by Kasie West
Chapter 15
Mr. Spence pauses on me for a full thirty seconds, taking me in from my six-month-old at-home haircut to my ratty Converse. Then he gives me a small nod of acknowledgment. I sense he thinks I’m an assistant to the photographer, and if Xander wants to play along with that, I don’t blame him.
Xander looks between his father and me. If I was so hesitant to introduce Xander to my mom, I can only guess how he feels about introducing me to his father. I keep my mouth shut and maintain a tight grip on the camera.
Mr. Spence spots the open laptop in the corner. The photographer, most likely realizing what that means, says, “They are the raw, unedited shots, but you’re welcome to look at the ones I’ve captured so far.”
Xander stands. “But either way, we’re done.” He walks to the bedroom, and right before he gets to the door, he looks back at me and says, “Caymen,” almost like he had expected me to know to follow him. I give him the Are you sure? look and he holds out his hand. My heart flips and I take a deep breath and walk toward him, but am not stupid enough to grab his hand when I reach him. I just walk past him and into the bedroom. He follows me in and shuts the door.
For some reason I’m out of breath.
The clothes he came here in are hung nicely over a chair in the corner and he walks over to them muttering something I can’t understand. As he slides out of his suit coat and starts to unbutton the shirt underneath, something hits me. What if I’m his signal: another one of the messages to his dad to show that he doesn’t want to be part of his father’s world, a pawn in his game of rebellion? Is that why he started coming around? Hang out with the poor girl. That’ll really get under his father’s skin. I turn to face the wall while he changes.
I slip the camera off my neck and trace my finger over the silver button on top.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m not changing in here. I’ll go in the bathroom.”
But when I turn back around, thinking I’m safe, his shirt is all the way unbuttoned. Regardless of the fact that his clothes are resting over his arm and he’s heading for the attached bathroom, my face reddens at the sight of his bare, nicely defined chest.
Even after the bathroom door clicks shut, my heart continues to beat an accelerated rhythm. I walk slowly around the room, trying to calm it. Xander will not have this effect on me. I won’t let him.
The furniture and bedding in the room are nicer than anything in my house. I let my hand trail over the rich material. When he comes out clothed I ask, “Xander, is this your camera or the photographer’s?”
“It’s mine.”
“Do you think I can borrow it for a few days?”
“Of course. For what?”
“I have a porcelain doll fetish. Thought I could take some high-quality pictures of them.”
He shakes his head. “And let’s try that again. For what?”
“I kind of like the website idea. Maybe it’s time our store has one.” It could possibly save us from financial ruin.
“Hmm. That doesn’t sound like the best way to show your mom you have no interest in the store.”
I shrug. “I’ll just set it up and have her run it. Bring her into the modern world.” Maybe a website could eventually take the place of me. People could place their own orders, we could make more money . . . then my mom could afford to hire a part-time employee. I try not to get my hopes up, because it could take months, but I like the idea.
He doesn’t answer but takes the camera from me and nods his head toward the door, behind which his father exists. How bad is this going to look when we walk out there, Xander fully changed?
He must sense my hesitation because he says, “I don’t care what he thinks, Caymen.”
Of course he doesn’t care what he thinks. He probably wants his dad to think something is going on between the two of us.
“Whatever.” I open the door and try to walk out as casually as possible. My face doesn’t get the memo and blushes. His dad is still studying the shots on the screen in the corner.
I turn back to Xander, wondering where to go. He’s holding the camera up and fires off a shot. I put up my hand. “Don’t.”
“Come on, you have to be on the other end of the camera now. I have to see if modeling is something you’d want to do.”
“Not even a possibility.”
“With those eyes?” He shoots another picture. “It is definitely a possibility.”
It may be my imagination, but he seems extra flirty. I swallow the lump in my throat. “These eyes are about to commit redrum.”
He laughs louder than I’ve ever heard him laugh, confirming my suspicion that he’s doing this all for his dad’s benefit. “Come on, Caymen, loosen up,” he says quoting me.
I cross my arms and glare at him. He takes one more shot with a laugh and then walks to the hutch, puts the camera in its case and then hands it to me. “Go crazy with your dolls.”
“Thanks.”
Xander’s focus changes to something over my shoulder. When I turn around I’m surprised to see his dad behind me. “I thought you were here with the crew. I didn’t realize you were one of my son’s friends.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Blaine Spence.”
I take his hand. “Caymen Meyers,” I barely choke out. I’m still shocked he wanted to meet me at all. Did he want the camera back?
“Good to meet you,” he says, seeming very sincere. Was he using reverse psychology on his son? Then he turns to Xander. “Alexander, a lot of those pictures are great.”
Xander’s face instantly hardens. “Good. So I’m done, then.”
“I’d like you to work with the designer on a web layout and flyer.”
“I don’t have a lot of time for that, what with school and stuff, but maybe I can find some time in a few weeks.” He puts a hand on my lower back as if trying to direct me out of the room fast, and I jump in surprise but then let him guide me toward the door.
“Nice to meet you,” I call behind me.
“Alexander.”
