Burnt Orange

by Melody Carlson

  Okay, I know I’m being weird and slightly paranoid, not to mention melodramatic. But I’m seriously worried that my previous evening’s consumption of alcohol may have actually damaged my brain. Is that even possible? And I keep telling myself that I should get on my knees and bow my head and really pray, that I should confess my sins to God and ask him to forgive me and cleanse me. For Pete’s sake, I’m a preacher’s kid—I know how this stuff is done. But it’s like I just can’t. It’s like I’m stuck.

  Here’s what I think it is: I think I’m afraid to confess and repent because I have a funny feeling that I’m not over this—this whatever-it-is kind of thing. It’s possible that I’m just going through a little rebellious period, something my mom might call a “phase”—I don’t know for sure. But I think I’d be trying to fool myself (not to mention God) if I sat here and acted like I’m all sorry and repentant when I know that I am not. God can see right through that kind of stuff. Oh, crud. What am I gonna do?

  four

  I FEEL A VIBRATION IN MY PURSE AND REALIZE THAT MY CELL PHONE IS on, but at least it’s in silent mode. I discreetly slip the phone out and sneak a peek at my caller ID to discover that it’s Claire. I’m dying to know why she’s calling me this morning and really wish I could answer it, but I also know that my dad would have a total fit if I did.

  As soon as the service ends, I slip out a side door and quickly dial Claire’s number. “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Just wondered if you wanted to go to the mall today,” she says in a sleepy voice. “I feel the need to shop, and I heard that Nord-strom’s just got in a bunch of Franco Sarto sandals. You in?”

  “Sure,” I tell her.

  “Cool.”

  The idea of shoe shopping with Claire is enough to make the last remnants of my headache miraculously evaporate. It’s like presto change-o, I am a new girl. Without explaining why, I beg a ride home from Simi and then tell my mom that I’m going to the mall. I know she assumes I’m going with Simi, and I guess it’s no big deal.

  “Why are you in such a hurry to get home?” Simi asks as she drives toward my house.

  I shrug. “Just tired, I guess.”

  She kind of laughs. “Too much partying is my guess. Yeah, you better go home and sleep it off.”

  “What are you doing today?” I ask only to be polite.

  “I told Lena I’d help her empty out her storage unit.”

  “So, she’s really going to live at home, then?”

  “I guess so. She said it’s to save money.”

  “That makes sense. Speaking of money, are you still getting the job at The Caramel Corn Shoppe?”

  “Yeah, and my aunt is still interested in hiring you too. Actually, I have to stop by today to sign some paperwork. Do you want me to talk to her for you?”

  “Sure.” I consider the fact that I’m going shopping with one of the richest girls I know today, and I immediately realize that spare cash might come in handy if I continue this friendship, not to mention that my dad would be hugely relieved if I started putting a little more toward my college fund. Just last week, he reminded me that the church academic scholarship (the one that everyone’s so certain I’ll receive) will not cover everything, not to mention that the private college I’m preregistered with isn’t exactly cheap—not that I’m overly thrilled with the prospects of working at The Caramel Corn Shoppe. I mean, who wants to go around smelling like burnt sugar and candy all day? But at least it’s a job and I can continue it into the summer and my dad should be happy. And fortunately the shop is located in a relatively uncool strip mall where it’s very unlikely that we’ll see anyone we know from school.

  “I’m going to start this week, but Aunt Jan said she was going to let another girl go and will want to hire a replacement really soon.”

  “Why’s she firing everyone?”

  “She says they’re irresponsible. They give stuff away and take too long of breaks—things like that.” Simi laughs. “And even though Aunt Jan’s not a Christian, she’s decided that it might be safer to hire Christians.”

  “Well, tell her to give me a call.” We’re at my house now. “And thanks for the ride. Have fun helping Lena.” But I make a face that suggests unloading a storage unit really sounds like a drag.

  “Yeah, thanks a lot.”

