“Keep your head down, sweetie.” The windows are tinted, but I don’t trust that completely.
Brenna is tucked in behind me as we pull onto Main Street, on our way to drop her off at the day care attached to the school. The principal called. Apparently having a dozen reporters and photographers camped outside your house isn’t a good enough reason to keep your five-year-old home for more than two days. Seeing as I’m getting charged for before-school day care today anyway, we may as well drop her off now. Keith promised that even the most aggressive reporters know little kids at school are off-limits, but he also lined up the guys on shift to patrol the area for lurkers.
Even with my warning, Brenna cranes her neck. “Are those the people who stand in front of the camera and tell the news?”
“Get down!” I follow my anger with a frustrated sigh. I’ve yelled at her more these past few days than in her entire life, and I feel terrible. “Some of them, yes.”
“Have they been out here all night?”
“Some of them have.” To Keith I grumble, “It’s six A.M. You’d think they have somewhere else to be.” They’re causing quite the buzz around town from what Keith said. Business at Rawley’s and the sandwich shop across the street has doubled with all the coffee runs and sudden interest in playing pool.
“What do they want?” Brenna chirps.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, biting back the irritation that threatens to erupt. It’s been an endless stream of questions, and I’m at the end of my rope despite telling myself over and over again that she’s only five and can’t help herself.
“They want to talk to your mom, Squirt.”
“Because you helped that man with the broken leg?”
I heave a sigh. “Something like that.”
Keith peers into his rearview mirror, watching her, smiling. “Your mom did something super brave. Isn’t that cool?”
“Yeah. But what do they want?”
“They want your mom to tell them what happened that night.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s their job. They want her to go out there and say hi.”
“Can we go say hi after school?”
“No, baby. We can’t.” There’s no way I’m letting my kid’s face end up on national television. “Listen, Brenna, if anyone tries to talk to you about me or about the accident, I want you to go straight to the office and tell Mr. Archibald. Okay?” She has the same principal as I did when I was in elementary school. He was old even back then.
“Okay, Mommy.” She’s so easy, so agreeable, like none of this is really a big deal.
Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m making things harder than I need to.
Heads begin to turn as I move through the main hallway before class, my backpack slung over my shoulder, shedding snowflakes with each step.
“That’s her,” I hear someone whisper as I pass.
I keep my head ducked until I make it to my locker. There’re only two minutes before the bell rings for homeroom—I intentionally waited outside as long as I could—and yet no one seems to be in any rush to get to class.
I hide within my winter jacket as I fumble with my lock, the shake in my hand making it extra hard to work the dial.
Another whisper carries, this one not so quiet. “I heard he turned her down. She’s making it all up to get back at him.”
I grit my teeth and ignore it. Finally, my lock pops free. When I open the door, a folded sheet of paper falls out, landing conveniently in my hand. My stomach churns as I open it up to read the female scrawl: As if Philips would touch a nasty ass like you. Stop lying, slut.
March 2010
“What did you expect? Even if that Mayberry asshat hadn’t told everyone that you work here, they would have figured it out by now.”
I stare out at Diamonds’ parking lot. There isn’t a single spot available. “It’s six thirty in the morning! I’ve never seen it so busy.”
“You’ve got every retired, unemployed, and shift worker within a twenty-mile radius here. Plus the star chasers. Plus them.” He nods toward the row of news vans parked and waiting, people leaning against the sides with phones against their ears, or cigarettes hanging from their mouths. In some cases, both.
I sigh. “Awesome. And this is how people will see me.” I throw my hands at my Diamonds uniform, a ’50s diner-style sherbet-orange-and-white dress. I clearly didn’t think this through.
“You know, for someone who likes to avoid chaos and attention, you sure picked a good time to go out of character.”
“I’m trying to avoid being homeless,” I remind him.
“I warned you . . . Lou warned you . . . Hell, even Misty warned you.”
He did. And they did. But . . . “They’ll figure out that I’m not going to talk to them and give up. They have to, eventually, but I can’t hide in my house until they do. I have to get back to my life.” Even with the money the regulars threw in, I’ll be dipping into my savings if I don’t get back, and soon.
“I can lend you some cash.”
“I’m not taking your money.”
“Your parents?”
I glare at him. “They just spent a small bundle on my SUV.” And I intend on paying every cent back. Brett’s text floats through my thoughts. I briefly concede that I must be an idiot for refusing his money so quickly. It’s followed by a wave of disappointment that I haven’t heard from him since Saturday.
Keith throws his hands up in the air in a sign of “I give up” and then, gunning the engine slightly, pulls his truck around to the back entrance. When he cuts the engine and unfastens his seat belt, I frown at him.
“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” He’s been cooped up in our house with us, sleeping in Brenna’s twin bed at night, running errands and helping me keep occupied while ensuring I stay away from the TV. Lucky for me, I’ve already used up my meager data plan so I can’t troll the Internet.
He starts his stretch of night shifts tonight, though. And he has court, so he won’t be around this afternoon, either. Truth be told, I’m a little nervous.
“What don’t I have to do? Eat breakfast?” He slides out and comes around to meet me in front of the truck. “No offense, but the fake Froot Loops won’t exactly sustain me until lunch.”
I give him a friendly elbow on our walk to the back door, side by side. “Thank you. For everything. You’re a good friend.” I punch in the security code—besides Lou and Leroy, I’m the only one who knows what it is—and lead Keith into the kitchen.
The familiarity of Diamonds hits me immediately—the low buzz of customers’ voices, the steady hum of TVs broadcasting news and sports, the printer churning out order after order, bacon sizzling on the grill, a smell that makes my mouth water. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve missed it.