“You never found out who the guy was?” Chris said, gently taking the mop from me and reaching the intricate net with ease.
“Thanks,” I said, tossing the mop into the yellow bucket.
“No problem.” He grinned that grin that was really beginning to grow on me. It was a shame he was tied up with someone else.
“No. Didn’t I tell you it was a hit and run? They were never able to catch the guy. And the thing is I want to meet him. I want to tell him how much he hurt me. I want him to know who he killed, how my life will never be the same. I hate him, Chris. I hate him.”
His forehead wrinkled up like a balled up rag. “It’s understandable why you’d feel that way.”
“I hate him. I want him to be punished for what he’s done.”
“Tember, I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”
“I know. I’m sure it was an accident. But the coward didn’t have to run. He should’ve stopped to see if we were okay. I can’t help but hate him. Lately he’s all I think about.”
“I understand—”
“I guess I’m just angry. It’s just not fair. I miss her so much.” That feeling I was all too familiar with, that despair, overpowered me, along with the gushing tears. For months I was numb, in denial. Angry even. But nothing could prepare me for the pain. Knowing she was really gone. Gone gone gone gone. It hit me like a double-decker bus. It knocked the breath out of me, crushed my chest, slashed my heart up into a million little pieces. How long would I have to feel this pain? How long did this stupid grieving process have to take? “I miss her so much,” I repeated.
“I bet you do,” Chris said, standing helplessly.
“Why couldn’t it be me? Why couldn’t I have been the one? She was always the better person. Funnier, more talented. Prettier.”
“I doubt she could be prettier,” Chris said, looking away, but not fast enough. I caught the flash of red in his cheeks.
“That’s nice of you to say, but you’ve never seen her. She was gorgeous…” I shook my head. “Such a stupid waste. Sometimes I daydream that it was me. It should’ve been me. If I’d let us stop for dinner first like she wanted to, we wouldn’t have crossed paths with that stupid brown van. If I’d driven a little more carefully. If I didn’t insist we go on that stupid road trip. She wanted to go next year because her music career was taking off, Chris…If she’d never even met me…”
In awkward Chris fashion, he touched my arm. “September, you can’t think that way. It’s not your fault. I promise. It’s not your fault.”
But I didn’t believe him and the crushing feeling would not let up.
***
Abby,
I hate the man who killed you. I know you’re not capable of hating anyone being the churchy girl that you are—or were—but I am. I know what you’d say. You’d tell me to forgive him. You’d tell me it was probably unintentional, that he probably feels horrible enough as it is, blah, blah, blah. I don’t care. He stole you from me. How can I let that go?
***
“I’d like to buy Pacific Avenue,” Mary said, slapping down a pile of pastel cash.
I took a sip of hot apple cider and swore when I burned my tongue. “You can’t buy Pacific Avenue. You can’t afford it. Wait—where did you get three hundred dollars, Mary? Oh, you’re cheating.”
“I am not cheating.” Like a chimp, she exposed her teeth. She was strange that way. She had a whole attic full of strange noises and crazy facial expressions. Where Abby found such weird friends was a mystery to me. Probably the loony bin.
“I know you’re cheating.”
It was a damp and windy Sunday afternoon, a perfect day for staying in and playing an endless game of Monopoly. A tree branch clothed in sunset orange leaves clawed at the living room window in this creepy way. It reminded me that brutal winter lurked around the corner. Life was tough enough without Abby, but I knew it would be harder to face the biting Brooklyn air, the gloomy shorter days, the death of another year without my best friend. We both had suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder, SAD for short. They call it SAD for a reason—because it’s actually a type of depression. The lack of sunshine sucked the life out of us. Each winter we hibernated together, armed with stacks of good movies, a three months supply of mac and cheese, hot cocoa and buttery microwave popcorn. We’d pull on layers of fuzzy socks and sweaters, turn on all the lights and practically live on the couch, reading fashion magazines and juicy novels, playing Risk or Scrabble, or watching our favorite dark comedy flicks.