He stops. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Mr. Spence emphasizes the s on the word, and Xander’s jaw tenses.
“Yes?” Xander emphasizes the s even more.
“Your mother’s benefit is in four weeks. Your presence is required. And you will have the flyers ready for that night.”
We step out into the hall, and Xander says, “I hope you’re taking notes. I’m so much better at pissing off my family than you are.”
“I’m taking notes.” Find the last person on earth my mom (or in his case, dad) would want me to date and pretend to be dating him. Of course, my mom would actually have to know about it. But that’s where we differ. I’m not using Xander. “Extensive notes. When my mom tells me to do something”—I point over my shoulder to the door we just exited—“I do it and pretend to be mad about it.”
“So rude.” He shoots me a half-smile, which I’m angry about because I thought that bit of sarcasm was at least worth a full smile.
He hits the Down button on the wall next to the elevator. “So, photography? Your future?”
“On the maybe list.”
“I thought you might like it because you said you like science, which requires observing things and noticing detail. You’re good at that and those traits serve well when looking through a viewfinder.”
I look up at him in surprise.
“What?” he asks.
I realize I must be staring at him in shock and turn back to look at the blurry reflection of us in the gold elevator doors. “I . . . thanks . . . for noticing.”
He shrugs. “I’m trying to find something you’ll actually like. So you’re up next.”
“Yes, I am. And since we’re all into this matching up the career day to our traits I guess I should find a career for you that involves ironing T-shirts or using lots of hair product.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I use very little hair product.” We ride the elevator back down. “So next Saturday, same time?”
I try to mentally picture the calendar on the back counter of the store. I don’t remember if there’s a birthday party written in. “Yeah . . . yes,” I correct myself, giving him a smile to let him know I found his dad’s correction irritating as well. “I think that’ll work.” We wait while the car is brought around. “Oh, and wear your crappiest clothes.”
Chapter 16
I meet Xander on the curb Saturday, trying to avoid the same situation as last week. My mom seems to be buying the “kid from school” routine and until she forces me to introduce him I’m going to stick with it. He turns off the car and gets out before he realizes I’m standing there.
He’s wearing nice jeans, an even nicer T-shirt, and some loafer-type shoes.
I point at his clothes. “Seriously? Didn’t I say the crappiest clothes you have?”
He walks straight up to me. Normally he’s a whole head taller than me, but with him in the gutter and me still on the curb, my eyes are level with his chin.
“Hi to you, too.”
I haven’t seen him for a week. He was traveling for some sort of business stuff with his dad. For a minute I think he’s going to hug me and my breath catches, but then he looks down at his outfit. “These are the crappiest clothes I have.”
I give him a shove, satisfying the urge I had to touch him. “You’re full of crap.” But I know he’s serious. “Okay, we’ll have to make a pit stop on the way there.”
We drive several blocks, and I point to the Salvation Army parking lot. “First stop, new outfit. Come. Let us reclothe you.”
We step inside and the musty smell that only exists in the presence of old furniture greets me. It reminds me of Skye because we spend so much time in places like this. “Shoe size?” I ask.
“Twelve . . . Wait . . . we’re getting shoes here? I don’t know if I can wear shoes other people have worn.”
“I think you just made a philosophical statement. Now suck it up, baby, because it’s that or ruin your pretty shoes.”
“I’m okay with ruining my shoes.”
“Wait. Did I give you a choice? Never mind, you obviously can’t be trusted with choices. We are buying your shoes here.” I drag him to the shoe section. There are only three choices in his size. I pick him out the most hideous ones—high tops with neon laces. Then I put him to work trying on clothes.
While he’s in the dressing room I look through the sweatshirt section. Flipping through the rack, I stop. In between an awful neon orange sweatshirt and a University blue one is a black dress. It has hand-sewn beading, a sweetheart neckline, and cap sleeves. I check the size. It would fit me. I bite my lip and look at the price tag: forty bucks. That’s expensive for a thrift store. But it’s priced right. The dress looks vintage. The best find I’ve ever come across. The fact that it’s hidden between two sweatshirts makes me know someone else has their eye on it, too, hiding it in hopes to come back later. But forty dollars is way beyond my price point. I still haven’t been paid this month and I’m debating whether I’m going to cash my paycheck anyway. My mom can’t afford to pay me. My piddly paycheck won’t make much of a difference to my mom’s debt, but it would make me feel a little better.
“I’m trying not to think about who wore these before,” Xander yells from the dressing room.
“Do you need a tissue or are you going to stop crying? Come out here and let me see.”
I move the next sweatshirt on the rack to cover the black dress. Even if I had forty bucks, where would I ever wear a dress like that anyway? To some fancy event with Xander? I hope I’m not turning into that girl, the one who daydreams about a guy she can never have.
The dressing room curtain slides open and Xander steps out while still buttoning the bottom few buttons of the flannel shirt. “I feel like a dork.”
“It’s good to feel like a dork once in a while. Now you just need a sweatshirt.”
“I have my jacket.”
“You mean your really expensive trench coat? Yeah, not going to work.” I pull a gray one off a hanger next to me and throw it over two racks of clothes to him.