  As I go into the house, I experience this uncomfortable feeling. I can’t quite describe it, but I think it’s conflicted, like I’m kind of torn. I mean, I really like Simi and she’s been the best friend, but at the same time, it’s like I’m being deceitful to her—and I feel guilty, almost like I’m cheating on her. Now, that is seriously twisted. How can you cheat on a girlfriend?

  I tell myself that I’m making this into something it’s not and then hurry to my room to change. The problem is, when I look in my closet, everything looks blah and boring. It’s like I honestly don’t have a thing to wear. At times like these, I wish I had an older sister to bum clothes from. But all I have is an older brother, and he’s off at college—as if I’d ever want to borrow any of James’ preppy clothes.

  I finally settle on my favorite cargo pants and a white T-shirt and a relatively new black hoodie sweatshirt. I guess it’s kind of my classic look. Simi is always telling me that classic is my best style. Of course, I always tell her that’s just because I am so average-looking. I mean, I’m average height, average build, and I have average-looking medium-brown hair that’s straight and blunt-cut just below my shoulders. I had just been considering getting highlights, but Simi informed me that she’d read that “mat is back” in a fashion mag, which means that you shouldn’t highlight your hair now. Well, whatever.

  At least my eyes are good, or so people say. They are big and brown, and my eyelashes are thick and dark enough that I don’t even bother wearing mascara. Simi says she’d kill to have my eyelashes, although I think hers actually look better, but then she really piles on the mascara. But she can get away with that sort of thing, being tall and thin and rather dramatic-looking with her exotic Italian good looks. Maybe that’s one reason that I’m open to having a different friend. Maybe it’ll make me look better.

  I know, I know—that sounds totally shallow. But the truth is, I sometimes feel overshadowed by Simi’s beauty. It’s like when we’re together, everyone is looking at her and I feel practically invisible. Of course, she doesn’t think this is true, but then I don’t know anyone who’s less aware of their own beauty than Simi.

  Honestly, I can’t understand why she’s not more popular—but then popularity is a rather mysterious trait to me. I mean, it doesn’t seem to have as much to do with being the smartest or prettiest or most talented as it does with knowing the “right” people. And how does one get to know the right people? Like I’ve said, it’s a mystery to me. Popularity always has been, but for some reason I am drawn like a magnet to it. Why is that? And for some reason I want to get to know Claire better, even though I suspect she’s kind of using me right now—her ticket to get out of the house with someone her mom considers “safe.” But then that’s what I am, I guess: safe. At least I used to be.

  When I get to Claire’s house, I go ring the doorbell and tell myself not to stand there gaping at her beautiful house.

  The door opens. “Amber,” says Claire’s mother with a smile. “How are you doing?” Her blonde hair is pulled back in a smooth kind of twist, and she has on a crisp white shirt and khakis—some expensive designer, I’m sure. Very sleek and sophisticated.

  I smile back. “Great,” I tell her.

  “Did you go to church this morning?” she asks, and for some reason, this feels like a test.

  I nod. “Yep. It’s kind of an expected thing, you know, when your dad’s the pastor, you better be at church or have a really good reason why you’re not.”

  She kind of laughs. “Well, I happen to think that’s nice.”

  “Do you go to church?” I ask, suddenly feeling stupid for doing so.

  Her brows twist slightly. “I, uh,
I used to—before I got married, that is. Now we’re gone so much and my husband travels for work. And, well, it’s hard to give up a Sunday, you know.”

  I nod as if I do know, but really I don’t. I mean, I cannot imagine what it would feel like to have the luxury of skipping out on church if I wanted to. It’s just not done in my family.

  “Hey, Amber,” calls Claire as she comes down the stairs. “I didn’t know you were here.” Claire is wearing a pale pink top and Capri pants, and her blonde hair is pulled back and tied with a scarf. She looks older than usual and quite cosmopolitan. Suddenly I wish I’d worn something a little more fashionable.

  “Have fun, you two,” calls Claire’s mom. “Don’t buy out the store.”

  “You look nice,” I tell Claire as we go outside.

