I order a black coffee and when the barista asks if that’s all, I find myself ordering a tall white chocolate mocha, Jordyn’s drink of choice. It’s more than I wanted to spend, but I’ll just snack on whatever’s in the kitchen for lunch and live on ramen and beans this week.
I set the coffee next to Jordyn, who clasps her sketchpad to her chest like it contains top secret military codes or something, and head back to my computer. She doesn’t thank me, not that I expected her to, but she does drink it.
I waste time on the Internet reading about how screwed up the world is, until I notice that Jordyn’s not attempting to murder her keyboard anymore.
Taking a deep breath, I brave it. “So what happened?”
Nothing.
I go over to examine the jacket, now hanging on the back of her stool. “Damn. What is this? Permanent marker?”
“Try oil-based paint marker.”
“Shit.” The leather is old and worn-in and the white paint has worked its way deep into the pores. “Who would do this?”
She jumps up from the stool and gets in my face fast. “Basically, you did this!”
I stagger back. She’s small but very scary.
“Your little cheerleader bitch did this because you were talking to me! So the way I see it, you owe me a fucking jacket! Too bad it’s irreplaceable!” She storms off toward the kitchen. “ASSHOLE!”
Shit. Sheila did this? Because she thought I was talking to Jordyn?
I pull the jacket off the stool and really look at it. The label is in Italian. It’s the smoothest leather I’ve ever touched. It must’ve been really expensive.
I could kill Sheila. Who does that? Who does something this mean to a complete stranger?
I have to sit down. I’m shaky and I’m starting to feel sick.
Why did I have to mess with Jordyn at school? I should have just left her alone. But I had to push her buttons. I had to get her to treat me . . . I don’t know. I’m such a selfish prick.
And the really messed-up thing is that it feels nice, her being angry at me, me feeling bad. It feels good.
I know what I need to do. I need to replace it. And there’s only one way I can possibly make that happen: Dip into my emergency funds. I’ve got close to a thousand dollars stashed away in the box with Mom's pictures.
I look behind me, then write down all the information on the tag and tuck it into my pocket just before Jordyn returns.
I want to apologize. I want to tell her my plan. But I know she doesn’t even want to hear the sound of my voice right now.
I head to the kitchen in search of “lunch.” A Coke, an apple, a yogurt, and a handful of chips. I eat over the sink. And even though Henry told me to help myself to anything in the kitchen, I jump like I’m doing something bad every time I hear a noise.
Henry should be here soon and then I’ll have a purpose or at least a distraction. I just hope Jordyn doesn’t tell him to fire me. I haven’t heard back from any of the other places I applied. I’ll be so screwed if I lose this job.
? ? ?
When the door chimes, I head into the studio.
Henry greets me with his usual shoulder pat and asks how I’m doing. I lie and tell him I’m good.
“Did you bring the clothes I asked you to bring?” he asks.
“They’re in my car.”
“Go get ’em so I can see what we have to work with.” He heads to his storage closet and punches in a code—this is where he keeps all his cameras and lenses.
“You really don’t have to do this, you know. I mean, it’s nice of you to offer, but . . .”
“I told you. I need to test the new kit. You’re doing me the favor. Now, go get your stuff and don’t make me ask you again.”
I feel like such an asshole.
Jordyn’s face contorts in confusion when I return from my car with my clothes. I can tell she wants to ask, but she’s still too pissed.
I hope she doesn’t come investigate while he’s taking pictures.
Henry smiles widely. “You remembered about the blue, I see.”
I nod. But actually I didn’t remember him saying anything about blue. I just like blue.
“Start with the blue shirt.”
I shrug, pull my T-shirt off, and put the blue shirt on.
“Yep. Looks good, but did you dig it out of the bottom of your hamper or what? We’ve got an iron back in the kitchen.”
I feel my face get hot. I’m not sure how to tell him that the one time I tried ironing after my mom died, I ruined my shirt. It’s not that I don’t know how to use an iron, it’s that . . . Okay, whatever, I don’t know how to use an iron.
All of this must be transparent on my face, because Henry bellows, “Jordyn! Help us a minute?”
Great.
She stomps out from the front and awaits instructions, making sure to only acknowledge Henry.
“It seems this poor boy here needs a lesson in ironing. Maybe you can educate him while I set the lights?”
“Why?”