Interim(17)

Casey glimpsed the back of the room and scowled at Hannah, who was oblivious.

“Go on and give me a look,” she dared.

“Casey. Stop.”

She turned to Regan. “There’s too many weirdos in this school.”

Regan ignored her and pulled out her history book. She watched their teacher walk in and sighed relief. Conversation over.

There was no reasoning with Casey over “the weirdos”—no shifting her point of view. She used to be one, and it was imperative she put the maximum distance between herself and them. She was embarrassed. She didn’t want any reminders. Regan, on the other hand, didn’t have an issue with reminders. She thought she should have tied her finger with string all along. Then she would have never forgotten who she really was.

***

“I saw your tenants moved out,” Jeremy noted as he lay on his back under the car, draining its oil.

“Bought a house,” Roy replied. “You know anyone who needs a place?”

“Yeah. Me.”

“You don’t work enough to afford the rent,” Roy said.

“I know,” Jeremy replied, rolling out from under the car. “But I thought you could give me more hours.”

“What hours? All your spare time goes to that thing,” Roy said, jabbing his thumb to the left where Jeremy’s ’78 Camaro sat. Still dead.

“I need to get out of that house,” Jeremy confessed.

Roy scratched his fluffy white beard. “’Cause you’re not a kid anymore?”

“’Cause I’m done paying his bills,” Jeremy said. He stood up and walked to the sink.

“I thought his disability did that,” Roy replied.

“No, that pays for the booze.”

Roy considered his employee’s position. He knew a little about Jeremy’s situation. He knew Jeremy’s dad was a jerk and that Jeremy was itching to graduate and leave Moutainview. He also knew Jeremy had very little money, so he helped him out when he could. He became a surrogate grandfather of sorts, glad to have a teenager around after his grandson left for college on the east coast. His grandson left behind his snowboarding equipment—lamenting that there were no good places to ride on the Atlantic—and Roy lent it to Jeremy, whose board was smashed last year by a drunken, enraged father. He turned a blind eye to Jeremy’s stolen lift tickets and turn style jumping. He’d bail him out of jail if he were arrested.

“He hits me.”

Roy’s head shot up. “What?”

“Roy, you heard what I said.”

“Jesus Christ, Jeremy, how could you never tell me?! When did this start?”

“Six years ago.”

Roy gasped.

“Look, I’m not telling you this so you feel sorry for me. I’m telling you because I need a place to live. I’ve got nowhere to go. You know I can’t afford your rent. So we’ve gotta figure something out.”

“Live with me and Carol,” Roy said. He didn’t think twice.

“No offense, but I’m nineteen. I don’t wanna live with you and Carol.”

Roy nodded.

“I know you need that income,” Jeremy said.

“No, I don’t.” Roy replied. “I just like it.”

Jeremy held his breath.

“But I don’t give stuff away for free.”

“I don’t want you to,” Jeremy replied. “Make me work for it.”

“Fifteen extra hours a week,” Roy said.

Jeremy’s heart dropped. It was fair, and it also meant he’d never get his Camaro running—the Camaro Roy bought him at a car auction over a year ago for a few hundred bucks.

“I’ll never sleep,” Jeremy said.

“Sleep’s overrated,” Roy replied. “And you’re young.”

Pause.

“My dad beats the shit out of me,” Jeremy reminded him, playing the feel-sorry-for-me card for the first time.

Roy stiffened. “Fine. Ten.”

“Deal.”

“Ten unpaid hours a week for rent. You’re responsible for your utilities.”

Jeremy nodded.

“And you’re required to have Sunday night dinners at my house with Carol and me. Non-negotiable.”

That was fine with him. Carol was a master chef. Her pot roast was his favorite.

“No drugs,” Roy said.