  “So do you,” she says in an unconvincing voice.

  I shrug. “No, I don’t.” I shake my head. “When it comes to fashion, well, I’m not sure I really get it.”

  She laughs. “Well, you’re with the right person, then. Fashion is my thing.”

  Now, this makes me truly curious, but I don’t really know how to ask why someone as popular and fashionable as Claire is interested in hanging with me. Then I remember her mom and her DUI and it sort of makes sense again.

  She chatters about fashion as I drive to the mall, but I am feeling increasingly uncomfortable and suddenly it’s like I can’t stand it anymore. I park my car in the underground parking and then turn to Claire. “Okay, I know this is going to sound lame, but I’m curious about something.”

  She blinks her blue eyes at me and looks confused. “What? What’s bugging you?”

  “It’s just that you and I are, well, you know, really different from one another. And it was really sweet of you to invite me to Tommy’s party on Friday, and then it was fun hanging with you last night, but I guess I’m wondering what’s up with this? I mean, do you really consider me your friend, or am I just an easy ride?”

  Okay, now, I’m looking at her expression—a mixture of hurt and confusion—and I just don’t know why I did this. I mean, why couldn’t I have just kept my big mouth shut and enjoyed the ride? Why have I thrown all my cards on the table and put this whole thing at risk? Maybe I’m just stupid.

  She sighs and seems to consider her answer. “Do you want the truth, Amber?”

  I swallow and nod.

  “Well, you’re right. I know we’re in kind of different circles and stuff, but the thing is, my old friends and I, well, we’re just not that close anymore. I mean, Stacy is always with Aaron, like she can’t let him out of her sight for a minute. And then there’s Megan—my so-called best friend—but she won’t even speak to me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Let’s just say we’ve had a little disagreement.”

  “Oh. What about Haley Banks?”

  Claire shrugs. “She’s okay, I guess.”

  Now I consider this. “So then are you saying that you actually do want to be friends?” I ask, knowing I sound totally lame. “I mean, I’m not just a convenient ride and someone your mom will approve of?”

  She laughs. “Oh, is that it?”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit that has its pluses, but I like you, Amber. I know you’re more academic than I am and quieter—usually anyway. But you really loosen up after a drink or two. That’s when the fun Amber comes out.”

  That kind of makes me smile, but it also makes me feel a little uncomfortable—or maybe just insecure.

  “Speaking of that . . .” She gets this mischievous look on her face now. Then she digs around in her bag until she emerges with a small silver flask.

  “What is that?”

  She puts her forefinger to her lips as if someone might actually be able to hear us although we’re still sitting in my car. “It’s our secret.” Then she opens the flask and takes a big swig.

  Well, I’m not sure what I think about this. I mean, isn’t there some kind of law about not having alcohol in your car? But the next thing I know, she’s handing it to me.

  “No, uh, that’s okay.”

  “Come on, Amber,” she urges. “Just one little drink?” Then she giggles. “Don’t be a party pooper.”

  So, despite all the warning signals going off inside me, I take the flask and have a drink. But man, whatever’s inside that flask tastes like poison to me and I’m sputtering and coughing and my eyes are watering and my throat is on fire. “What is in that thing?” I demand when I am finally able to speak.

  “Just a little Jack.” She laughs even louder now.

  “Huh?”

  “Jack Daniel’s.”

  “What is that?”

  “Whiskey, silly.”

  “Oh.”

  Then, without even blinking, she takes another chug, secures the lid, and gets out of the car. But as soon as we’re out, she’s popping a breath mint into her mouth. “Want one?”

  “I guess.” Although I’m not sure. Maybe her breath mints are spiked too. But it turns out to be just an ordinary mint, although my poor burnt tongue is still sensitive and burning and I wonder if my sense of taste will ever be the same. One thing I know: Jack Daniel’s and I do not seem to get along too well and I’ll be just as pleased if I never make his acquaintance again. Still, I am curious as to Claire’s ability to gulp that stuff the way she does. I think I know why they call it “firewater” now.

