The Distance Between Us(18)

“Are you trying to get out of the first career day?”

“I work Saturdays.”

“Time to start sending different signals.”

I picture our monthly calendar on the back counter. Remember filling it in with my mom at the beginning of the month like we always do. “We have a party booked. There’s no way I can leave her alone.” But maybe after the party . . .

He doesn’t say a word, just gives me a raised eyebrow look. The pressure from the burden resting on my shoulders intensifies and anger surges through me. Why am I in charge of my mom’s store? Why don’t I have any choices about my future?

“Okay, one o’clock.”



Saturday comes and I still haven’t mentioned the outing to my mom. My short burst of anger had melted into guilt. My mom is stressed and the store is broke. This isn’t the right time to rebel. Would there ever be a right time, though? One afternoon isn’t going to equal the ruin of the store . . . at least I hope it won’t.

The schedule confirms one birthday party from ten to noon. That should be perfect to help and then be done just in time to go with Xander. To go with Xander. On a date. Is that what this is? I try not to smile but my face seems to want to at this thought. I remind my face that Xander called it a career day and that seems to help.

My mom is in the back setting up the party while I’m watching the store. I know I need to talk to her, but I’m stalling. That guilt thing is gnawing at my gut. Nobody is in the store so I meander down the short hall and watch my mom set out little doll clothes on the table.

She turns to grab another stack and sees me. “Hey.” She glances over my shoulder. “Did you need me?”

“No. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need my help.” You are a huge wimp, Caymen.

“I’m good. Do you have all the paints ready out front for the eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I think we’re set.”

“Okay.” I walk toward the front but force myself to go back. She’s at her task again. I find it so much easier to talk to the back of her head. “Um . . . at one o’clock I’m going out with a friend if that’s okay.”

She straightens up and turns to face me, brushing off her hands. For seventeen years I’ve always waited until after the store closed to do anything. I’ve scheduled my life around store hours. All to avoid what I thought would be a look of disappointment if I asked. What I see makes me feel even guiltier: exhaustion. It’s set in the crease between her eyes, the downward tilt of her chin. But not in her voice when she says, “Of course, Caymen. Have fun. What are you and Skye doing?”

“No, it’s not Skye. It’s . . . just a friend from school.” I’m not quite ready to explain to my mom why I’ve decided to go against everything she stands for and everything I’ve always agreed with to hang out with King Rich himself. She doesn’t need the added stress in her life right now. What’s the point anyway when in a few weeks Xander will be done seeing how the other half lives? He’ll get bored with me and move on, looking for his next taste of excitement.

She goes back to her task. “One o’clock.”





Chapter 13



When the ten little girls come into the store, I direct them to the back and don’t see my mom again until she starts bringing the dolls out and telling me the eye color attached to them. I focus all my energy on staying in the pre-etched lines of the dolls’ eyes, adding green and black. Someone has asked for brown eyes so I apply a dark coat of brown. Then I squeeze a little gold onto the plastic tray and pick up the smallest paintbrush. Concentrating hard, I add little specks of gold on the brown.

The bell on the front door rings and I jump, sending a gold streak across the black pupil. “Crap,” I breathe out.

“I’m a little early,” Xander says when I look up, surprised.

The clock on the register says twelve thirty. The party was supposed to be done a half hour ago. I hadn’t realized it was so late. Had I noticed I would’ve gone to the back and hurried them along, like I have to do a lot.

He walks closer and rubs a finger across his cheek. “You have something on your face. Paint maybe?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I wipe at my cheek.

“It’s still there.”

He’s walking closer, and I realize I’m still holding the paintbrush with the gold paint and the doll with the gold-flecked eyes sits on the counter in front of me. “Will you watch the store for a minute?” I blurt out, jumping off the stool, grabbing the doll, and heading for the back without waiting for his answer.

“Mom, you’ve gone over.”

“What? I have?” She claps her hands together. “Time to finish up, girls.” She throws me a look over her shoulder—a combination of “I’m sorry” and “you know me.” I do know her and that look makes me laugh.

“Are you done with that doll?” She picks up the electric heater off the counter to dry the eyes.

I look down at the doll in my hands. “Yes. Oh, wait. No. I messed up on it.”

She studies the doll’s eyes. “That’s kind of pretty,” she says. The gold streak across its pupil looks purposeful, like a shimmer. “I think you should leave it.”