I wait for him to apologize for what he said, because there’s no way I’m going to make the first move.
But the longer we sit there, I realize Charlie’s not going to either.
I feel my bottom right eyelid start to switch, and I squeeze it hard, willing it to stop, and focus instead on carefully chewing my cereal.
After a few more minutes of nothing but the sound of cereal being consumed and Mustard chirruping at birds in the backyard, Charlie stands and brings his bowl to the sink. He turns to me, expressionless.
“Thanks to you, I have therapy today after tutoring, so I can’t pick you up until at least six.”
I try to ignore the knot in my chest. “I don’t need you to drive me anymore. A girl from the program can pick me up and drop me off for the rest of the summer. So feel free to take your time at therapy. I figure you need it.”
Charlie flinches. Good. I can hurt him, too, I think, and for a brief moment I feel satisfied.
And then the guilt starts to seep into my edges.
He grabs the car keys without looking back, mumbles, “Later,” and is out the door.
I wait until I hear the garage shut behind him before I let my breath out.
I did it.
I pulled off the first step in freeing myself of the internship.
I wait to feel giddy or relieved, but I can’t shake the memory of the wounded look on Charlie’s face when I made the therapy crack.
I stand, dump my leftover cereal milk in the sink, and then jog upstairs. I change out of my black pants and navy shirt into my favorite light-blue-and-white spaghetti-strap sundress—something I never could have worn to intern at the hospital.
Mustard pads into the room, surprised to see me there, and makes little cat chirps as he winds himself around my legs, his purring audible.
“I’m happy to be here too, buddy,” I say, bending down and giving him a vigorous chin rub. A blue jay outside my window catches his attention, so he leaves me, springing up onto the windowsill.
I take in my breath, shake off the bad feelings. I’m not going to let Charlie ruin my day.
First things first.
I pull up my laptop and start an e-mail to the program director of the internship.
The words come out without a second thought, no pausing, no second-guessing: Dear Dr. Gambier,
After speaking with my doctor yesterday, I regret to inform you I have to withdraw from the Children’s Hospital internship. What I thought was a twenty-four-hour virus has just been diagnosed as mononucleosis. Since I’m contagious for the foreseeable future, I can’t in good conscience continue to participate in the program. I’m so sorry for any inconvenience this may cause, and I truly regret I won’t be able to benefit from such an amazing program.
Sincerely,
Parker McCullough
I hit send and slump back against my chair, light-headed with relief.
I did it.
With one e-mail, I wiped out my summer plans, and instead of being completely terrified, I feel kind of awesome.
This is the feeling I was waiting for.
Mustard has fallen asleep in a ray of sunlight on the windowsill, his tail waving lazily, content.
Next up: replying to Em’s e-mail.
Em!
London sounds awesome. I’m so happy for you.
Have you met any charming British girls? Even if you do, you have to come back to the States, remember? You promised. Did you go to the Tower of London? Did you ride the Eye?
I pause.
Nothing much here, except AND YOU CAN’T TELL ANYONE THIS . . . I quit my internship. You were right: I just think I need a break this summer before the fall. But I haven’t told my parents or Charlie—they’d freak—so if you randomly run into any members of the McCullough family in Europe (haha), not a word, ’kay?
xox, Park
At the window, Mustard’s paws and whiskers twitch, like he’s having a dream about chasing birds.
I hit send.
Another rush of relief moves through me, taking with it the last of the lingering Charlie feelings.
This is Brand-New Me.
No internship.
A big beautiful summer ahead of me.
Anything and everything.
Now, to find my new summer job.
Twenty-Two
NEW ME IS FLOUNDERING.
I’ve spent the past two hours canvassing any business within walking distance that my family won’t frequent during the day and that might be hiring. So far, I’ve been shot down by the vegan restaurant, a stamp and scrapbooking store, a children’s play zone, the library, and the ice cream store Serendipity.
Turns out, as at least three different people tell me, the last day of May is way too late to line up a summer job—have I tried Kings Island Amusement Park yet?
I sit on the bench outside Serendipity, trying to enjoy my scoop of chocolate peanut butter ice cream, wishing I’d had my internship epiphany before I turned down babysitting the Delaney boys, and pretending my eyelid isn’t twitching again.
I’ve clearly made a hideous mistake. I debate writing Dr. Gambier back, telling him the doctor misdiagnosed me and I’m actually not contagious, it’s a miracle, and can I come back?
But just thinking about walking through those doors again?
No.
I toss the last of my ice cream in the garbage and start walking home.
I slow as I pass the Float. There’s a small line forming for the lunch crowd, and I’m wondering if Finn is working when my eyes rest on the small white building next door, the one with the spray-painted sign out front that says CARLA’S CERAMICS, and in the front window, scrawled in big red letters, HELP WANTED.
I remember Finn’s comment about his friend Carla needing a studio assistant and realize now that if anyone put two and two together, the store signage looks a lot like all of those messages showing up on bridges around town.
This must be the place.
I know nothing about ceramics. But at this point, what do I have to lose?
When I enter the studio, a loud bell jangles above me. Three older ladies turn to look at me. They’re all sitting on stools around the tables and seem to be in the middle of painting mugs.
“Hi?” I say tentatively, looking for someone in charge. “I’m here about the sign?” I cringe internally at the unwelcome return of the question mark.
“Carla!” yells a stout white woman with wild, uncombed gray hair. She is wearing a garish flowered muumuu. “Someone here for you!”
A voice yells, “Just a minute!”
“Harriet, you don’t need to be that loud,” says a tall, thin white woman elegantly decked out in pearls and lavender with matching lavender hair. Her sleeves are neatly rolled back, and her posture makes me feel exhausted just looking at it.
To my surprise, the loud muumuu woman—Harriet—gives Lavender the finger, and Lavender frowns, like she’s just smelled spoiled milk.
The black woman sitting next to Lavender is wearing a yellow shirt, red pants, a bright-orange scarf, and a huge sun-shaped brooch. She’s looking anxiously between Harriet and Lavender, and I get the feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve fought.
I step farther into the shop, taking in the surroundings. The space is bright, large windows letting in the morning sun, a tangle of hanging plants growing wild under the skylight. There are shelves of white unpainted ceramics lining the front: mugs and plates and plaques, but also statues—frogs and cats and puppies.
That’s when I notice the fourth woman. She’s sitting at a table by herself in the back, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a blank mug and a paintbrush on the table in front of her. She’s slight, short silver hair clipped close, pale white skin, and she’s staring out the window at the creek behind the studio, a dreamy lost look on her face. Her expression reminds me of Grandma Rose in the months before she died, how she got quieter and quieter, not always completely with us.
“Does it still smell like wet dog? You can tell me the truth.”