“Oh. I just assumed.”
“Everyone does. My mom just kind of lost all faith in marriage after the divorce, you know? And Henry doesn’t really care either way. Even with a fifteen-year age difference, they just . . . work.”
“What about your dad? Or if that’s too—”
“No, it’s fine. Do you remember him? He was having an affair and he married his mistress, like, as soon as the ink dried. She looks eerily like my mom even. I guess he has a thing for pretty, petite white women. The crazy thing is that she and my mom are really close now.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“How does that work?”
“My mom’s happy. My dad set her free so she’d be able to find love, so she’s grateful. They’re friends too.”
“Your divorced parents are friends.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She sips her Coke.
“You get two families, and I don’t even have one.”
I can tell my attempt at a joke has failed when Jordyn’s face drains of all color. Well, more than usual.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” she says.
“It’s . . . fine.” I try to sound as “no big deal” as I can. I really wasn’t trying to make her feel bad.
After an awkward pause where neither of us knows what to do, I head back out to the studio. Just in time to receive instructions about which couch and backdrop to use for the next setup.
“Can you handle that while I do the outdoor shots?” Henry asks.
I nod.
“Jordyn, bring the reflectors,” Henry bellows.
She scoots past me to grab several gold and silver things that look like the shades you put in the car to keep the sun out. She purposefully doesn’t look at me. Damn it. The one person who didn’t tiptoe is tiptoeing. What the hell was I thinking?
? ? ?
Henry and the others return shortly, and then the Hightowers take turns changing clothes in the small dressing room. They’re going to do a Christmas photo to send to all their friends and family. That’s something my mom always wanted to do but my dad never allowed. He said we weren’t a family, we were a punishment. As if he blamed us instead of the alcohol for ruining his life—her for getting pregnant, and me for not being aborted or stillborn. It used to really hurt when he said shit like that, and I’d try my best to hide that I was crying, but my stupid little snotty nose and red eyes always gave me away and he’d call me a *, until I finally realized he wasn’t ever going to stop, and I learned to turn my hurt into anger and eventually aggression and use it on the field. Mom never figured out how to manage it, and it finally killed her.
Once the Hightowers’ session is over, Henry sends me to Starbucks for all of us. His treat.
The oldest Child of the Corn, the last to finish changing out of her Christmas outfit, is headed outside, so I hold the door open. I didn’t really notice her, aside from the creepy, vacant smile she flashed earlier. But now that she’s changed into jeans and a button-down shirt that’s straining against her ample chest, I realize she’s hot. As we round the corner toward Starbucks, she steps in my path, pulls a marker out of her purse, takes my hand, and writes her number across my palm. Then she takes my index finger in her mouth and sucks on it. I glance around to make sure her family isn’t seeing this, because I’m pretty sure they’d press charges.
“Call me,” she says, raising her eyebrows, before heading toward her mother’s voice coming from around the corner.
She’s hot in that all-American, girl-next-door kind of way. And if that little finger-sucking display is any indication of how fun she might be, perhaps I will call her. I glance down at the ink on my hand. Ali. With a heart above the i.
? ? ?
“Thanks for getting the door,” I grunt as Jordyn watches me struggle with the coffees. I set the drinks on the counter, hand hers over, and go to take Henry his, when she grabs my hand and flips it over.
“Ali? There’s no Ali at this Starbucks.”
I smirk. “Hightower.”
“Too bad you have a girlfriend,” she says.
“So?” I pull my hand away and take Henry his coffee.
Jordyn doesn’t really talk to me for the rest of the day. Whatever.
SIX
Monday, at lunch, I spot Sheila gesturing wildly as a few cheerleaders giggle, following her into the cafeteria, and I suddenly have an overwhelming need to be anywhere but here.
One of the guys I’m sitting with is in the middle of a boring retelling about his weekend hookup when I grab the remainder of my sandwich and throw my bag over my shoulder, slipping through the crowd, hoping to make it out before Sheila spots me and makes a scene.
I head upstairs. The art students have staked their claim on the locker bay with the benches. So I head down the back stairs that dump me out near the auditorium lobby. It’s empty, so I go all the way to the far end and resume my lunch in peace.