by Kasie West
Henry walks up to a doll wearing a kilt. “Aislyn,” he says, reading her name card. “I have this outfit. I should get this doll and we can go on tour together.”
“Playing bagpipes?” I ask.
He gives me a funny look. “Nope. I’m the guitar player for Crusty Toads.”
Ah, and there it is. The reason Skye keeps him around. She has a soft spot for musicians. But she can do much better than a guy who looks like he was the inspiration for his band’s name.
“Die, you ready?”
“Yep.”
Die? I’ll ask her about that later.
“See you later, Caveman,” he says with a guffaw like he’d been saving that up since the second we were introduced.
I wouldn’t need to ask about Die, after all. He’s one of those types: Assigner of Instant Nicknames.
“Bye”—Crusty Toad—“Henry.”
My mom walks in the back door as they walk out the front. She’s carrying two armloads of groceries. “Caymen, there are a few more bags; can you get them?” She heads straight for the stairs.
“You want me to leave the store?” It sounds like a lame question, but she’s really particular about leaving the sales floor. First, because dolls are expensive and if any of them ever got stolen that would be a Big Deal. We don’t have any type of video surveillance or alarm system on the store—too expensive to maintain. Second, my mom is huge about customer service. If someone walks in, I’m not supposed to let one second go by without a greeting.
“Yes. Please.” She sounds out of breath. My mom, the queen of yoga, is out of breath? Was she running laps?
“Okay.” I glance toward the front door to make sure no one is coming and then go out back and grab the rest of the groceries. When I take them upstairs I step over the bags she dropped off right inside the door and then set mine on the counter of our dollhouse-size kitchen. That’s really the theme of our lives. Dolls. We sell them. We live in their house . . . or at least the size equivalent: three tiny rooms, one bathroom, miniature kitchen. And I’m convinced the size is the main reason my mom and I are so close. I peer around the wall and see my mom sprawled out on the couch.
“You okay, Mom?”
She sits up but doesn’t stand. “Just exhausted. Got up extra early this morning.”
I begin to unload the groceries, putting the meat and frozen apple juice in the freezer. I once asked my mom if we could get bottled juice and she told me it was too expensive. I was six. That was the first time I realized we were poor. It definitely wasn’t the last.
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t worry about unloading. I’ll do that in a minute. Will you head back to the store?”
“Sure.” On my way out the door I move the bags she had abandoned on the floor to the counter as well, then leave. It takes my brain the whole trip down the stairs to remember that I saw my mom still in bed when I left for school this morning. How was that getting up “extra early”? I look over my shoulder, up the steep set of stairs, tempted to turn around and call her bluff. But I don’t. I take my place behind the register, pull out my English reading assignment, and don’t look up until the bell on the front door jingles.
Chapter 3
One of my favorite customers ever comes through the door. She’s older but sharp and funny. Her hair is a deep red, sometimes bordering on purple, depending on how recently she had it dyed. And she always wears a scarf no matter how hot it is outside. The autumn weather occasionally justifies a scarf these days, and today’s is bright orange with purple flowers.
“Caymen,” she says with a smile.
“Hi, Mrs. Dalton.”
“Is your mom in today, honey?”
“She’s upstairs. Do you want me to get her or is there something I can help you with?”
“I had a doll on special order and wondered if she arrived yet.”
“Let me check.” I pull out a binder from the drawer beneath the register that logs orders. I find Mrs. Dalton’s name fairly easily because there are only a few entries, and most of them are hers. “It looks like it’s scheduled to arrive tomorrow, but let me call on it for you so you don’t come down here for nothing.” I place a call and find out it will arrive after noon tomorrow.
“I’m sorry to bother you. Your mother did tell me that. I was just hoping.” She smiles. “This one’s for my granddaughter. Her birthday’s in a few weeks.”
“That’s cool. I’m sure she’ll love it. How old will the lucky little girl be?”
“Sixteen.”
“Oh. The lucky . . . big girl.” I don’t know what else to say without sounding rude.
Mrs. Dalton laughs. “Don’t worry, Caymen, I have other presents for her. This gift is more to humor her grandma. I’ve gotten her a doll every year since she turned one. It’s hard for me to break a tradition no matter how old they get.”
“My mother thanks you for that.”
Mrs. Dalton laughs. She gets my jokes. Maybe because she’s a little dry herself.
“She’s the only girl so I spoil her rotten.”
“What tradition do you have for the boys?”
“A kick in the pants.”
“That’s a great tradition. I think you should get them dolls for their birthdays, too. They probably feel left out.”
She laughs. “I might have to try that.” She sad-eyes the binder on the counter like she wishes the date would magically change and her doll would be here now. She opens her purse and starts digging through it. “How’s Susan doing?”
I glance toward the back like my mom will come down the stairs at the mere mention of her name. “She’s good.”
She pulls out a little red book and starts flipping through it. “Tomorrow afternoon, you said?”
I nod.
“Oh no, that won’t do. I have a hair appointment.”
“That’s okay. We’ll hold it in the back until you come. You can get it Wednesday or really any day this week. Whatever works best.”
