“Peace out!” Kim yells and flashes a peace sign with her fingers. “By the way, love the earrings.” She blows the CU student a kiss right before the door closes behind us.
The seating chart is out on Mr. Salmon’s desk when I walk into physics. I find my assigned seat, pulling out a pencil and sketchpad to avoid eye contact with anyone, and drift into a food coma. My junior year counselor told me I had to sign up for physics. He said that colleges want to see an array of classes on my transcript. When I told Mr. Crabtree that I don’t plan on going to college, he said, “Everyone goes to college.” I didn’t want to argue, so I let him put it on my schedule. I figure it’s better to spend every day sitting in a class I couldn’t care less if I fail than sitting in Crabtree’s office, which smells like bad breath, sifting through trade-job training brochures.
It’s not that I don’t like the idea of college. I do. Boulder’s a college town, and my house resembles a lot of the fraternities on campus, with its beat-up furniture and revolving front door for Ninny’s men. It just that with all of the men come all of Ninny’s irrational behaviors.
The worst was back in junior high when Ninny took off for a week of aura cleansing in Taos, New Mexico, with Uncle Steve. She left a wad of cash on the counter with a note saying she needed a “mom break” and she’d be back in a week. At first, I didn’t worry. Ninny was right; she had me at such a young age, and she was probably getting pretty tired of taking care of me. And I had never seen so much cash before. It was like Christmas. I went down to Walgreens and bought out the candy section.
But one week turned into two, which turned into three. And after about two days, eating candy lost its charm. Every day, I had to get myself to school and shower and do my homework because the law kind of frowns on an 11-year-old kid being home alone. Keeping up the act was important.
When Ninny finally got back, I screamed at her that moms don’t get “mom breaks” and she should have thought about that before she screwed every boy in her grade. Ninny started to cry and hugged me in the middle of my tantrum. She held me in her arms on the couch until we both fell asleep. When we woke up in the morning, she said that she was sorry. Uncle Steve left her in Taos, and she had to hitchhike home, and the whole time she was thinking about me. She promised never to take a “mom break” again. At that point, I was just glad she hadn’t been arrested for any of the array of crimes she’d probably committed.
But it took months for Ninny to get off the couch. She’d lost her job before going to Taos, so I encouraged her to go out and find a new one. She just curled up in a ball and smoked a lot of weed. Luckily, we have a small trust fund that Ninny’s parents gave her when they up and left her. They weren’t pleased that their high school daughter had come home from a concert with not a hangover but a baby. Some parents just aren’t zoned for that kind of thing. But at least they left money.
So again, I kept the house clean and got myself to school and showered. I made dinner every night, even though Ninny barely ate anything. She got so skinny, and she was already a rail. I’d never seen her behave like that before. Sure, in the past when things haven’t worked out, she’d been sad. But that’s usually when she puts on her favorite backless shirt and hits the local Whole Foods to peruse the guys working at the organic meat counter.
At one point after Uncle Steve left her, I was worried she’d never recover. Having Ninny home again was pretty similar to having her gone, except for the added smell of pot. And her eyes were so sad. Eventually, she peeled herself off the couch, cut down on her smoking and found a new job. But seeing what happened after Taos was enough to scare me. If I went off to college, who knows what would happen to Ninny?
Cass keeps saying I should go to Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design and live at home. He thinks that if I just applied for the program, I could be a video game graphic designer because my sketches of people are so realistic.
He’s probably right. But lately getting out of bed exhausts me. Forget getting into college.
Looking around the physics room, I find a poster of Sir Isaac Newton. I start replicating it on my piece of paper. I etch the outline of his face and wavy hair, his crooked nose and big, bugged-out eyes. Soon everything fades around me: the noise, the people. I’m looking from the poster to my paper and back again, totally entranced. My hands work without me telling them what to do. With each line, I define the man in the poster until my drawing starts to look like something concrete, something structured, someone real.
“Hi, Aspen.”
I blink, hearing a girl’s voice somewhere in the back of my head.