“You’re right, I’m cheating.” Mary shrugged, unwrapped a red sucker and shoving it into her mouth.
“If you’re going to cheat, then I’m going to cheat—”
A soft tap on the door made us both jump.
“I’ll get it. But I’m watching you,” I said, almost touching her nose with my index finger.
I fumbled to open the door. Standing there looking all smug was one of the last people I’d expect to see on my doorstep: April. The slut who stole my boyfriend, who actually had the nerve to show up—with him—at my best friend’s funeral. Her porcelain skin was, of course, flawless. Her silky walnut hair sat on her shoulders in perfect salon-styled waves. She held a fragrant casserole, covered in foil. I could smell onions and green beans. Although I was ticked, I have to admit the smell did make my stomach grumble.
“Tem-Tem,” she said, giving me a half hug, lightly patting my back. I stiffened. Her fruity perfume coated my nostrils.
Had John failed to mention our little run in? Because if he did tell my sister I knew she was a back-stabbing traitor, she wouldn’t be showing up on my doorstep like this. Not for a while at least, until things cooled down. Not for a least a decade or two.
April and I were close once, about a million years ago. When we were little we’d play Barbies day after day and never tire of it (although April always got to be Barbie and I had to be Ken). When we grew out of playing with toys, we started making gourmet bread together, sometimes making up the recipes and sold them to our neighbors for five bucks a loaf. That’s when I started saving up for the Europe trip I was planning on surprising Abby with. For a handful of summers, around the time April was beginning to develop breasts, we’d hop into our swimming suits every morning and lay out in the backyard, working on our tans. We’d sip fresh lemonade and take turns reading Sara Zarr novels out loud to each other. High school was the beginning of the end for April and me. We found we no longer had anything in common and ran with different crowds.
“April,” I said icily. It was the first time I’d seen her since the funeral. The first time since I learned she was a pathetic, cheating tramp.
April slid past me and paraded into the kitchen, plopping the casserole on the counter. “Sorry, September. I know I’m the last person you want to see right now.”
Mary snorted, clearly amused by all of this. She was engrossed, contorting her whole body so she could be in on the action. This was entertaining to her. I threw Mary a warning glance before shooting daggers with my eyes at my sister.
Frowning while touching her obnoxiously perfect curls, April continued, “Look. I didn’t want to come, but Mom made me. She wanted you to have this green bean casserole—you love green beans—and truthfully, she wanted me to come and apologize.” The last part wasn’t easy for her to say.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t care to hear any insincere apologies and I especially don’t want any pity. Not from you, anyway. I’d rather you just go.”
“September, we really didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, fondling the plastic wrap covering my casserole.
“Well you did, April. John was mine. He was mine. He wasn’t a book or a doll you could just borrow. He was my boyfriend. I love—I loved him. What were you thinking?” I had to use every ounce of restraint to keep a lid on the tears.
“I know, it seems all wrong…but John and I are so right for each other.” She placed a hand on her chest.
I practically spit ou
t the words. “It seems all wrong? Cheating with your sister’s boyfriend? Stealing him away? It seems all wrong?”
“I’m sorry for stealing your boyfriend, I really am. But you can’t make him happy like I
can.”
It was a low blow. Mary whistled in the background. I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. Who did April think she was? The happiness fairy? “You know what? I’d rather you just leave. Before I kill you.”
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive us?” April asked, her eyes big and pleading. “September we love each other. John’s everything to me.”
I laughed. “John was everything to me, April.”
“No, September. Abby was everything to you. It was always Abby.”
“Get out of here,” I said, grabbing a vase, threatening to throw it at her. “Get out of my house!”
“One last thing. Mom wanted me to remind you of their twenty-five year anniversary party.” She slid a manicured hand into her designer bag and handed me a lavender envelope. “Here’s the invite,” she added before giving me a huge pity smile—the one I hated most—before finally leaving.