She picks up the black pen on the counter and writes something in her book. “Maybe I’ll send someone to get it for me. Would that work?”
“Of course.”
“His name is Alex.”
I write the name Alex next to the pickup line. “Sounds good.”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it with both of hers. “You’re such a good girl, Caymen. I’m glad you’re here for your mom.”
Sometimes I wonder just how much these ladies talk to my mom. What did they know about our history? Did they know about my father? As the spoiled kid of a wealthy family, he ran before my mom could finish saying, “I’m pregnant. What should we do?” His parents made her sign papers she didn’t understand that virtually said she could never go after him for child support. They gave her hush money that eventually became the start-up funds for the doll store. And this is why I have absolutely no desire to meet my gem of a father. Not that he’s tried.
Okay, so maybe I have a small desire. But after what he did to my mother it feels wrong.
I squeeze Mrs. Dalton’s hand. “Oh, you know me, I’m competing for a Best Daughter in the Universe award. I hear this year it comes with a mug.”
She smiles. “I think you already won it.”
I roll my eyes. She pats my hand and then takes her time leaving the doll store, studying dolls as she goes.
I settle back onto the stool and read some more. When seven o’clock rolls around I glance at the stairs for what seems like the gazillionth time. My mom never came down. That’s weird. She rarely makes me stay down here alone if she’s actually here. After locking up, lowering the blinds, and turning out the lights, I grab the stack of mail and go upstairs.
The house smells amazing. Like sweet cooked carrots and mashed potatoes with gravy.
My mom is standing at the stove stirring gravy. Just as I’m about to greet her, she says, “I know. And that’s the problem.”
I realize she’s on the phone, so I head to my bedroom to put my shoes away. Halfway down the hall I hear h
er say, “Oh please. They don’t live here to mingle with normal society.”
She must be talking to her best friend. She doesn’t know I’ve overheard many conversations like this but I have. I kick off my shoes in my room and head back to the kitchen.
“Smells good, Mom,” I say.
She jumps and then says, “Well, Caymen just walked in. I’d better go.” She laughs at something her friend says. Her laugh is like a melodic song.
The kitchen doesn’t like two people in it at once so it constantly shoves counter edges and drawer handles into my hips and lower back. I soon abandon the idea that we can both fit, and I step around the counter to the small dining area.
“Sorry I didn’t join you downstairs,” she says after hanging up the phone. “I thought I’d make us a hot dinner. It’s been a while.”
I sit down and flip through the mail I had brought up. “Is there an occasion?”
“Nope. Just for fun.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I hold up the electricity bill in a pink envelope. I have no idea why pink is chosen for lateness. Is it really the color that announces to the world (or at least the mail carrier): “These people are irresponsible failures?” I’d think puke yellow would do a better job at that announcement. “Forty-eight-hours notice.”
“Ugh. Is that the only one?”
“Looks like it.”
“Okay. I’ll pay it online later. Just set it on the counter.”
I don’t even have to stand up to reach the counter. It’s less than an arm’s length away from the table. My mom carries over two plates of steaming food and sets one in front of me. We talk as we eat.
“Oh, Mom, I forgot to tell you about the guy who came into the store the other day.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He beckoned me.”
“I’m sure he was just trying to get your attention.”
I keep going. “Also, nobody taught him how to smile, and there was a lip curl at one point.”
“Well, I hope you kept these thoughts to yourself.” She takes a bite of her potatoes.
“No, I told him that you offered smiling lessons in the afternoon. I think he’ll be in tomorrow.”
Her eyes snap up, but she must realize I’m kidding because she lets out a sigh even though I see her trying to hide a smile.
“Mrs. Dalton was in again today.”
For this news she offers a real smile. “She was in last week, too. She gets so excited when she’s waiting for a doll.”
“I know. It’s cute.” I clear my throat and fork a swirling pattern in my potatoes before looking at my mom.
“Thanks for running the store today. I got caught up in paperwork up here.”
“It’s okay.”
“You know I appreciate you, right?”
I shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I think you’d own lots of cats.”
“Really? You think I’d be a cat lady?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. That or nutcrackers.”
“What? Nutcrackers? I don’t even like nuts.”
“You don’t have to like nuts to own lots of wide-mouthed wooden dolls.”
“So you think without you that I’d have a completely different personality and like cats and/or nutcrackers?”
Without me she’d have a completely different life. She’d have probably gone to college and got married, not been disowned by her parents. “Well, yeah. Hello. Without me in your life you’d have no humor or love. You’d be a sad, sad woman.”
She laughs again. “So true.” She places her fork on her plate and stands. “Are you done?”
“Yes.”
She picks up my plate and puts it on top of hers but not before I notice that she hardly ate anything. At the sink she quickly rinses the plates.
“Mom, you cooked. I’ll clean.”
“Okay, thanks, sweetie. I think I’m going to go read in bed.”
It takes me only about twenty minutes to clean up. On the way to my room I poke my head in my mom’s room to say good night. An open book lies on her chest and she’s fast asleep. She really was tired today. Maybe she had gotten up early, like she said, to work out or something then went back to sleep. I close her book, put it on her nightstand, and turn off her light.