Suzy Lions stands in front of me in a colorful maxi dress that hangs down to her ankles, her auburn hair pulled into a high ponytail. I choke at the sight of her, but manage to squeak out a “hi.”
“I like your shirt. I hear tie-dye is making a comeback.”
I look down at the primary colors swirled in circles on my shirt. “It was my mom’s in high school.” The words come out smoothly, even though nerves are bubbling in my stomach.
“Vintage, cool. Your mom must have good taste.”
“You’ve never met her boyfriends,” I say.
Suzy laughs a little too loud. “Wow, you’re really good at drawing. Who’s that?” She points at my sketchpad.
“Isaac Newton.” I tap my pencil on the sketch and look at the clock. The bell should ring any second.
“Is he your boyfriend?” I point to the poster on the wall, and Suzy knocks the side of her head. “I’m so dumb.”
“Don’t feel dumb. I have no idea who he is.” I force a smile at her.
Suzy cocks her head to the side, like she’s thinking hard. “You’re kind of funny.”
“Thanks,” I say, and squirm in my seat, completely uncomfortable with the compliment, especially considering the person it’s coming from. “You’re kind of funny, too.”
Suzy stands in front of me, looking from my sketchbook to my face and back again, like she’s searching the paper for something to say. Brown eyeliner rims her green eyes; just the right amount of brown shadow coats her lids. It looks professional.
When Katelyn was still alive, she, Suzy, Olivia Torres, Sophia Mohomedally and Claire Diaz hung out in a pack. They would huddle in the hallway or walk through the school together. People always stopped to watch them. I did, too. I couldn’t help myself. They’d walk past me and I’d lean in closer, trying to hear what they were talking about. Inevitably, at least once a week one of the girls would cry, cradled in the arms of her best friends as they plowed down the hallway, not caring who was in their way, because their best friend was upset. Again. Like a walking, talking high school soap opera that no one could turn off.
My leg shakes under the table as I wait for Suzy to leave. She runs her hands through her ponytail and twists her hair, wrapping it around her finger. Inwardly, I pray for the bell to ring and save me from this conversation. It’s hard to look at Suzy.
“I’m glad we have class together,” she finally says. When Suzy saunters over to her seat, her long maxi dress swishing back and forth, I don’t move. I sit in my seat, staring at the chipping paint on the wall by the smart board.
I counted the cracks in the ceiling that night. Lying on the uncomfortable, starched hospital bed, I stared up for what felt like hours, counting the imperfections. At one point, I was convinced the ceiling was going to come tumbling down on top of me. There were so many cracks. So many ways for things to fall apart.
I swallow hard, trying to wet my dry mouth as someone takes the seat next to me. The bell needs to ring now to save me from further conversation. I scoot my chair over, the room and all its occupants slowly closing in on me—and then my neighbor’s head of messy black hair catches my eye. My stomach drops to the floor.
“Why are you sitting next to me?” I snap.
It’s Ben Tyler. Katelyn’s Ben. His eyebrows are pulled high on his forehead, his eyes wide.
“Taylor and Tyler. I guess Mr. Salmon did the se
ating chart by last name.” Ben says it like I’m interrogating him and he’s nervous he might give me the wrong answer.
“Oh.” Tingles flood my hands and I shake them out at my side. All around the room, people are looking at me. My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I’d get up and ask Mr. Salmon to change my seat, but then I’d get even more attention. People would start to wonder why I don’t want to sit next to Ben Tyler. Hotty Ben. The grieving, perfect boyfriend of the dead Katelyn Ryan. Me getting up is how rumors start. Suzy tells Olivia who tells Sophia who tells Claire that I didn’t want to sit next to Ben, and by the end of the week, everyone is talking about it.
I slink down in my seat, wishing I could disappear into the floor. “I hate eyes,” I whisper to myself.
“Don’t sweat it. I get that a lot, too,” Ben whispers out of the corner of his mouth. Only one side of his face curls into a smile, like he can’t force himself to pull the other cheek any higher. I feel the same way most days.
Then it hits me. People aren’t staring at me; they’re staring at us.
