by Sarah Dessen
“I’m going to Rice-Johnson,” I replied.
“It’s a private liberal arts college, her first choice, and she got a partial scholarship,” William added proudly.
“That’s great,” Bee told me, as Ambrose hit the switch again. Then again. Two pieces of tape popped out and he grabbed them, sticking them to his thumbs. “I went to Defriese. Majored in public policy. I loved college.”
“It’s just so hard to believe,” William told her. “I feel like she just started kindergarten. Time just flies.”
Oh, dear, I thought, hearing his voice grow tight as he finished this sentence.
“William, pace yourself,” my mom, also noticing, advised. “We’ve still got the whole night ahead of us.”
He nodded, even as he took out a folded tissue, dabbing at his eyes. If my mom and William were one person—and it often felt like they were, to me—she’d always been the head and he the heart. Sure, they were equally cynical when it came to their business and the main concept that underscored it. But if she could joke or reason away anything that made her feel, it was often because William took it to heart twice as hard. This was especially true when it came to me. First day of kindergarten, first sleepover, first time my heart was broken; it was William who sympathy cried or clung to my hand just a beat too long before I walked out the door. And thank God for it. I loved my mom, but with just her I might have never known what compassion looked like.
“Speaking of later plans, we need to move this along,” he said now, looking at the notebook open in front of him. “To recap, we’ve touched on the latest with the venue and catering, and I’ll reach out to these top three of the five ideals for the rehearsal dinner to check on availability. Are the guest numbers still pretty firm for that?”
Bee, in pearl earrings with her hair pulled back in a daisy-patterned headband, flipped open the cover of her tablet and swiped through a few screens. Beside her, Ambrose picked up the dispenser and turned it upside down, examining its base. “Seventy-eight with wedding party and all out-of-town family.”
“And you have sent invitations?” my mom asked.
“Four weeks ago,” Bee replied, sitting up straighter. It was obvious she sensed my mom’s apprehension about this event and was eager to please her. “So far we’re at two hundred RSVPs, with a final estimate of two hundred fifty.”
My mom glanced at William, who gave her a smug look. Big weddings meant big money and, with Bee’s fiancé, Kevin Yu, from a family that owned a big pharmaceutical company, big attention. Personally, I wanted to know if she planned to change her name, switching from Bee Little to Bee Yu, but had not found a way to work this into a meeting. Yet.
“You really think any place that you’d want to use can handle a party of seventy-eight on a Friday night only nine weeks out?” my mom asked, as Ambrose, apparently still fascinated by the dispenser, put it back on the table and pushed its button several times in a row: click, click, click.
“If there’s a possibility of a magazine spread, yes,” William replied, over the sound of the machine whirring, discharging tape pieces.
“You can’t make room where there isn’t any.”
“There’s always a way.”
In the midst of all of this, the machine started making a grinding noise. Then, a long squeak. We all looked at Ambrose, who reached out and hit the button again.
“I just feel that you—” my mom said, but that was as far as she got before Ambrose picked up the dispenser again, trying to turn it off. When he couldn’t, he stuck it in his lap, under the table, where it continued to grind louder and louder until I heard a pop. Suddenly there was a lot of tape on the floor at my feet, as well as a faint smell of smoke.
“Ambrose!” Bee screeched, losing her cool entirely. She whirled in her seat, snatching the dispenser from his lap. “God! Stop it!”
“I was just—” Ambrose said. Delicately, my mother reached down, pulling a piece of tape off her foot and putting it on her folder.
“I don’t care!” Bee said. “You’re always doing something and it’s never what you should be doing and now Mom’s had enough and I’m stuck with you so fucking shut up and sit there and don’t touch anything!”
Silence. Out of habit, I glanced at William, who looked both horrified and thrilled by this development. I had to admit I was, too. Bee cursing was wholly unexpected. My mom, however, was hardly fazed as she said, “All I’m saying is that I think you need to keep your expectations in check.”
At this, Bee burst into tears. As she put her hands to her pretty face, shoulders shaking, Ambrose patted her arm, then said to us, “It’s a stressful thing, a wedding.”
“Oh my god!” she screeched, wrenching away from him. She pushed back her chair, getting to her feet. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I need. . . .”
“Of course,” William said smoothly. “Restroom is around the corner. I’ll get you a water.”
I wasn’t sure that was going to help, especially after I heard how hard the bathroom door slammed a moment later. Nevertheless, he disappeared down the hallway with a bottle in hand, leaving me, my mom, and Ambrose alone. I looked down at the floor. Tape was everywhere.
“You know, Ambrose,” my mother said after a moment, “it would be a huge help to us if you didn’t drive your sister insane before August.”
Despite Bee’s breakdown and the tape explosion, there was only one thing I noticed as my mother said this: for the first time, she was talking in We when it came to this wedding. Bee was surely embarrassed. But thanks to said outburst, it looked like my mom was finally in.
“People never believe me when I tell them this,” Ambrose replied, folding his arms on the table. “But I’m not trying to annoy her. She’s just very sensitive.”
“You really think that’s the issue?” my mother asked.
He nodded, somber. “Always has been.”