“Okay, I’m going to change back into my clothes now.”
“No. You’re wearing those out of here, boy. Come on, meet me at the register.” I give the dress one last look and then walk away.
The lady at the register gives us the Seriously? look.
“Here,” I say, turning Xander around. I pull the tag for the jeans off the back belt loop. Then I snag the one off the sleeve of the shirt and hand her the sweatshirt and shoes.
“That’ll be fifteen dollars,” she says.
Xander hands her a twenty. “Fifteen bucks? For all this?”
As we walk back to the car Xander is still surprised. “I bought a pair of socks last week for thirty bucks.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot.”
“Thanks.”
“Love your new shoes, by the way.”
He rolls his eyes. “If humiliation is a career, I’m going to tell you right now that I don’t think I’m interested.”
“But you’d be so good at it.”
We pull up to the cemetery and Xander looks at me. “What are we doing here?”
“Exploring our potential.”
“Here?”
“Remember, I’m morbid. Let’s go.” I brought him here for a couple of different reasons. One, because it’s free. I have no money to take him on the equivalent of some fancy photo shoot career day. And two, I honestly think Xander needs to get his hands dirty, relax a little. So far he’s being a good sport, but he has no idea what I have in store for him.
“Hi, Mr. Lockwood,” I say, walking up to the funeral home that’s slightly elevated from the plots. Skye’s dad is so cool. He looks like he should live in the middle of a graveyard with his long white hair and crooked hooked nose. I always wonder if he owns a cemetery because he looks that way or if he looks that way because he owns a cemetery.
“Hey, Caymen.” He holds two shovels. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yep.” I grab the shovels.
“Okay, I got it started for you so that you could get a sense of the dimensions. It’s past that oak tree down there.” He pulls a walkie-talkie from his back pocket and hands it to me. “Let me know if you have any questions.”
I hand Xander a shovel. “Okay.”
“Gravedigger?” he asks as we walk toward the site. “Really? You thought this was a serious option?”
“It’s not just grave digging, Xander. It’s about this whole place. Living a quiet life surrounded by peaceful death.”
“You are morbid.”
Dirt clings to his hair and is smeared across his cheek. But even in his present state his confidence and stiff posture come through. “We’re not going to be buried in here, right?”
“You caught me.”
“You didn’t think I’d do this, did you?”
Never in a million years. “I had my doubts.”
“I wish I would’ve brought some gloves.” He opens one of his hands and I catch the glimpse of a bloody blister on his palm.
I gasp. “Xander!”
“What?”
I grab his hand and study it closer, gingerly touching the broken skin. “You didn’t tell me it was killing your hands.” I had pulled my sweatshirt sleeves down over mine. His sweatshirt was a little on the small side.
“It’s not too bad.”
I unclip the walkie-talkie from the pocket of my jeans. “Mr. Lockwood, I think we’re done.”
“This hole isn’t nearly deep enough,” Xander says.
“I know. I just mean that we’re done.”
There’s a burst of static on the walkie-talkie, then Mr. Lockwood says, “You ready for me to send the tractor?”
“Yes.”
“Wait,” Xander says. “A tractor is going to come dig the rest of this hole?”
“Yeah, they haven’t hand dug graves in years. I just thought it would be fun.”
; “I’m going to kill you.”
“This would be the perfect place.”
He charges me, sweeping my legs out from beneath me with one of his feet but catching me then lowering me to the ground gently. I laugh as I struggle to get free. He pins my wrists above my head in one of his hands and uses his legs to pin mine. With his other hand he scoops up a handful of dirt and smashes it into my hair.
I laugh and continue to struggle but then realize he has gone still. I suddenly become very aware of every place his body presses against mine. He meets my eyes and his grip on my wrists loosens. A sense of panic seizes my chest and I grab a handful of dirt from above my head and smash it against his cheek. He lets out a groan and rolls away from me, to his side, propping himself up with one elbow.
I lay there in the soft dirt for a while. It’s cool against my neck. I can’t decide if I just prevented something from happening or if it was all in my mind.
Xander lets out a large sigh. “I needed this after a week with my dad.”
“Is he hard on you?”
“He’s hard on everyone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I can handle him.”
I’ve seen the way Xander “handles him.” He shuts down, becomes hard, closed off. But if that’s what gets him through, who am I to argue? I don’t deal with my mom in the healthiest ways either.
My back aches and lying down feels great. I close my eyes. It’s fairly peaceful, the silence seeming to press against me being surrounded by dirt walls like I am. Maybe here I can forget all the stress in my life. Forget that I’m a seventeen-year-old living a forty-year-old’s life. Thinking about it makes it feel like someone dropped two tons of dirt on my chest that I wasn’t expecting.
“What’s wrong?”
I open my eyes to see Xander staring at me. “Nothing.”
“It doesn’t seem like nothing. You’re off your game today.”
“What game is that?”
“The one where you take every opportunity you can to make fun of me.” He looks at his hand. “There were a million jokes you could’ve made about this.” He shows me his blister again.