? ? ?
My phone wakes me just after five p.m. I don’t even remember falling asleep. Thank god someone woke me up before Dad came home because A) I’m on the couch, B) my bedroom door is wide open, and C) from the pile of junk food wrappers and empty soda cans on the coffee table, it’s pretty obvious that I didn’t go to school today.
“Hello?” The number is one I don’t recognize.
“Hey.” The voice sounds worried. “It’s Jordyn.”
Long pause.
“I got your number from your paperwork,” she says. “When you didn’t come to school . . . I . . .” She exhales heavily. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. So, are you?”
“I’ve been better,” I say. “I probably won’t be there tomorrow, or maybe for the rest of the week.”
“Because of your former football friends?”
“N— Um, not entirely.”
“You don’t . . . um . . . You want me to let you go?” Jordyn asks.
I sigh. I’m not sure. It is kind of nice to talk to someone. “I got fired today.”
“Fired? From the dog shit thing?”
“Yep.”
“How does one get fired from picking up dog shit?”
“One would have noticeable bruising from fighting and look, and I quote, ‘up to no good.’”
“You’re kidding.”
“I never kid about dog shit.”
She laughs. “Well, we can carpool again. You know, so you don’t have to spend money on gas and stuff. If you want.”
“So, what? Are we, like, friends now?”
“I’ll have to get back to you.” I can hear her smile. It almost makes me smile myself. But then I hear a car outside and jump off the couch.
“I gotta go,” I say, hanging up. “Captain!” I quickly gather my trash and stand at the door leading down to the basement, frantically signaling with my free hand for the damn dog to move faster. As soon as he’s in, I lock the door. Just as the front door slams. Now I’m trapped for the night. And goddamn it if I’m not starving. I wonder if I’d fit through Captain’s new window exit. With my luck I’d probably get stuck.
EIGHTEEN
I feel like a complete ass perusing the makeup section at the drugstore, but I can’t go to work looking like this.
Yeah, I skipped school again, but now that I have no second job, I can’t afford to not go to the studio.
“Can I help you with anything?” a woman asks from behind me as I hold my hand up to the various shades of Cover Girl.
I turn with a sheepish smile, dialing up the ol’ Tyler charm.
She’s older than me, but not by much—probably just out of college and realizing that a bachelor’s degree doesn’t mean shit these days.
“I see.” She raises an eyebrow. Then she flips her red hair and places her hand on my shoulder. “I hope she was worth it.”
“It was a football thing.” I shrug with a smile.
I can see she’s happy my fight wasn’t about a girl. She steps closer and grips my chin with her thumb and forefinger, tilting my face down. Her brows furrow. “I think it might be too dark to cover. And there’s not much that’ll disguise the swelling, but let’s see if we can make it less . . .”
“Disgusting?”
She laughs. “I was going to say obvious, but yeah, that too.”
She reaches across me and picks a color I think looks way too tan, and then with the tip of her finger, she dabs a little under my eyebrow, a particularly gruesome part of the bruise.
“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” she says.
She kind of is, but I don’t say anything.
“Hmm. I don’t know. It’s sort of helping, I guess . . .” She looks around and then walks off down one of the aisles, returning with a bright pink handheld mirror.
“See?” She hands me the mirror. “It’s not as black as it was.”
It’s true. I just wish there were a way to erase it completely. “Sold,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem. Try not to get into any more fights. Hate to see that pretty face ruined.”
“Promise.” I smile at her one last time and then I go to pay for my makeup. Like a man.
The cashier, an older woman, rings me up with a scowl. I don’t bother trying my charm on her. She can judge away.
In the car, I attempt to mimic what the redhead showed me, but it ends up cakey and streaky. If anything, it’s making the damage more obvious. I consider going back in and talking the chick into helping me, but then I notice the time. I must have been standing there for a good twenty minutes.
Screw it. I don’t think Henry’s the type to get all bent out of shape over a bruise.
? ? ?
Henry’s at the counter playing around with a retouch and doesn’t look up from the screen when I come in. He’s working on Ali’s pictures.
“Grabbing a Coke. You want anything?” I call as I walk through the curtain.
“Stuff’ll kill ya,” he says. “Bring me one.”
I set his Coke on the counter and watch him work, making sure to keep my bruised eyebrow on his far side.
“Is she coming in tonight to go over her pictures?” I ask.