The Distance Between Us(2)

“It’s quite obvious Peggy likes dogs,” he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I was referring to my grandmother.”

I open the lower cupboard to find Peggy’s box. I pull it out and gently take the girl and her dog, along with her name placard, off the shelf and to the register. As I carefully pack her away, Mr. Rich points. “How come the dog isn’t named?” He reads aloud the title on the box. “‘Peggy and dog.’”

“Because people tend to want to name animals after their beloved pets.”

“Really?”

“No. I have no idea. I can give you the number of Peggy’s creator if you want to ask.”

“You have the phone number of this doll’s creator?”

“No.” I punch the price into the register and push Total.

“You’re hard to read,” he says.

Why is he trying to read me? We were talking about dolls. He hands me a credit card and I swipe it through the machine. The name on the card says, “Xander Spence.” Xander as in “Z-ander” or as in “X-ander”? I’m not going to ask. I really don’t care. I’ve been pleasant enough. This exchange wouldn’t even have required a mom-lecture, had she been here. My mom is way better at hiding her resentment than I am. She even hides it from me. I chalk it up to years of practice.

His cell phone rings and he takes it out of his pocket. “Hello?”

While I wait for the machine to spit out his slip, I open the drawer beneath the register and put the name placard along with the others sold this month. This helps us remember which dolls we need to reorder.

“Yes, I found one. It has a dog.” He listens for a minute. “No. It’s not a dog. It has a dog. The doll has a dog.” He turns around the box and looks at the picture of Peggy since the real Peggy is secured inside. “I guess she’s cute.” He looks at me and shrugs as though asking if I agree. I nod. Peggy is definitely cute. “Yes, it’s been confirmed by the salesgirl. She’s cute.”

I know he wasn’t talking about me being cute, but the way he emphasized the “she” made it sound like he was. I look down and rip off the paper then hold a pen out for him to sign. He does it one-handed, and I compare the signature to the one on the card then hand it back to him.

“No, not the . . . I mean she is, too, but . . . Oh you know what I mean. It’s fine. I’ll be home soon.” He sighs. “Yes, I mean after the bakery. Remind me to run away when your assistant has a day off.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I didn’t mean it like that. Yes, of course it makes me appreciate things more. Okay, Mom, I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

I hand him the bagged doll.

“Thanks for your help.”

“No problem.”

He picks up a business card from the holder by the register and studies it for a moment. “‘And more’?”

The name of the store is Dolls and More. He’s asking what others have before him once they come into the store and only see dolls. I nod. “Dolls and more dolls.”

He tilts his head.

“We used to carry charm bracelets and stuffed animals and such, but the dolls got jealous.”

He gives me a look that seems to say, Are you for real? Obviously he has never encountered anyone like me in any of his “go visit the common people so you can appreciate your life more” outings. “Let me guess, the dolls threatened to steal your soul if you didn’t comply with their demands.”

“No, they threatened to release the souls of past customers. We couldn’t have that.”

He laughs, which surprises me. I feel like I earned something not many others have, and I smile despite myself.

I nod my head toward the card. “My mom likes dolls the best. She got tired of stocking stuffed mice.” Plus we could no longer afford the extras. Something had to go and it wasn’t going to be the dolls. And since we are in a perpetual state of broke (as in barely enough money to stay afloat), the name of the store and business cards stayed the same.

He jams a finger at the card. “Susan? That’s your mom?”

And that’s all it says, too, her first name followed by the shop’s phone number, like she’s some stripper or something. I cringe when she hands out a business card outside of the store. “Yes, sir.”

“And you are?” He meets my eyes.

“Her daughter.” I know he’s asking for my name, but I don’t want to give it. The first thing I learned about the rich is that they find the common folk an amusing distraction but would never, ever want anything real. And that’s fine with me. The rich are another type of species that I observe only from a safe distance. I don’t interact with them.

He replaces the card and takes a few steps backward. “Do you know where Eddie’s Bakery is?”

“It’s two blocks that way. Be careful. Their blueberry muffins are laced with some sort of addictive substance.”

He nods. “Noted.”





Chapter 2



“No, we don’t carry Barbie dolls, only porcelain dolls,” I say into the phone for the fifth time. The woman isn’t listening. She’s going off about how her daughter will die if she can’t find the faerie queen. “I understand. Maybe you should try Walmart.”