  But thoughts of alcohol and silver flasks quickly fade as we peruse the aisles and shelves at Nordstrom’s, and I quickly discover that Claire really does know her stuff about fashion. The only problem is that she has very expensive taste. And while she has what appears to be a limitless credit card, my funds are not quite so plentiful. I mean, I do have a bank account as well as a debit card (my dad made me open one when I was sixteen so that I could learn to handle money), and because I’ve worked off and on, and do a fairly decent job of saving my allowance, I do have a little bit of money in it—but not enough to keep up with someone like Claire. And definitely not in a store like Nordstrom’s. I can’t believe the way Claire is spending money—or rather, “charging it.” But it is kind of interesting trailing her and seeing how well she knows her way around this store. And she tries to tempt me into getting a really cool pair of sandals—well, until I see the price. Then it’s like forget it.

  Even so, I do manage to find a greatly reduced sales rack in the back of the junior section, and although Claire’s initial reaction is to shun the whole idea, she eventually gives in—but only after she spies me holding up this tangerine-colored shirt.

  “Definitely not that color,” she says with an expression that suggests I have just picked up roadkill. “But how about this?” She pulls out a pale yellow shirt in the same design. “I think this would look good on you.”

  I hold up the shirt, and she nods with satisfaction and then returns to pawing through the rack. “Okay, maybe we can find a few treasures in here after all.”

  When it’s all said and done, Claire actually admits that she enjoyed my bargain shopping almost as much as buying with no regard to the price tag. And as we leave the store, I am contemplating Claire’s incredible fashion sense, not to mention her credit card, when I spot two familiar figures across the way—Simi and Lena—and I have no desire to bump into them right now.

  “Wanna get something to eat?” I say, turning quickly toward the food court and hoping that Simi hasn’t seen me yet. I know it’s silly and immature and extremely rude, but it’s like I can’t help myself. I just don’t want to have to explain this.

  five

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW MUCH STUFF YOU BOUGHT,” I SAY AS WE WALK away from Simi and Lena. “Hey, do you want me to carry one of those bags for you?”

  “Thanks.” She hands me the big shopping bag with two pairs of sandals in it, and suddenly I feel rather important, like here I am carrying not one but two Nordstrom’s bags. Stupid, but true.

  “I didn’t really mean to buy that much,” she ad
mits as we get closer to the food court. “Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

  “Hey, it looks like fun to me.”

  She laughs. “Well, that’s a way better attitude than Haley or Stacy have. They usually get mad at me.”

  “For buying stuff? Maybe they’re jealous.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  We enter the food court now and I casually glance over my shoulder to make sure that Simi and Lena aren’t right behind us. I’m relieved to see that they’re not.

  “You know, one of the main reasons I spend so much money is to get back at my stepdad,” says Claire as we stand and look at the variety of restaurants.

  “Why?”

  “Well, I don’t think my mom would’ve married Mike if he hadn’t been so loaded, so I guess I kinda resent Mr. Big Bucks and I figure I should take it out on his bank account—kinda like it’s all his fault that my parents never got the chance to get back together, you know?”

  “Oh.”

  “Going on a spending spree is like my way of getting even with him.”

  I kind of laugh. “And he doesn’t mind?”

  “He complains sometimes, but mostly I don’t think he really notices.”

  “Lucky you.” I follow her into the pizza line, relieved that she picked pizza and not some stupid health food. Simi always goes for things with vegetables and tofu. But just give me a hot cheesy piece of pizza and a Dr Pepper, and I’m good.

  Once we’ve gotten our pizza and drinks and are seated at the table, I notice Claire discreetly slipping out her flask again. She keeps it below the table, but I know what she’s doing. We’re sitting in a corner and her back is to the crowd, but I still can’t believe her nerve as she opens the flask and pours that stuff into her Coke. I mean, what if a security guard saw her? Would he call the police and have us arrested? The whole thing is making me seriously nervous, and I’m not sure I can even eat now.