by Kasie West
“That sounded bad, but I’m following.”
“So I’m going to discover your destiny and you can discover mine.”
“Uh, what?”
“I’m going to try to figure out what you like to do.”
“How?”
“By trying different things, of course. Career days, if you will. I’ll set up the first one. Tomorrow, one o’clock. Be ready.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday. Don’t you have a tennis match to watch or something?”
“What? No. I hate tennis.”
I look around. “You might want to keep your voice down when you say stuff like that. You wouldn’t want to be kicked out of the club.”
“Are you trying to get out of the first career day?”
“I work Saturdays.”
“Time to start sending different signals.”
I picture our monthly calendar on the back counter. Remember filling it in with my mom at the beginning of the month like we always do. “We have a party booked. There’s no way I can leave her alone.” But maybe after the party . . .
He doesn’t say a word, just gives me a raised eyebrow look. The pressure from the burden resting on my shoulders intensifies and anger surges through me. Why am I in charge of my mom’s store? Why don’t I have any choices about my future?
“Okay, one o’clock.”
Saturday comes and I still haven’t mentioned the outing to my mom. My short burst of anger had melted into guilt. My mom is stressed and the store is broke. This isn’t the right time to rebel. Would there ever be a right time, though? One afternoon isn’t going to equal the ruin of the store . . . at least I hope it won’t.
The schedule confirms one birthday party from ten to noon. That should be perfect to help and then be done just in time to go with Xander. To go with Xander. On a date. Is that what this is? I try not to smile but my face seems to want to at this thought. I remind my face that Xander called it a career day and that seems to help.
My mom is in the back setting up the party while I’m watching the store. I know I need to talk to her, but I’m stalling. That guilt thing is gnawing at my gut. Nobody is in the store so I meander down the short hall and watch my mom set out little doll clothes on the table.
She turns to grab another stack and sees me. “Hey.” She glances over my shoulder. “Did you need me?”
“No. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need my help.” You are a huge wimp, Caymen.
“I’m good. Do you have all the paints ready out front for the eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I think we’re set.”
“Okay.” I walk toward the front but force myself to go back. She’s at her task again. I find it so much easier to talk to the back of her head. “Um . . . at one o’clock I’m going out with a friend if that’s okay.”
She straightens up and turns to face me, brushing off her hands. For seventeen years I’ve always waited until after the store closed to do anything. I’ve scheduled my life around store hours. All to avoid what I thought would be a look of disappointment if I asked. What I see makes me feel even guiltier: exhaustion. It’s set in the crease between her eyes, the downward tilt of her chin. But not in her voice when she says, “Of course, Caymen. Have fun. What are you and Skye doing?”
“No, it’s not Skye. It’s . . . just a friend from school.” I’m not quite ready to explain to my mom why I’ve decided to go against everything she stands for and everything I’ve always agreed with to hang out with King Rich himself. She doesn’t need the added stress in her life right now. What’s the point anyway when in a few weeks Xander will be done seeing how the other half lives? He’ll get bored with me and move on, looking for his next taste of excitement.
She goes back to her task. “One o’clock.”
Chapter 13
When the ten little girls come into the store, I direct them to the back and don’t see my mom again until she starts bringing the dolls out and telling me the eye color attached to them. I focus all my energy on staying in the pre-etched lines of the dolls’ eyes, adding green and black. Someone has asked for brown eyes so I apply a dark coat of brown. Then I squeeze a little gold onto the plastic tray and pick up the smallest paintbrush. Concentrating hard, I add little specks of gold on the brown.
The bell on the front door rings and I jump, sending a gold streak across the black pupil. “Crap,” I breathe out.
“I’m a little early,” Xander says when I look up, surprised.
The clock on the register says twelve thirty. The party was supposed to be done a half hour ago. I hadn’t realized it was so late. Had I noticed I would’ve gone to the back and hurried them along, like I have to do a lot.
He walks closer and rubs a finger across his cheek. “You have something on your face. Paint maybe?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I wipe at my cheek.
“It’s still there.”
He’s walking closer, and I realize I’m still holding the paintbrush with the gold paint and the doll with the gold-flecked eyes sits on the counter in front of me. “Will you watch the store for a minute?” I blurt out, jumping off the stool, grabbing the doll, and heading for the back without waiting for his answer.
“Mom, you’ve gone over.”
“What? I have?” She claps her hands together. “Time to finish up, girls.” She throws me a look over her shoulder—a combination of “I’m sorry” and “you know me.” I do know her and that look makes me laugh.
“Are you done with that doll?” She picks up the electric heater off the counter to dry the eyes.
I look down at the doll in my hands. “Yes. Oh, wait. No. I messed up on it.”
She studies the doll’s eyes. “That’s kind of pretty,” she says. The gold streak across its pupil looks purposeful, like a shimmer. “I think you should leave it.”
“Okay.” I hand her the doll. “My friend is here.” Her eyes fly around the room with the announcement. “I won’t leave until the girls are gone, but just leave the mess for when I get back. I’ll help you.”