I stood, quivering like a lilac tree in a storm, staring at the enclosed obligation.
“Wow. That was ultra intense,” Mary said, her tongue dancing on the shrinking sucker. “I’m ready to buy Pacific Avenue.”
10
In line at Tim’s Coffee, one of my favorite places to sit and think, it hit me: I have two weeks. Two weeks to find a boyfriend to bring home for my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party. If I didn’t, I’d have to face April and John alone. I had to see them again. It was as unavoidable as puberty and taxes. See John draped on my sister. For the rest of my life. The boy was going to be my brother-in-law (cringe). I could not let him—or my sister—see me showing up alone. I swore to myself I’d never let him see I wasn’t quite over him. That I still loved him. Not that he was deserving of my love. At all. But like I told Chris earlier, you can’t just turn your feelings off. These things take time, apparently.
John was faaaar from perfect. That was clear now more than ever. Now that I knew he was capable of two-timing and falling for someone as obnoxious as my sister. But I could see why April was willing to jeopardize our relationship (well, what was left of it) to be with him. John was not only smart and driven and, let’s face it, really good-looking, he had a really sweet side. In our nine months together I learned he was very protective of those he cared for. For example, one time when my parents were out of town, he came over—at one in the morning—to kill a spider the size of a golf ball in my bedroom. And he was thoughtful. He gave me a ride to school every morning so I wouldn’t have to take the bus, even though it was out of his way. Plus he could, on a rare occasion, be romantic. Last Valentine’s Day he ditched English and stuck conversation hearts all over my locker. He also left a really sweet love note in my Psychology textbook. So it surprised me—no, shocked the hell out of me—to entertain the idea that John was hooking up with my sister for three whole months before he finally collected the courage to break things off with me.
Maybe it was meant to be. John and April do seem to be a better fit, I’m starting to realize now. But it still hurt—my heart and my pride—to have my always-one-upping-me sister steal my boyfriend like that. And now I’d go to any length, any extreme, to get a guy to take me to my parents’ party. Hell, I’d hire an escort if I had to.
A fake boyfriend would be even better because truthfully, I wasn’t ready to open my heart up only for it to be battered by the next boy—and it’s not like I needed a boy in my life to make me feel good about myself anyway.
Armed with my hot chocolate and bagel-with-everything-on-it, I looked around the café for a place to sit and scheme. The place was as packed as a UPS truck on Christmas Eve. There was not a single vacant table left. Even the couch and overstuffed chair in the corner that were usually empty were occupied by four elderly ladies, wearing silly hats. I growled in frustration.
What made this place so popular? My theory: It had the best bagels in the area—maybe even in all of New York. Or was it the exotic gourmet cocoa flavors like banana, butterscotch or peanut butter that drew people here like mosquitoes to a porch light? I for one loved the hip, arsty atmosphere. Odd, tree-like lamps hung over punchy red tables. Inspiring art adorned the electric blue walls. Old pennies tiled the floor. (Even the ground was cool. How many coffee shops could boast about that?)
I did a double take when I saw James Dean, the brooding guy I’d rung up months earlier at Anderson Art and Frame, sitting alone by the window, scribbling something on a napkin. His outfit brought the Jolly Green Giant to mind. He wore a sea green shirt with clashing army green pants. Kelly green Converse completed the wacky outfit. He seemed lost in thought with his left hand forked in his hair, his eyes vacantly resting on a dark splotchy spot on the table. He looked so stuck in his head a store robbery involving hand grenades would probably not disturb him from his meanderings. For a moment I stood beside him, maybe two feet away, until I gathered the courage to say, “Excuse me. Do you mind if I join you?”
“Fine,” he said, shrugging indifferently, not bothering to look up from his napkin.
