The Distance Between Us(3)

“I did. They’re out.” She mumbles something about how she thought we were a doll store and hangs up.

I set the phone down and roll my eyes at Skye, who doesn’t notice because she’s lying on the floor holding her necklace in the air, watching it sway back and forth over her.

Skye Lockwood is my one and only friend. Not because the kids at my high school are mean or anything. They just forget I exist. When I leave before lunch and never attend their social gatherings it’s not hard to do.

Skye is a few years older and works next door at a place that carries lots of “and more.” It’s an antique store called Hidden Treasures that I call Obvious Garbage. But people love that store.

In the world of science, if Skye were a host, I would be her parasite. She has a life. I pretend it’s mine. In other words, she genuinely likes things—music and eclectic vintage clothing and weird hairstyles—and I pretend those things interest me, too. It’s not that I hate those things; it’s just that I don’t really care for them either. But I like Skye, so why not tag along? Especially because I have no idea what I really do like.

I step over her with a sigh. “Have you figured out life’s answers yet?” Skye often uses the floor of the shop to have philosophical wanderings (a fancy way of saying “arguments with herself”).

She moans and throws her arm over her eyes. “What would I even study if I went to college?” If it were up to her, she’d work at the gift store forever, but college is important to her never-went-to-college-so-is-now-a-funeral-director father.

“Whining?”

“Ha-ha.” She pushes herself to sitting. “What are you going to study when you go?”

No idea. “The long-term effects of philosophical wanderings.”

“How about the art of sarcasm?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve already earned the equivalent of a master’s in that one.”

“No, but seriously, what are you going to study?”

I hear those words a lot: “No, but seriously” or “In all seriousness” or “But really.” Those are the words of someone who wants a real answer. And I don’t want to give one.

“I haven’t thought about it much. I guess I’ll be one of those ‘no major’ people for a while.”

She lies back down. “Yeah, maybe that’s what I’ll do, too. Maybe as we take classes our true path will come to us.” She sits up suddenly with a gasp.

“What?”

“We should take classes together! Next year. You and me. That would be awesome!”

I’ve told her a million times I’m not taking college classes next year. My mother will fight this plan (which is why I haven’t told her), but I’m taking a year or two off so I can help full-time in the store. But Skye looks so happy that I just smile and give a noncommittal nod.

She starts singing a made-up song. “Me and Caymen takin’ classes together. Finding our true paths . . .” Her voice gets softer and turns into happy humming as she lowers herself back to the floor.

A couple of little girls who just left had touched everything. My mom insists that when people know a doll’s name, it’s easier to fall in love with it. So in front of every doll is a placard. Now those little name cards are completely messed up, switched around, lying flat. It’s really sad that I know Bethany’s name card is in front of Susie. Really. Really. Sad.

Skye’s phone rings. “Hello? . . . No. I’m at The Little Shop of Horrors.” That’s what she calls my store.

It’s quiet for a while before she says, “I didn’t realize you were coming by.” She stands and leans against the counter. “You did? When?” She twists a piece of hair around her finger. “Well, I am kind of spaced out during that show.” Skye’s voice matches her name, light and airy, which makes everything that comes out of her mouth sound sweet and innocent. “So are you still here?” She walks around doll cradles and blanket-draped tables to the front window and peers out. “I see you. . . . I’m next door at the doll store. Come over.” She pockets the phone.

“Who was that?”

“My boyfriend.”

“The boyfriend. So does this mean I finally get to meet him?”

She smiles. “Yes, you’re about to see why I said yes the second he asked me out last week.” She flings open the front door, and the bell practically swings off its hook. “Hey, baby.”

He wraps his arms around her and then she moves aside. “Caymen, this is Henry. Henry, Caymen.”

I don’t know if I’m not looking hard enough, but I definitely don’t see much of anything. He’s scrawny with long greasy hair and a pointy nose. A pair of sunglasses hangs off the collar of a band T-shirt, and a long chain attached to his belt buckle droops halfway down his leg before disappearing into his back pocket. Without meaning to I calculate how many steps it took him to get from Skye’s store to mine and how many times that chain must’ve hit him in the leg.

“S’up?” he says. Really. He said that.

“Um . . . nothing?”

Skye gives me a wide smile that says, See, I knew you’d love him. The girl can find redeeming qualities in a drowned rat, but I’m still trying to make sense of the match-up. Skye is beautiful. Not the conventional beautiful. In fact people usually stop to stare first because they’re stunned by her choppy blond hair with pink tips, the diamond stud in her chin, and her crazy clothes. But then they keep staring because she’s stunning, with her piercing blue eyes and the most beautiful bone structure ever.