I clamped my jaw shut again and smiled broadly, hoping that might cover up for some of my embarrassment. Dreadlocks Boy raised an eyebrow, then quickly turned away. My smile deflated. Ok, you totally blew it, Rose.
Guys did not look at a girl that way when they found them alluring.
3) Disappointments
I
was staring at the shop floor when I heard the sound of wheels. I glanced over just in time to see dad towing out a silver rack from the back room. It was crammed—as in, one more hanger it might burst, crammed—towards the clothing area. Dad’s shirt was pulling out of his jeans, and his hair was doing some strange flips and turns. He looked like he’d just finished a workout at the gym.
“Dad.” I shuffled over to investigate, deciding it was something to do—and so I would stop ogling our three young customers. “Isn’t that rack a little full?”
“Huh. You think this one’s full,” he chuckled darkly, his russet mustache twitching. “You should see the one Race is bringing out for the girls’ section.”
My eyebrows furrowed. “Why’d you order so much stuff?”
“I didn’t order this shipment,” he retorted. “I told him—what’s his name?— Greg, to order two dozen of each thing on the list I gave him.” Dad sighed before adding, “Well, either that kid doesn’t know what two dozen means or I need to get him a hearing aid because I don’t even recognize half this crap. Don’t go in the storage room right now. It’s a disaster that I’m waiting for Race and Preston to help clean up.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled before I could comment. Eerie sensations made my eyes go sideways, peering over the kids’ corner. Joe was off the phone, showcasing bikes for the teenagers, all of whom were suddenly much closer than they had been. Dreadlocks Boy stood nearest at an angle that, with a tilt of the head, could easily allow him the chance to look at me.
But he wouldn’t, I thought, not about to forget the look he’d given me seconds before. Even if I was sure I felt eyes on me just then…
“Rose?”
I jerked my head back around. “Oh. Yeah?” I tried to sound casual, like dad didn’t just interrupt my gawking.
But he smiled and it was that knowing-dad smile. “Spying on my customers again?” he teased.
“Dad, please.” I shook my head. It was so embarrassing when he caught me staring at a guy. “I was not. And what do you mean again? I don’t spy
on your customers.”
His eyeballs zipped over the clothing racks to Joe’s little group. He muffled a laugh. “You’re a horrible liar, Rose. Horrible, horrible.”
“Most parents think that’s a good thing,” I whispered. My stupid cheeks were still blazing.
His knowing-dad smile evolved into a grin. He gestured towards them, saying: “Well, go on. Go say hello.” I gasped in horror. “Hey, it’s better than spying behind a clothing rack. You’d do it if Chanel were here.”
“I so would not!” I retorted, but it was semi-true. There were times—when Chanel was not trying to intimidate the football team—that the girl’s confidence tended to radiate into the air like it was breathable substance, a type of drug one could sniff or inhale and suddenly do things they didn’t dream of moments before. It was how she’d talked me into the party.
“Suit yourself.” Dad ruffled my hair as he passed. Heading out to the floor, he left me to glower after him as he called, “Hello, gentlemen!”
I slithered back behind the counter, watching as the man I shared DNA with shook the hand of each beautiful boy (including Dreadlocks Boy) and introduced himself with perfect poise.
“And that back there is my daughter, Rosalia.” Dad pointed. “Wave, Rosie!”
I froze. Did he really just do that? Of course he did. I should’ve known he’d embarrass me like this (exactly why I never let him catch me looking at guys). Nonetheless, I forced a smile and gave a tiny wave. The freckle-cheeked boy and blondie grinned and returned the favor.
Deadlocks Boy, however, blinked at me, gave a small nod, then turned away.
A mist of disappointment settled in. Yeah. It couldn’t have been him looking over the clothing racks. His face was so stone-like, I’d have almost thought that simple greeting had an attached you’re-not-worth-my-time aura. Huh.
Dad took over Joe’s position and introduced four different bikes to his customers while I returned to observing. After getting over the fact Dreadlocks hadn’t really acknowledged me, I started to get this funny feeling, like there was something strange about the boys besides their looks. Maybe it was in the way they moved, so balanced and graceful instead of that horrendous swagger the high school boys seemed to think was cool, gangster. Then again it could’ve been their smiles—their teeth were the kind of white you didn’t get from using White Strips. Or was it their complexion? Even in the shop’s bad lighting, I couldn’t find a flaw. There was something far too perfect about these three.
A Taste of Silver Page 3