Plopping down in the seat opposite him, I took a moment to soak in the wonder of his amazing hands. One scribbled away with an expensive-looking pen while the other was now shielding the napkin, guarding it against snoopers such as myself. His most prominent feature was a strong and defined jaw. It was so exquisite, I was sure even Roman statues quaked in envy. Yet his sad eyes made him appear sensitive, vulnerable.
“Are you writing a poem?’ I asked, tilting my body to the far right to catch a glimpse of his top secret note.
“Something like that,” he said, still not looking up.
“Are you a writer?” I asked before biting into my bagel.
He said nothing. He was clearly not feeling social and I wondered if it would be rude to get up and sit somewhere else, or if I should sit with him in awkward silence. I knew if I chose the latter, I wouldn’t even enjoy my bagel—it was my favorite flavor and they’d ran out of it the last few times I was here, but I felt too weird getting up and abruptly leaving. I mean, what if I saw this guy again? That would be more uncomfortable than sitting in silence, wouldn’t it? This was my favorite café, after all, I didn’t want to mess up a good thing. Not when they had the best everything-on-it bagel around and they were conveniently located—only a block away from my apartment. I felt I didn’t have any good options. Out of desperation, I tried speaking again. I knew I had to say something clever or important to grab his attention. Shocking would be even better. I couldn’t help but smile when I began the following sentence. “Will you go to my parents’ anniversary party with me?”
James Dean looked up at me (finally!) appearing surprised and amused. His eyes were beautiful. As green as baby grass. He cracked a half smile before going back to work on his poem. Looking up at me for only a second at a time, he said, “I don’t usually date strangers. I don’t even know your name. For all I know, you could be some sort of freak.”
“What do you mean by a freak exactly?” I said, laughing because in a sense I was a freak. A freak desperate enough to ask a stranger to go out with me.
“Like a serial killer. Or one of those people who talks during movies.” He paused, studying my face. “You do look familiar, though.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself. Hi, my name is September Jones. You may remember me from the art supply store. I used to work there. I rang you up once.” He looked at me blankly. “Two hundred and ten dollars?”
“Ahhh. I remember now.” His green eyes flickered.
“I may be a little weird, but for the most part I’m harmless. To date, I’ve never killed a person. I’m so docile, I don’t even eat meat. I even hesitate to kill bugs, although spiders are a different story. They are just so hideous, don’t you think? The way they crawl and just sneak up on you. So maybe I’m shallow,
killing creatures based on their looks and the way they move…” Great, I’m rambling. Shut up already.
“You forgot to address my second concern. Do you talk during movies?”
I laughed. Was he serious? “What’s your name?”
He smiled and shook his head, completely ignoring my question. “Speaking of names, yours is interesting. September. I like it…But you have another flaw in your plan.”
“What’s that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You don’t know a thing about me. What if I’m a serial killer?”
“Are you?”
“I could be.”
I shrugged. “I guess I’m willing to take the risk. I’m pretty desperate.”
Looking up from his work, he studied my face for a moment. I felt my cheeks flush under his stare. “You don’t look like the desperate type. You’re pretty, you seem smart and well-groomed. Maybe a little naive, but you’re definitely a catch. Surely you have guys lining up for your number.”
“It’s a long, complicated story. I’ll spare you the gory details. And it’s not just a date I want from you. I have to confess…” My pulse picked up. “I need you to pretend to be, um, my boyfriend.” I bit my lip, avoiding his gaze. His eyebrows peaked and his mouth twisted ever so slightly. He was clearly entertained by my candor.
“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?” He cradled his chin in his open palm, finally giving me his full attention.
“Will you?” What am I doing? I don’t even know this guy. I must have lost my marbles.
“When is it?”
“Two weeks from tomorrow. On October second. It’s just a dinner at my folks’ house. They live in—”
“I can’t.”
I dropped my half-eaten bagel. “Why not?”
He tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I have…other plans.”
“Like what?”
Pictures of You Page 7