“Sounds good.”
I head back out front. Behind me my mom says, “Okay, let’s get this dolly’s clothes on.”
Xander is staring at a business card again when I come back out.
“There’s no hidden message there,” I say.
He puts the card back down. “You don’t have a cell phone.”
“Did the card tell you that?” I clean up the paints, closing their lids, and then wrap the paintbrushes in a paper towel to rinse off in the back. I glance over my shoulder, hoping my mom doesn’t come out right now. I’m trying to figure out how to ask Xander to leave the store without making the reason obvious.
“You’re never holding one, you don’t have a square lump in the pocket of your jeans, and you haven’t given me the number.”
“Your observation skills are getting better. Although I don’t think the last factor proves your theory.” I put the paints in a plastic bin. “I’ll be right back again. Why don’t you wait for me in the car, okay?”
He doesn’t move.
“I shouldn’t be long. I’ll be right there.”
“Okay.”
I wait for him to walk toward the door then take the paintbrushes to the sink in the party room, rinse them with soap and water, then put them in a jar to dry. The girls are gathering up their things and comparing dolls. I hurry ahead of the group and when I round the corner see Xander still standing there. I stop in my tracks and the kids push around me. He smiles as the girls sweep by his legs. I whirl back around and maneuver through a few girls, blocking my mom’s view.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I think one of the kids left her jacket back there.”
“Okay. I’ll go grab it.”
One little girl stops by Xander. “You look like my Ken doll,” she says, staring up at him.
“I do?” he says.
She nods.
“Do you know who you look like?” He squats an
d starts to pull out his phone, but by this time I’ve reached him. I grab hold of his arm and drag him out the door.
“We have to go.”
He lets out a grunt. “Caymen, I was talking to that little girl.”
“Who is clearly delusional.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Clearly you look more like Derek, the brunette, than Ken.” I walk him all the way to his car and then say, “I’ll be right back.”
My mom has come out of the back room by the time I get inside. “I didn’t see a jacket back there.”
“I must’ve heard her wrong. Sorry.”
“Okay.” She sighs. “That was a fun party. The birthday girl couldn’t stop hugging her doll.”
“They seemed to have a good time.” I shift nervously from one foot to another. “Anyway, my friend is waiting. I’ll see you later?” I head quickly for the door.
“Hey, Picasso!” she calls.
I stop, thinking she’s seen Xander outside and is going to call me out. I turn slowly.
“You have paint on your face.” She sticks her thumb in her mouth then comes at me with it.
“Don’t you dare.” I wipe at my cheek.
She laughs. “Have fun.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’m sorry to leave you by yourself.”
“It’s fine, Caymen.”
“Thanks.”
Xander is sitting in his car fiddling with the radio when I get in. The smell of new leather assaults my senses. His car has more buttons and screens than I’ve ever seen in a car in my life.
He turns off the radio as I buckle my seat belt. “So you’re saying even if you had a cell phone, you wouldn’t give me the phone number?”
It takes me a second to realize he’s picking up our previous conversation. “I didn’t say that. I just said that wasn’t a concrete factor to prove your theory.”
He lowers the visor in front of me and flips open the mirror. “You still have paint on your face.” He runs a finger down my cheek, tracing the paint line. My breath catches for a moment when his finger seems to linger a second longer than necessary.
“Stubborn paint.” I turn my head to see the blue streak better. I rub it until it’s gone.
Xander opens the compartment above my knees and takes out a pair of leather gloves. As he pulls them on, I can’t help but laugh.
“What?”
“You have driving gloves.”
“And?”
“And it’s funny.”
“Funny adorable?”
I shake my head. “If you say so.”
He revs the engine a few times and then pulls onto the road. “Why do I get the feeling you didn’t want me to meet your mom back there?”
I thought it had escaped his notice. Apparently not. “Because I didn’t.”
“Well, that would explain the feeling.”
“She’s . . . Let’s just say I need a little time before you two meet.” Fifty years would probably do it.
“I’m sure I’d like her.”
I laugh. “You would like her just fine.”
He stops at an intersection and three women in brightly colored coats cross the street in front of us. “Wait, are you implying she wouldn’t like me? I’ve never met a mom who didn’t like me.”
My gaze rests on his gloved hands. “There’s a first time for everything.” I watch storefronts go by for a while then ask, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” Fifteen minutes later we pull up in front of The Road’s End hotel.
Chapter 14
“Your hotel? I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be a maid when I grow up,” I say to Xander as he drives through the parking lot.
“Even if you wanted to I don’t think you could. That’s a hard job.”
I start to say something sarcastic back but am too surprised by his comment to think of anything. He parks the car in front and gets out. I follow him.
“This is not hotel-related. Except for the fact that the hotel serves as the backdrop.”
“For REDRUM?” I ask in a croaky voice.
“What?”
“Haven’t you ever seen The Shining?”
“No.”
“Jack Nicholson? Slowly going crazy?”