“I heard your mother sent you here because she was so frustrated with dealing with you.”
“True,” he agreed. “And I wrecked her car. But in my defense, she is also very sensitive. I think it’s a genetic thing.”
Oh, for God’s sake, I thought, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Of course it was everyone else’s fault. Next he’d blame the tape dispenser. My mother, however, smiled at him, clearly amused. “Did I hear Bee say you need a job?”
“That’s what I’m told,” he replied.
“You’re told?”
“It’s actually more of an ultimatum,” he admitted. “Apparently I am both annoying and expensive.”
Instead of replying, my mom just studied him, one hand twisting the diamond necklace she wore every day. I didn’t like the look on her face even before she said, “How about this: you work for me this summer, and I’ll take your wages off my fee, which your mother is paying.”
“Really?”
“Mom?” I said, stunned.
Ambrose grinned at me. “Did you hear that? We’ll be co-workers!”
“But you have to actually work,” she told him, firm now. “I don’t do annoying or expensive. And you show up on time. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely,” he replied. “When do I start?”
“Now.” My mom pushed out her chair, then pointed under the table. “Pick up all this tape. Then come find me for a coffee order. I need caffeine.”
“On it,” Ambrose said, giving her a mock salute as she started into her office. I followed her, glancing behind us just before shutting the door to see him crouched down on the carpet, picking up the tape one piece at a time. He saw me looking at him and gave me a cheerful thumbs-up. Jesus.
“Are you crazy?” I said to her, closing the door. “Why in the world would you hire him?”
“It’s our job to keep brides calm and focused,” she replied, pulling her wallet out of her purse. “This wedding is a mess so far, and yet the only time I�
�ve seen Bee upset has been because of Ambrose. This way, he’s out of her hair and helping us at the same time.”
“No way,” I said, shaking my head. “You’ve never hired anyone on the spot like that. You background check the rare person you do take on. There’s no way you’d risk your name and your event just to keep someone busy.”
“I can’t do a good deed?” she asked, amused.
“You don’t do good deeds,” I said flatly.
“Hey!” she protested. I just looked at her. Finally, she sighed and said, “Okay, fine. I may have gotten a phone call earlier from Eve about how Bee was at her wits’ end with her brother and asking if, for an additional fee, we could divert him somehow.”
“She’s paying you to babysit him?”
“Not babysit. He’s working, or no deal. I told her that.” She slipped a twenty out of her wallet, handing it to me. “And I’m not going to trust him with anything crucial, God knows. Errands, physical labor, last-minute details, and coffee runs.”
I thought for a second. “But that’s my job.”
“Exactly.” She smiled. “And you are about to graduate and have your last summer before college. I’d like to see you actually try to enjoy it.”
“Do not do this for me,” I said, in a warning voice. “I’ve already dealt with him enough to know I’d rather work alone than with that kind of help.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. Then, before I could protest further, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to my forehead. “Give him this and the standard coffee order and point him toward Jump Java. Then you’re officially off duty. Okay?”
I wanted to keep at this, stop what would surely be a runaway train before it even had a chance to gain speed. But over her shoulder, the clock said four fifteen and I had a date to meet Jilly in line, Steve Baroff between us or not, in two hours. Plus, based on all I’d already seen of Ambrose Little, he wouldn’t need me to sabotage him: he’d do it himself. Probably before I even flipped my tassel.
“Okay,” I said, taking the bill from her. “It’s your funeral.”
“What a charming way to put it,” she replied. “Spoken just like a high school graduate.”
I rolled my eyes, reaching down to open the door. When I pushed it open, it banged hard against something on the other side. Which, I saw as I peeked around it, was Ambrose, who was still on the floor and, most likely, close enough to have heard everything. Whoops.
“I think I got it all,” he said now, not sounding offended at least. “Man, that is some sticky tape.”
“That’s why we keep it in the dispenser,” I told him as he got to his feet, picking pieces off his hands and dropping them in a nearby trash can. “My mom wants coffee. I’m supposed to give you her order and point you there on my way out.”
“Great,” he replied, so easygoing, like a person who’d never had a reason not to be. Of course he hadn’t heard what I’d said. Even if he had, I was sure he’d figure I was talking about someone else. Or that I was just sensitive. “Lead the way.”
“It may seem like just coffee,” I said, as we stood in an unexpectedly long line at Jump Java. “But nothing is just anything when it comes to my mother. That’s the first thing you need to know.”
He nodded. “She’s a tough nut, is what you’re saying.”
I looked at him. “Never call her that. Like, ever.”
“Noted.” He shook his head, that one curl bouncing off to the side. “You know, I’m getting the sense you don’t have a lot of confidence in my ability to do this job.”
“You’re correct,” I replied, as the line finally moved a bit.
He had the nerve to look offended. “Why? You don’t even know me.”
“Maybe, but let’s recap my experience with you so far. You delayed your mother’s wedding—”
“Which, in retrospect, might have been a good thing. Imagine if I’d been talking to Demi even longer? She might have come to her senses and saved herself a lot of anguish.”
“—and just today,” I went on, “you broke company property and made a client cry.”
“I made my sister cry,” he corrected me. “At the time, I was not yet an employee. Let’s be clear here.”