Chapter 4
As I walk into the doll store the next day after school, I’m surprised to see a man standing at the counter. He’s wearing dark clothes and has a dark, shortly trimmed beard and a dark tan. Yes, there is definitely a dark theme going on. He seems to exude it, and yet my mom’s cheeks are pink and she’s smiling. When the bell on the door rings, they both look over at me.
“Hi, Caymen,” my mom says.
“Hi.”
“Well, see you around, Susan,” the strange man says.
My mom nods.
He leaves, and I say, “Who was that?” I tuck my backpack beneath the register. “Alex?”
“Who’s Alex?”
“The guy who’s supposed to pick up Mrs. Dalton’s doll.”
“Oh no, it was just a customer.”
Right. I watch him walk by the front window. A single man in his forties is a customer. I almost say as much when she says, “I’m glad you’re here. I have to run a couple things to the post office before one.” She picks up two boxes and a stack of envelopes and heads toward the back door. “Oh, and Mrs. Dalton’s doll is in the back.”
“Okay, see you later.”
The front door opens and I look up half expecting to see my mom’s “customer” walk back in, but I’m greeted by a broody Henry. I don’t know if he took a shower or if carrying a guitar case actually does make a guy appear more attractive than he is, but either way, it’s suddenly a little more apparent what Skye sees in him.
“Hey, Caveman.”
Ugh. He probably forgot my real name. “Hi, Toad. Skye’s not here.”
“I know. I was hoping I could play you a song I wrote for her. Let me know if you think she’ll like it.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He sits on the floor and takes out his guitar. He leans against a lower cabinet, stretching out and crossing his legs in front of him. The dolls on the lit glass shelves above him and the wooden cradle next to him make this look like the setting for some trippy music video. He strums a few chords then clears his throat and sings.
The song is pretty good, bordering on cheesy. The line about how without Skye he would die makes me want to laugh, but I manage to hold it in. But by the end of the song I completely understand what Skye sees in him. I’m pretty sure I’m staring at him dreamily myself. So when the sound of someone clapping breaks the after-song silence, my cheeks go hot.
Xander is standing by the front door. He looks even richer today. The look consists of perfectly styled hair, designer clothes, and Gucci leather loafers with no socks.
“Great song,” he says to Henry.
“Thanks.” Then Henry looks at me for verification.
“Yeah, it was awesome.”
He takes a breath of relief then puts his guitar away. I turn my attention to Xander.
“I’ve been sent on another errand,” he says.
“Another day where mingling with commoners helps you appreciate your life more?” I could’ve sworn I said something equivalent last time, but the offended look that takes over his face lets me know I probably only thought it before. Oh well, it was a joke anyway (sort of). If he can’t take a joke, that’s on him.
“Something like that,” he mumbles.
Henry stands up. “The Scottish doll is mine, so hands off.”
Xander holds his hands up. “Not interested.” I get the feeling Xander thinks Henry is talking about something other than a kilt-wearing doll. But since Xander is not interested, it doesn’t matter anyway.
Henry heads for the door. “I’m going to sing the song in our set Friday night. Come. We’re playing at Scream Shout. Ten o’clock.” Scream Shout is a div
e about five blocks away where local bands play to small, mostly wasted crowds for little or no money. I tag along with Skye occasionally, but it’s not really my scene.
Xander watches him go and then turns back to me, all business. “My grandmother asked me to pick up a doll she ordered.”
“Your grandmother?” I open the book, wondering if I had missed an order.
“Katherine Dalton.”
“Mrs. Dalton is your grandma?”
“Why does that surprise you so much?”
I close my open mouth. Because Mrs. Dalton is sweet and down-to-earth and amazing. . . . You take yourself too seriously, have perfectly manicured nails, and line your clothes with money (or at least that’s the excuse I give him for such good posture). “I just had no idea.”
“So I guess she never talks about her brilliant grandson?”
“I just thought she was sending Alex in.”
“I am Alex.”
Oh. Duh. Xander. As in Alexander. “So do you go by Alex or Xander?”
He gets an arrogant smirk on his face like I had Googled him or something.
“Your credit card,” I say, reminding him he had used it last time he was in.
“Oh. Yes, I go by Xander, but my grandparents call me Alex. I’m named after my grandpa so you know how that goes.”
I have no idea how that goes. “Yeah, totally.”
“So, Susan’s daughter . . .” He leans his elbows on the counter, looks at a small wooden apple a customer gave us years ago, and starts spinning it like a top. “Do you have my doll?”
I laugh a little at how that sounds. “Yes, I do. Give me one minute.” I retrieve the box from the back room and bring it to the counter. It surprises me that my mom hasn’t opened it to inspect the doll. Sometimes they come cracked or broken, and the service we use is responsible for that. I grab a box cutter from a silver cup next to the register and cut the packing tape. “Just let me make sure she hasn’t had any limbs amputated on her journey.”
“Okay.”
I remove the doll box from the shipping box, only displacing a few packing peanuts in the process, and carefully open it.