Georgie, All Along (2)

I do not look like a grown woman who’s managed to make a functional life for herself.

I look like the nineteen-year-old screw-up who left this town nearly a decade ago.

I check over my shoulder, relieved that the small parking lot is empty except for a lone, ancient pickup truck that looks as likely to be abandoned as it does to be waiting for the return of a Nickel’s customer. Maybe it’ll be some random teenager working in there today, someone I don’t know and who doesn’t know me. Maybe this will be as quick and easy as I need it to be—a win for all the losses I’ve been hit with over the last few weeks.

But almost as soon as I hear the old, familiar bells tinkle above the door, I know quick and easy isn’t in the cards, because even though my first sight of the inside of Nickel’s shows everything new—new layout, new lighting, new shelves, new products—my second sight is of something familiar: Ernie Nickel wheeling himself into view, his salt-and-pepper mustache a bit thicker and his hair a bit thinner, his smile warm and inviting and full of recognition.

“Georgie Mulcahy, as I live and breathe,” he says, and I feel pretty good about that greeting until he adds a gentle, knowing chuckle. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

I silently curse my overalls, even as I stuff my hands into the deep, comforting pockets.

“Hi, Ernie,” I say, stepping up to the counter and trying an old tack, familiar from my years of being a topic of conversation around here.

Deflection.

“I sure can’t say the same for this place.” I paste on a smile, trying to affect the confidence of a person who totally planned to appear in public exactly like this. I am suddenly extremely aware of the size of my hair, which is no doubt humongous from the wind I’ve been letting blow through it all day. “It looks great in here.”

Thank God, Ernie—always a talker—takes the bait.

“Well now,” he says, his smile growing wider as he maneuvers to the low-slung counter. “I’ve got all them tourists to thank for it! Them and the retirees. You wouldn’t believe the money they’ve brought around. I sure gotta stock and serve different things.”

He gestures to a chalk-lettered menu above him, full up with a list of soups and sandwiches that bear names with no resemblance to the “tomato” or “turkey and swiss” items I remember as favorites. I squint up at the Beverages section, stalling on a listing for a kale smoothie that makes me wonder if I hallucinated my whole entire road trip. Nadia loved a kale smoothie.

“Do you still make milkshakes?” I blurt, because it is not my job anymore to know what Nadia loves.

Ernie scoffs in mock offense. “Now you know I do.”

I’m so relieved that I order two strawberry milkshakes, even though I’ve always preferred chocolate.

Ernie’s in it now, a full-on thesis about how well Darentville’s doing, property values on the rise and even a mention in a Washington Post article about up-and-coming destinations along the Chesapeake Bay. He tells me we’re well on our way to being as good as Iverley, the town right to the southwest of us that’s got more waterfront and so has always had more wealth. I can’t say I’m in the mood for more talk of transformation, but at least this way, Ernie’s not going to focus on my apparent lack of one.

But then the bells over the door ring out again, and as soon as I hear the voice accompanying them—a sing-songy, drawling, “Hey, Ernie!”—I know my reprieve is over.

“That must be Georgie Mulcahy,” the voice calls, and I take a breath through my nose. What I wouldn’t give not to be wearing a trash-bag outfit at this moment.

I send a nervous smile toward Ernie and turn to face the music.

In the form of my ninth-grade music teacher.

“I knew it,” Deanna Michaels says, laughing. “I sure did see the back of you enough!”

Behind me, I can hear Ernie swallow a laugh, and I concentrate on controlling the heat in my cheeks. I laugh, too, all unbothered self-effacement, but my brain is doing a highlight reel of every time Mrs. Michaels sent me out of her classroom. Tardiness, talking too much, the time I made up a new set of lyrics to “The Circle of Life” and taught them to the rest of the alto section.

“Hi, Mrs. Michaels,” I say, definitely trying not to dwell on those lyrics. “Nice to see you again.”

“Well, I had no idea you were coming into town,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her chest, a move so familiar it gives me flashbacks to standing on the risers in her classroom. “I ran into your mother last month, and she didn’t mention a word about you visiting!”

“I didn’t know I would be visiting last month,” I say, but even as it comes out of my mouth I realize I’ve made a mistake, giving her the kind of information she can make use of.

Her eyes light in a way I recognize—the part-pitying, part-indulgent look that so many of my teachers gave me once I no longer had them in actual class—and she laughs lightly. “That’s so like you, Georgie. You always were a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type!”

It’s a little unfair, this accusation; it isn’t as if I decided to come yesterday or something. And also, my current pants are not even technically pants. But Mrs. Michaels isn’t entirely wrong. I was impulsive, flighty back when she knew me, and I haven’t really changed. It’s just that I’ve put flying by the seat of my pants to good use. I’ve pretty much made a living off of it.