“I’m sorry.” I force a two-cheek smile. “I’m an ass.”
Ben huffs out a laugh. A scar runs through his right eyebrow, another across his left cheek. But even with the imperfections on his face, he looks handsome. I count all the colors in his eyes. Yellow, green, brown, flecks of blue.
“Aspen,” Ben says. “You don’t need to apologize to me.”
I saw him at the hospital that night. He was sitting in a chair, his head in his hands, while Mr. and Mrs. Ryan talked to a doctor in purple scrubs with a colorful sleeve tattoo down her right arm. The scrubs looked more like a costume than a uniform. Mrs. Ryan had her hand on Ben’s shoulder. Even with a face full of tears, he was beautiful.
At one point, he looked at me from across the emergency room. I was sitting in a bed, waiting for Ninny. My head was bandaged, and my leg was in a splint. I was even wearing one of those terrible gowns that open in the back so everyone can see your ass. As Ben stared at me, I kept seeing him and Katelyn in the halls. The whole school knew when they started dating sophomore year, because all of a sudden Katelyn went from the girl who played soccer really well to the girl who held Ben Tyler’s hand in the hallway.
We stared at each other for so long that eventually it got awkward. I asked the nurse to pull the curtain closed.
Ben doesn’t say anything else to me during class. Mr. Salmon goes over the syllabus for the year and then says he’s retiring in the spring and plans to be sick a lot.
“Nothing’s new in physics anyway,” Mr. Salmon says. “Gravity is still gravity.” He sits down behind his desk, takes a swig of his coffee, and tells us to “read or something.” Maybe I won’t fail after all.
When the class ends, Ben walks out of the room without another look in my direction.
“It’s a proven fact: People who smoke pot live longer,” Ninny says to a customer as she files her nails behind the cash register at Shakedown Street. Pandora’s Phish station plays over the speakers. Just walking in the door, smelling the sugar and incense, makes me relax. I smile at the mural Mickey let me paint three years ago when I got the job here. It’s a replica of one of my Grateful Dead T-shirts: colorful dancing bears circling around the Earth.
“Just because you wish it to be true does not make it fact.” I plop my backpack down behind the counter and grab my apron. It’s green with a white peace sign in the middle and SHAKEDOWN STREET printed in block letters over the top. Other than the customer Ninny is trying to convert to “cannabis-ism,” the place is dead.
Ninny looks up from her nail file. “My daughter, everyone: the prude.”
“Just because I haven’t slept with half the dudes in my grade doesn’t mean I’m a prude.”
“I bet a little sex would put a smile back on that face.” Ninny wraps me in a hug and whispers, “Orgasms make you live longer, too.”
I push her off of me and laugh, “Then you are going to live forever.”
Ninny doesn’t know that I’ve actually had sex. It might be my only secret from her. It happened sophomore year with a boy named Kevin. His family stayed at our house for a few weeks on their way to California. Ninny served them shakes at Shakedown Street and the next thing I knew, I had a boy sleeping in my room every night for three weeks.
We’d stay up and talk about our parents and how he couldn’t wait to go into the Army so he could have some discipline in his life. I told him about Taos and how I was worried Ninny would never come home. Then one night we did it. Every now and then, I’ll get a letter in the mail from him. They live outside of Berkley now, at some Zen Buddhist camp without electricity. Kevin gave up on the Army when he found psychedelic drugs. Apparently, acid is better than discipline.
“That’s the point.” She pulls back, smiling at me. “Can I get you something, baby? You look stressed.”
“No eating on the job,” I say, wagging my finger at her.
Ninny waves her hands through the air. “Whatever. Pick one.” She points above the cash register to the brightly colored menu listing shakes with names like Purple Haze, Strawberry Fields and Crystal Blue Persuasion.
“A Sugar Magnolia, please.”
“You got it.”
Ninny gets to work on my shake while I wipe down the tables and counters. I start in the farthest corner and make my way across the room in a line, one table at a time. It’s been my routine since I started working here freshman year. My second day on the job, Ninny came in to visit me wearing one of her summer spaghetti-strap shirts. No bra. Mickey hired her as manager. Said he saw real potential in her “mixology.” She’d recently been fired from her job as a bank teller for not adhering to the dress code, so I was just happy she found a place that accepts her for who she is. The probability of her getting fired from Shakedown Street is pretty low.
