Well, where do I start? With just one touch, I can tell if you are stressed out or happy. With two touches, I can determine if you had a good childhood or a dysfunctional one. And if you let me hold on to your arm for a half hour or so, even though it might make me pass out, I could probably outline the top ten ways you are messed up. How’s that for an aptitude?
I’m tempted to write this, but instead I focus on my math skills. I write about how I was doing long division in preschool, how I rarely have to be “taught” anything when it comes to math: all you have to do is show me a problem and maybe give me an example and I get it. Not like I learn it. Not like I memorize it. I just understand it inherently and completely. I try to blend confidence and modesty with a sense of humor. I write about how when I was in grade school and most of my friends kept diaries or made scrapbooks of pop stars, I kept a notebook of math jokes and riddles: What geometric shape is like a lost parrot? A Polygon! or Why was the math book sad? It had too many problems. I talk about how, in a world of shades of gray, sometimes it’s nice to have black-and-white answers.
I write a brief, pared-down summary of my family history — parents died, Mom’s sister dropped out of college to take care of me. I leave out a lot: how she met and married the young pastor at her church, how they adopted me, their struggle with infertility, the quadruplet siblings that were the end result. That might all seem too unbelievable, like I’m just making stuff up for attention. So I give them the basics but try to downplay the drama of being an orphan. Don’t want to seem like I’m milking it for sympathy.
I read over my application and decide it’s about as good as it’s going to get. I impulsively hit Send before I can overthink it or delay any further. I’m exhausted from the effort and shut down the computer. The big scholarship application is done. The college applications will have to wait for another night.
Chapter 10
On Wednesday Charlotte stops by to pick me up, once again conveniently showing up a few minutes early. Today her hair is attractively messy in a way that screams Jessica has struck again. Lip gloss and eyeliner seem to be Charlotte’s new best friends.
Josh remembers her name (and its correct pronunciation) without any help. We all walk out of the room together, Josh politely holding the door for us. Charlotte giggles at something he says. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Charlotte giggle quite like this before. Or at least not since middle school.
Instead of having her drive me home, I fake that I need to get my dad’s car from church so she drops me off there. But rather than my dad’s car, I pick up the Loser Cruiser. I pull out the business card Zenn gave me, and head up the hill to the body shop.
I suppose I could call first, but the number on the card is clearly the shop’s number and he probably wouldn’t answer. The truth is I just want to see him again. I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled at school, but either he’s never there, or he’s some kind of phantom that apparates at will.
I pull the van into the parking lot and briefly check myself in the rearview mirror. Some days I don’t look in the mirror at all between when I get ready in the morning and wash my face at night. I just don’t think about it that much, which is unfortunate when your face is dusted with flecks of glitter from some three-year-old’s princess crown. Then, an occasional glance in the mirror might be a good idea.
But today there is no glitter. Just my pale but clear skin, relatively pretty blue eyes that tend to get lost behind my glasses, and a mouth that’s most interesting (and pitiful) feature is that it has never been kissed.
I climb out of the van and head into the shop. One of the garage doors is open and two guys are inspecting some damage on a car that appears to have hit a deer. A small tuft of fur is still stuck by the license plate frame. This unexpectedly makes my throat close up. I swallow to try to clear it.
The men look at me and one of them nods an informal greeting. Then they look past me at the Loser Cruiser and smile, nudging each other and making comments that I can’t make out. Funny that my van elicits more lingering glances than anything about me.
The shop is dingy and 100 percent man — from the three mismatched, dirty chairs that line one wall to last year’s sexy-tool-girl calendar attached to the top of the counter with tape, now curling up at the edges. No one has taken the time to just peel it off. My fingers itch to do it, but I know better. Even old tape can sometimes hold memories.
“Can I help you?” One of the guys from the garage has come in to see what I need. The name patch on the chest of his dirty shirt reads Dave.
“Um … I’m looking for Zenn?” I hold up the business card, maybe trying to prove that I’m here for official car business and am not just some girl stalking him. He might get a lot of those.
Dave nods and looks at the clock on the wall. “Calder, is Zenn comin’ in today?” he calls out to the other guy.
Calder yells back, “What is it, Wednesday? I think he’s at the mansion today.”
Mansion? Wait, he lives in a mansion?
“Right,” Dave says, more to himself than to me. “He’ll be in tomorrow. After four, four thirty, probably. Can I help you with something?”
I clear my throat. “He said he could paint our church van? With something a little less … butt ugly?”
Dave smiles and looks past me at my van again. “Yeah, I’m sure he can help you with that. We can paint it a solid color for … probably two grand? Anything Zenn does would be extra. He’d have to give you a quote on that himself.” Already I feel the pointlessness of this endeavor. Two grand just to paint it a solid color. Bible quotes and rainbows extra. Crap.
“Okay. I’ll see him tomorrow after school — I’ll just ask him then.”
“Right,” Dave says again. “Sounds good.”
“Thanks for your help.” I nod and turn toward the door.
“No problem.”
I decide to drive the scenic way back to the church, through the historic part of town. The houses along the main drag are huge and old, and I suppose there are a few you’d consider mansions. I wonder if Zenn lives here. He doesn’t strike me as the type of kid who comes from money — he doesn’t have that preppy, soft, spoiled look about him. But of course I don’t know anything about him, really.
At the church I go in to see my dad, whose car is still in the parking lot. Maybe if he’s heading home soon I can catch a ride.
“Any luck with the van?” he asks when I plop down on a chair in his office.
I shrug. “The guy I tutor wasn’t there. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.” I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my hands. “Is there any kind of … budget … for that kind of thing?”
“Budget? For the van?” He thinks for a second. “I suppose there is something for maintenance. I’m not sure how much. I can have Joanne check.”
“Could you?”
My dad looks at me kind of funny, like he senses there is more to this story than just my desire to get rid of the sheep. “I could.”
I nod and change the subject. “Are you going home soon? Or should I walk?”
“I can run you home. I told Mom I’d pick up KFC for dinner.”