The Rest of the Story(46)

“So she’ll do it standing up. You need a dress,” she replied. I sighed. “Look, I’m not taking no for an answer, Saylor. Just go.”

She made it sound so simple to get in the car and drive miles into a town I’d never been to before, all by myself. In practice, though, everything was more complicated.

“Have fun!” Mimi said now, stepping back from the car. “Can’t wait to see what you come home with!”

I smiled, waving as I cranked the engine. Then, gripping the wheel and with her watching, I drove—slowly—out of the Calvander’s lot. A block later, when I was sure I was fully out of sight, I pulled into a gas station. There, I cut the engine and wiped my sweaty palms against my shorts, trying to calm the thudding of my heart in my chest. Finally, I just leaned my head against the steering wheel, closing my eyes.

A few weeks earlier, I’d been planning a summer at Bridget’s, every detail organized and in place. Now, here I was, at the lake with my mother’s family, sort of dating a college boy and needing a formal dress. Also, driving, or trying to. Even with my imagination, I never would have pictured this.

Knock. Knock.

Startled, I jumped, my eyes springing open. There, standing on the other side of my closed window, was Roo Price.

“Hey,” he said. He had on a green collared shirt and shorts and was squinting in at me, eyes narrowed. “You okay?”

I turned my key, then put down the window. “Do I not seem okay?”

“You’re in a gas station parking lot collapsed over your steering wheel,” he pointed out.

“I was resting my eyes,” I replied.

He glanced around at the nearby pumps, the blinking neon sign out front that said COLD SODAS. “Interesting spot for a nap.”

“Well, life is busy,” I said, smiling. “Sometimes you have to take them where you can.”

A car drove by and beeped. Roo raised his hand in a wave. Did everyone know everyone here? Lately I felt like the only stranger.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “I mean, other than policing people taking naps in public places.”

“Just got off work,” he said, bending down so he was level with the window.

“I hear you have a ton of jobs.”

“Not really,” he replied, running his fingers through his hair, which was short and the whitest of blond. When he was done, a single tuft stuck up, and it was all I could do not to fix it. “Just five.”

“That’s four more than most people,” I pointed out. “I bet you could use a gas station nap.”

“I prefer to grab my shut-eye at grocery stores,” he replied.

“Different strokes for different folks,” I said. “What are the jobs?”

“Well, there’s the Station arcade. Fifteen hours a week.” He held up four fingers, then folded one down. “Then I work the night desk at the Park Palms when they need someone to fill in.”

“That’s a hotel?”

“Nursing home,” he said, folding down another finger. “The grocery store, with Celeste. That’s another fifteen a week, usually.”

“Okay if I rest my eyes again? I’m getting tired just hearing this.”

“And finally,” he continued, “there’s the Yum truck.”

“The Yum truck?”

Instead of replying, he turned, glancing behind him. There, parked only a few spaces away, was a white food truck, plastered with pictures of various frozen desserts. YUM! was painted across the hood in hot-pink letters. It was a testament to my level of distraction that I hadn’t even noticed it.

“You drive an ice cream truck?” I asked. “Seriously?”

“It’s the lake,” he replied. “Ice cream is big business.”

“Can I see?”

He stepped back, waving a hand. “Be my guest.”

Suddenly energized, I got out of the car, following him over. “Are you selling right now?”

“Not a lot of takers at ten a.m.,” he said. “The truth is my car broke down again, so I took this to work last night.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You drove an ice cream truck to a nursing home?”

“I’m very popular with the residents,” he said, flashing that gap in his teeth again.

“I bet you’re popular with everyone.”

“That’s my charm, though,” he corrected me. “Not my access to frozen desserts.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I replied, patting his back.

“Oh, I will.”

I was too busy laughing, at first, to realize how easily we’d fallen into this rapid-fire exchange. Like when I was with him, I wasn’t a stranger after all.

“Why do you work so much?” I asked. “Are you saving for something?”

“College,” he replied.

Of course. I felt my face get hot: I was always getting this wrong. “Oh, yeah. You mentioned journalism school in your five sentences.”

“Yup,” he said, pulling a hand through his hair again. “I’m the editor of the paper at school this year. It got me into it. There’s a good program at the U, actually, if I stay in-state. Which I probably will. It’s cheaper.”

I was beginning to realize that not thinking about money was a luxury, and one I should have been appreciating more.