I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, she disappeared from the window, a pink blur.
A second later, the back door creaked open, and she scrambled inside. "Owen, oh my God!" she said, still at full, excitable volume. "You didn't tell me you were friends with Annabel Greene!"
Owen glanced at her through the rearview. "Mallory," he said, "take it down a notch."
I started to turn around to say hello, but she was already leaning forward, poking her head between my seat and Owen's, so close to me I could smell bubblegum breath. "This is unbelievable," she said. "I mean, it's you!"
"Hi," I said.
"Hi!" she shrieked, then jumped up and down a little bit in the seat. "Oh my God, I love your work. I really do."
"Work?" Owen said.
"Owen, come on." Mallory sighed. "She's a Lakeview Model, hello? And she's done tons of local ads.
And that commercial, you know the one I love, with the girl in the cheerleading uniform?"
"No," Owen said.
"That's her! I can't believe this. I can't wait to tell Shelley and Courtney, oh my God!" Mallory grabbed her bag and unzipped it, pulling out a cell phone. "Oh! Maybe you can say hello to them, that would be so cool, and—"
Owen turned around in his seat. "Mallory."
"Just a sec," she said, pushing buttons. "I just want to—"
"Mallory." His voice was lower now, more stern.
"Hold on, Owen, okay?"
Owen reached out, taking the phone from her. She watched it leave her hands, eyes wide, then looked up at him. "Come on! I just wanted her to say hello to Courtney."
"No," he said, putting the phone on the console between us.
"Owen!"
"Put on your seat belt," Owen told her as he pulled away from the curb. "And take a breath."
After a short pause, Mallory proceeded to do both of these things, audibly. When I glanced back again, she was sitting there, in full pout mode, her arms crossed over her chest. When I looked at her, she brightened up immediately. "Is that a Lanoler sweater?"
"A what?"
She leaned forward, smoothing her fingers over the yellow cardigan I'd thrown on that morning. "This.
It's gorgeous. Is it a Lanoler?"
"You know," I said, "I'm not—"
Her hand moved to my collar, pulling it down to check the tag. "It is! I knew it. Oh my God, I want a Lanoler sweater so bad , I have forever—"
"Mallory," Owen said, "don't be a label whore."
Mallory dropped her hand. "Owen!" she said. "R and R."
Owen gave her a look in the rearview. Then he sighed, loudly. "What I meant to say, Mallory," he said, sounding pained, "is that your focus on labels and material goods troubles me."
"Thank you," she replied. "And I understand and appreciate your concern. But, as you know, fashion is my life."
I looked at Owen. "R and R?"
"Rephrase and Redirect," Mallory told me. "It's part of his Anger Management. If he says something inflammatory, you can tell him it hurts your feelings, and he has to say it another way."
Owen was looking at her through the rearview, a flat expression on his face. "Thank you, Mallory," he said.
"You're welcome," she replied. Then she smiled at me, big, and bounced in the seat again.
For a second, we drove in silence, which gave me a moment to catch up, or try to, with all this newfound knowledge about Owen Armstrong's personal life. So far, only the fact that he'd been in Anger Management wasn't a surprise. Mallory, the music, and, of course, the fact that I was privy to either of these things were shockers in the biggest sense of the word. On the other hand, I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting. I mean, he had to have a family and a life. I'd just never really taken the time to picture it.
It was like when you're a little kid and you run into your teacher or librarian at the grocery store or Wal-Mart and it's just so startling, because it never occurred to you they existed outside of school.
"So I really appreciate the ride," I said to Owen. "I don't know how I would have gotten home otherwise."
"It's no problem," he said. "I just have to make a couple of—"
This thought was interrupted, however, by the sound of Mallory sucking in a breath. "Oh my God," she said. "I'm going to get to see your house ?'
"No," Owen said curtly.
"But we're taking her home! I'm here!"
"We're dropping you off first," he told her.
"Why?" she said.
"Because," Owen told her as we moved through an intersection, turning off the main road, "I have to go by the station, so Mom said to bring you by the store."
Mallory sighed, sounding pained. "But Owen—"
"No buts," he said. "It's already decided."
Another thump as Mallory slumped, dramatically and dejectedly, against the seat behind her. "It's so not fair," she said a second later.
"Life isn't fair," Owen told her. "Get used to it."
"R and R!" she said.
"No," Owen said. Then he reached forward, nudging up the volume on the radio, and the chirping started up again.
We drove along with just the Mayan chants for a few minutes, long enough for me to actually start to get used to them. Then, suddenly, I felt breath in my ear. "When you did that commercial," Mallory asked, "did you get to keep the clothes from that?"
"Mallory!" Owen said.
"What?"
"Can you just relax and listen to the music?"
"This isn't music! This is crickets and screaming." To me she said, "Owen is a total music Nazi. He won't let anyone listen to anything other than the weird stuff he plays on his radio show."
"You have a radio show?" I asked Owen.
"It's just a local thing," he told me.
"It's his life ," Mallory said dramatically. "He spends all week getting ready for it, worrying about it, even though it's on when normal people aren't even up yet."
"I'm not playing music for normal people," Owen said. "I'm playing music for people who are—"
"Enlightened, we know," Mallory said, rolling her eyes. "Me personally? I listen to 104Z. They play all the top-forty stuff, lots of good songs you can dance to. I like Bitsy Bonds. She's my favorite singer. I went to her concert last summer, with all my friends? It was so fun. Do you know her song 'Pyramid'?"