The line inched forward, slightly. “Do you always deflect anything that might make you accountable for a problem?”
“For some reason, blame is often directed toward me. I have to be vigilant.”
“For some reason?”
“Weren’t you going to give me the coffee order?”
My jaw clenched, hard, and I told myself to relax. When I couldn’t, I distracted myself by looking over the woman William and I had christened Phone Lady. Every weekday, no matter what time I came in for coffee, she was at that same single table, her laptop open, phone to her ear. There, she would talk, loudly, as if compelled to make everyone hear her end of whatever conversation she was having. Sometimes, it was about her work; she did some kind of medical record transcribing. More often, though, the talk was personal. Earlier in the week, for example, I’d learned both that one of her friends had recently gotten a breast cancer diagnosis and that she herself was allergic to wheat germ. And that had been a short line.
Sure enough, during a pause of the espresso machine, I could now make out her high, slightly twangy voice saying something about airline fares. I said to Ambrose, “William will always want a tall chai latte with skim milk. He’s the constant. It’s my mom that’s the wild card. Most days, she’s going to want an espresso with whole milk. If she’s really stressed, she’ll ask for a double. But if she snaps at you, just get a single. She won’t know the difference and it’s better for everyone.”
Ambrose didn’t respond, and I realized he was studying the pastries. Great. “Hello?” I said. “Are you even—”
“Tall chai latte, skim. Mom asked for a single espresso, so don’t have to make judgment call. Plus two chocolate croissants, warmed up so they’re nice and melty.”
I blinked, surprised he’d at least gotten some of it right. “I didn’t say anything about croissants.”
“Those are for us,” he said.
“I don’t want a croissant.”
“You seem a little crabby. It might help,” he advised. “Don’t worry, it’s on me. Although I might have to borrow a couple of bucks until payday.”
Later, I’d realize that this response pretty much summed up everything that made me nuts about Ambrose in one simple sentence. At the time though, I just stood there, unable to respond. Then my phone beeped. Jilly.
ARE YOU GETTING EXCITED? WORD IS PARTY AT THE A-FRAME WILL BE AMAZING. MAKING MEMORIES!
“Party at the A-frame, huh?” Ambrose asked, reading over my shoulder. “Where’s that?”
I jerked my phone to the side. “Seriously? Do you have any manners at all?”
“You’re the one who pulled out a phone during our conversation,” he noted. When I glared at him, he said, “You know, you really might want to rethink that croissant.”
“Next,” called the bearded guy behind the counter, a little older than me, whose preference for plaid shirts had made William christen him the Lumberjack. “Hey. How’s the wedding business?”
“Crazy as ever,” I said. I gestured at Ambrose. “He’s got the order. But you probably know it better than even I do.”
“Probably,” Lumberjack said. “But tell me anyway.”
“I’m out of here,” I told Ambrose. “Don’t forget extra napkins.”
“Okeydoke,” he said, as I turned away, toward the door. “Have fun at graduation!”
This last comment was said in such a cheerful and easygoing tone, the absolute opposite of how I was feeling, that I felt my jaw clench again. How on earth could someone be so immune to basic social cues, so entirely oblivious to how annoying he was? I was still wondering this as I pul
led the door open, Phone Lady’s voice again suddenly audible over other conversations, music, and the beeping register.
“. . . just one of those days,” she was saying. “And did you hear about the shooting in California? Five kids, they are saying. Five. That’s the most since—”
I shut the door so hard behind me it rattled the glass, not that anyone noticed. Everyone’s always in their own world, when it’s still an option.
CHAPTER
5
“SEE?” JILLY yelled. “Making memories! You and me! Just like the yearbook!”
At least, that was what I thought she said. It was hard to be sure, as we were in the center of a tightly packed crowd of people dancing and also screaming at each other over the thumping, bass-driven music. All this in the living room of an A-frame house that had apparently been the place to party for everyone at our school for the last year. Jilly had been saying hello to people all night. So far, I hadn’t recognized a soul.
But I was here, in the early minutes of my first full day as a high school graduate, a warm beer in one hand. Our commencement, held in an amphitheater at the U, had been long and dull, a fact made even more difficult by the hot, humid night. Each time I looked up from my place in the rows of chairs—Steve Baroff beside me, red-eyed, giggling occasionally—all I could see were people fanning themselves with programs, the movement back and forth almost hypnotic. I felt awake only during the few minutes I was on my feet, walking to the stage and then across it to get my diploma. The crowd had been told repeatedly not to cheer for individual graduates—a directive totally ignored, so I still heard William’s voice shouting “Bravo!” somewhere in the distance.
It wasn’t just the heat hanging over us. There was also that day’s school shooting, the details of which I’d done my best to avoid. This was not easy, as my classmates were discussing it as we lined up, and then the principal made mention of it not once but three times during his prepared remarks. I understood the reasons for this. It was the world we were living in, our reality, and as another public high school, we couldn’t pretend otherwise. There had been a time, not that many months ago, when I, too, would have been glued to the news sites on my phone or the TV, sharing with anyone each new detail of breaking news. But then, another had happened. And one more. Now knowing was just too much.