“No.”
“Probably a good idea since your family owns a bunch of hotels. I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s a horror movie that takes place in a hotel. So. Scary.”
“What does red rum have to do with anything?”
“It’s murder spelled backward.” I finish with three warning beats: “Dum dum dum.”
He gives me one of his are-you-for-real looks again. “Sounds terrifying.”
“That’s it. You have to watch the movie. I don’t care if it makes it so you can never step foot in a hotel again. You’re watching it.”
He tosses his car keys to an attendant standing by the entrance and then opens the door. The lobby is gorgeous. Luxurious furniture, large plants, shiny tiles and . . . bigger than my entire apartment. The front desk people smile when we walk through. “Good afternoon, Mr. Spence.”
He gives a small nod and directs me down the hall by placing a hand on my lower back. A chill goes through me. We come to a double-door gold elevator and he pushes the Up button, dropping his hand from my back. There’s an actual elevator guy inside wearing a blue jacket with big gold buttons. He says hi to Xander and me and I wave. He presses the button next to the number twenty. The elevator goes higher and higher until it finally stops with a ding.
The hall we step into is wide and leads to only one door. I have no idea what could be behind the door of what is obviously the penthouse suite that could possibly have anything to do with discovering what I want to do for a living.
Xander seems excited, though, as he turns the knob and opens the door. I’m overwhelmed by a lot of chaos and noise. Big shaded white lights are being assembled by a couple of guys. A few women arrange pillows on the couch. A man with a large camera hanging around his neck walks around analyzing different locations. Every once in a while he takes out a black stick thing and pushes a button.
“What are we doing here?” I ask Xander.
“It’s a photo shoot. My dad wants some new pictures taken of the room for the site so he sent me here to oversee it.” He walks to a large hutch against a wall, removes a camera from a case, and attaches a lens. “You are going to shadow the photographer. You’ll be like his apprentice.”
“Did you warn him that some girl who knows nothing about photography is going to get in his way all day?”
“I did.” He steps in front of me and slides the camera strap over my head then frees my hair from beneath it. I try not to sigh. He smells like expensive soap and laundry detergent. “He was flattered someone wanted to learn from him.”
“If you say so.”
His cell phone rings and he turns away to answer it. “What do you mean ‘where am I?’” His voice has gone hard and cold. “Yes, I’m at the photo shoot. That’s where you asked me to be. . . . Yes, well today I decided to . . . Okay . . . Yes . . . No, I have other plans tonight. Fine.” He hangs up without saying bye.
I raise my eyebrows and look at his phone.
“My dad.” He shrugs like his coldness on the phone was just an act.
“Mr. Spence,” the photographer calls. “If you’re ready we’ll get started.”
“Just let me change.”
Change?
While he’s gone the photographer calls me over and shows me a few basic functions of the camera and how and when to shoot. Xander comes back out wearing a suit that he totally rocks. A suit, coupled with his conservative haircut, makes him look a lot older than seventeen. He picks up a magazine off the table and sits on the couch. Seriously, I’ve never seen someone look so good in a suit. The photographer takes a few shots and then starts directing him. After he takes a dozen or so he turns to me. “Why don’t you try a few while I set up the next scene?” And then he goes into the kitchen (the hotel room has a kitche
n) and starts moving things around.
“You didn’t tell me you were the model.”
“Didn’t I tell you my dad is making me the face of the business?” he says, and looks down. For the first time ever I see him blush. “It’s embarrassing but he’s found that people are more drawn to shots with life in them.”
“So these will be on flyers and things?”
“Mostly on our website, but yes, flyers, too.”
A website. Why didn’t we have a website for the doll store? I smile and put the camera to my eye. “All right, hot stuff. Work it.”
Looking at Xander through the lens of a camera is rewarding. I can do it without worrying about staring. As the day progresses I learn how to zoom in, focus on his smile or his eyes. His skin is amazing. His hair the perfect amount of shine and body. It’s just a little wavy, which, although it’s on the short side, makes it stand up perfectly.
I get to set up a few shots. I play with the light coming through the windows. First overexposing him, bathing his face in light. And then reversing the effect and backlighting him so he is like a dark shadow, all edges and curves. I get a few with the ocean in the background. The hotel room has the perfect view.
“Loosen up, Xander,” I say at one point.
“What? I’m loose.”
“You’re just so formal. You’re supposed to be on vacation in these shots, right? Act like it.”
“I’m in a suit. I’m probably actually at a business meeting or something.”
“A business meeting for uptight employees?”
“Hey now.” He laughs, and both the real photographer and I snap more pictures.
Just when I think the photographer has gotten all the pictures (and more) that he could possibly need, the hotel room door opens and a handsome middle-aged man walks in. I don’t need Xander to curse under his breath to realize it’s his father. The resemblance is obvious. They both have the brown eyes and the light brown hair, the high cheekbones and full lips. And they both carry themselves in exactly the same way: like they own the world. Xander’s father scans the room and stops on me.