Ninny places the yellow drink on the table I’m cleaning and says, “Have a beautiful day.”
I slam the banana and strawberry shake until my head hurts with brain freeze. Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I say “Delicious” and place the empty glass on the counter. The sweet taste lingers on my tongue. Mickey was right: Ninny does have a knack for making shakes.
We work, serving the random customers who come in the door over the next few hours. At one point, Mickey comes barreling out of the back room carrying a clipboard, his long black dreadlocks pulled into a loose ponytail. He’s a dead ringer for Ziggy Marley.
“It’s about time you showed up,” he says.
“You’re the one who told me I wasn’t allowed in this joint for a month,” I say as I clean glasses in the sink. “Recovery, remember.”
“Did I say that? Well, it’s good to have you back. Love the shirt by the way.”
I wipe my soapy hands on my apron. “I hear tie-dye is making a comeback.”
“When did it leave?” Mickey scratches his head with a pencil.
“I think around disco.”
He points the pencil at me. “Don’t ever say that word in this establishment again.”
“I forgot to tell you, baby, your car is ready,” Ninny says as she comes up behind me. “Can we bust out of here early, Mick?”
A sinking feeling drops in my stomach. My Rabbit. “We don’t need to—” I start, but Ninny stops me with a fingernail in my back.
“Please,” she whines. And then Ninny pulls down her shirt so more cleavage pops out. Mickey’s eyes travel to her chest. “Aspen’s had a long day.”
His eyes still on her chest, he says, “Fine. But this is the last time.”
Ninny makes an X over her heart and in her sweetest voices says, “I swear.”
When Mickey retreats to the back room, I turn to her. “We don’t need to leave, Mom. I feel fine.”
“This works out perfectly. I need your help making dinner for Toaster. You know I’m no good at cooking. “
I groan. The idea of Uncle Toaster, with his googly eyes and too skinny body, makes my stomach turn. “I change my mind. I fee
l terrible. You should probably cancel.”
Ninny rolls her eyes. “No. At least one person in our house is getting laid.”
I grab a bucket of soapy water and a rag to wipe down the tables one more time before we leave. Starting in the corner, I follow the path around the room until everything’s clean. For some people, doing my routine over and over would be tedious. But picking up and putting things back the way they were makes me feel comforted.
Stuffing my apron in my backpack, I follow Ninny out of Shakedown Street. The sun is beginning to set over the mountains. As I hobble to the minivan, I glance down at the rotting spore suctioned to my leg and cringe.
I can’t believe I’m about to see my car.
CHAPTER 3
Ninny drops me off at Boulder Bump Shop before heading to the grocery store for supplies. I sit in the waiting room, my cast tapping the leg of the chair, making a ticking sound on the metal. It smells like exhaust and engine grease in here.
Ninny and I bought my car together for my sixteenth birthday. She used some of her trust fund money and I had some extra cash from Shakedown Street. Ninny picked it out. She said she always wanted a white Volkswagen Rabbit in high school, but her parents refused, because the car wasn’t practical. “I drove a boring Ford Taurus. There’s nothing cool about a sedan, except for the large back seat,” she said. I stopped her there and accepted the Rabbit as my own. Sometimes, though, I’d catch Ninny secretly driving my car; I’d climb in the front seat in the morning to go to school, the smell of weed would waft out of the vents, and I’d know she had been out the night before joy riding with Uncle Toaster, trying to relive her glory days while I was doing homework or sleeping.
“It’s ready,” the mechanic says. The nametag on his shirt reads Bob.
“Thanks, Bob. How much do I owe you?”
“The Ryans’ insurance covered the damage.” Bob’s voice is soft and kind of sad. The pity voice.
I nod, and swallow the lump forming in the back of my throat. An insurance guy called the house a few weeks after the accident. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing on the line.
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