My brother got a ride with Cruz this morning, so I don’t have to deal with his cranky ass, but Raychel isn’t much better after our late night. “Why are you wearing Andrew’s shirt?” I ask. It’s his best one, a souvenir Dad passed down from the band’s last tour, right before Jerry Garcia died and a few years before we were born. No way would I let anyone else wear mine.
“I like The Dead,” she says.
“Uh-huh.” I turn the radio down as she sips coffee from her travel mug. “Name three songs.”
“Um … ‘Truckin’,’ ‘Sugar Magnolia,’ and…” Raych glances out the window. I laugh. “Shut up!” she says. “I’m thinking!”
I don’t really care, but I give her a few obvious ones anyway. “‘Casey Jones’? ‘Friend of the Devil’?” Dad’s collection of Dead bootlegs is a wall of cassettes in his office. We weren’t allowed to touch them when we were little, and now no one touches them because we don’t own a tape player. “‘Touch of Gray’?”
“That one doesn’t count,” she says. “It sucks.”
I concede the point. I’m in a great mood, having woken up with her wrapped around me. When we were younger she had nightmares all the time, and sneaking into my room to sleep was the only thing that seemed to help. At first we figured that if my parents caught us, they’d understand; as we got older, we realized they’d probably kill us, but the nightmares got less frequent anyway, so it’s been a long time since she needed me. I’m not happy that her bad dreams are back, but I’m not unhappy to help either.
Because I don’t know what those nights mean to her, but last night made me realize they mean a lot to me … and make me hope we manage to pick colleges near one another, when the “no high school boys” rule won’t apply to me anymore.
RAYCHEL
The gossip Monday morning still involves me, but only in a roundabout way: Shane got a DUI after Music on the Mulberry, thanks to the beer I procured. I’m glad he didn’t narc on me, but I still choose to think of it as cosmic justice for his behavior at the pharmacy, enacted via my boobs. His daddy’s a bigwig at Walmart corporate so he’ll just end up with a slap on the wrist anyway.
But I feel bad for waking Matt up in the middle of the night like a little kid. Maybe cosmic justice is punishing me for that, because I walk into fourth-period calculus to find Carson sitting at the desk in front of mine. “Sanders,” he says, turning around in his chair.
“Hey,” I say slowly, trying to muster the slightest bit of cool. “What are you doing here?”
“I dropped Spanish and my schedule got moved around.” When I don’t ask more, he clears his throat. “Y’all have fun Friday night?”
I glance up. The question sounds innocent, but his smirk makes me think he’s implying that Matt and I went home for a different kind of fun. “It was fine,” I say, pretending to search my purse for something. “Did you have a good time?”
He shrugs. “It was all right. I didn’t stay long, since you left.”
I stare into the depths of my bag, hoping an escape will appear there. “I had to work the next morning,” I say. Ugh, why am I making excuses?
“Me too,” he says, and I look up in surprise. “I mow lawns on weekends.”
He waits for me to talk about my job, but thankfully Mrs. Nguyen calls class to order. Carson raps his knuckles once on my desk and turns around.
I try to hold my breath for the rest of the hour, but still end up with a headache from his cologne.
*
After school, Matt has an Outdoor Club meeting, so I catch the transit and try to find a job. Our little downtown has lots of good possibilities near home, but no one has openings—they’ve already hired college students. I even brave the patchouli smell of the natural foods store to apply there. “Can you work mornings?” the guy asks.
I shake my head. “I have class.”
“It’s cool, we can work with your schedule.”
“It’s not really flexible,” I say, disappointed. “I’m still in high school.”
He takes my application, but doesn’t leave me with much hope. Neither do the people at the bead shop, the used bookstore, the two banks, or the performing arts center. I walk down the hill to the abandoned railroad station that houses our favorite coffee shop, Coffee Depot. “Where’s your guy friend?” the barista asks, twisting her nose ring.
“Oh, I’m actually here to apply for a job.” She’s cute—I’ll have to tell Matt she asked about him.
“Right on. You know how to make a cappuccino?” she asks. I admit I don’t. “Well, no biggie—we’re not hiring right now anyway, but I’ll put your name down and let you know if something comes up. Hey, here,” she adds, holding out a to-go cup as I turn away. “On the house.” I try to argue, but she insists. “You look like you need it.”
She’s not wrong. With no car, not much experience, and a firing behind me, I’m not much of a prospect. I visit the boutiques on the historic square and even stop at a few restaurants, though I’ve never waited tables before. But nothing seems promising.
“Just apply at the mall,” Matt says Tuesday morning in the car.
I sigh. I’ve already explained this. “The transit schedule is weird on the weekends. It’d be hard to get out there.”
“The university?”
“They have work-study, they don’t need high schoolers.”
“Hmm.” He taps a finger on the steering wheel. “Let me think about it.”
I do nothing but think about it. A resale shop calls Wednesday, but they say never mind when I can’t make their early-morning interview.
Otherwise, it’s crickets.
Which leaves me with the realization that without a job, I also have no life. My mom is spending every free minute with her new boyfriend, and when Matt’s not at some kind of meeting, he’s at the gym, getting ready for a soccer season that’s months away. Asha and Spencer are still adjusting to their college schedules, and Andrew’s always hanging out with guys I don’t like.
I’m lonely, I realize. And it sucks.
*
Thursday in calculus, Carson greets me with his standard “Hey Sanders,” turning to straddle his chair. His continued friendliness has dulled my reaction to his presence from humiliated panic to embarrassed caution. “Nice shirt,” he says.
I look down. My V-neck looked fine in the mirror, but it leaves little to the imagination from his perspective. “Thanks,” I say, yanking it up.
He laughs. “Sorry. I just meant the color.”
His apology throws me. “It’s Asha’s,” I blurt.
“Oh yeah. Spencer’s girl. I remember her.”
I snort. “You just saw her two weeks ago.”
“I was distracted by someone else,” he says, resting his massive forearms on my desk. Crap. He’s been chatting me up every day since his schedule changed, and so far I’ve managed to avoid this conversation. But now I’m stuck. Mrs. Nguyen isn’t even in the room yet. All I can do is blush.
But miraculously, he moves on. “You gonna be at Cruz’s party tomorrow? After the game?”