Keeping The Moon(50)

The portrait. Hot chocolate. “Oh my God,” I said, slowly. “Last night. I totally forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Morgan said.

“He was going to make me hot chocolate.”

“Was he really?” Morgan said, sitting up. “Man, that is good stuff! I am not lying to you. He makes it with milk, not water, and

then he—”

“Morgan.” Isabel put down her magazine.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.” She turned to me. “So? What do you think about him?”

“Norman?”

“Duh.” Isabel rolled her eyes at me. “Yes. Norman.”

I looked outside. He was sitting on the back tailgate of his car now, in his orange T-shirt and black Ray Ban sunglasses. What did

I think of Norman? Yes, he was cute. And he’d been nice to me since my first day in Colby. But he wasn’t Josh. On the other hand,

he wasn’t Chase Mercer, either.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I like him a lot, but he’s just so …”

“So what?”

I thought of Josh, with his easy good looks. Then of Norman’s uneasy sleep under all those mobiles. “I mean, he’s kind of… he’

s not really my type.”

“Your type,” Morgan said.

Isabel arched her eyebrow. “And what, exactly, is your type?”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “All that collecting he does. And the sunglasses, and his car … I don’t know. He’s just…

Norman. You know.”

“No,” she said, folding her arms. “I don’t know.”

“He’s sweet,” I said. “But I don’t know if I could ever really go out with him. He’s a little out there. You understand that,

Isabel.”

“No, I don’t understand that,” she said slowly. Morgan put down her salt shaker. “What I do know,” Isabel said, gathering

steam, “is that when you showed up here all in black, with your friggin’ lip pierced and your hair a ratty mess, with more

attitude than even I have, ‘out there’ did not even cover what I thought of you.”

“Isabel,” Morgan said.

Isabel held up a hand to stop her. “No,” she said. Then she turned back to me. “Look, Colie. Don’t let some cute guy make you

forget yourself. I never would have encouraged you if I thought you would become like that girl who came in here and called you

those things.”

“I’m not,” I said, hurt.

“Right now, you are.” She picked up her magazine again. “Norman is the nicest, sweetest boy I’ve ever met. If you think he’s

not good enough for you, you must be better than any of us.”

“I didn’t say that,” I said. I could feel my throat getting tight. Even Morgan wouldn’t look at me.

“You didn’t have to,” Isabel said. “You, of all people, should know that what isn’t said can hurt the most.”

She was right. Mira’s words that morning should have taught me something. I took off my apron and balled it up, stuffing it beside

the coffee machine. Then I walked out from behind the counter, down the hallway, and locked myself in the bathroom.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror: my new hair, my new eyebrows. My new me. If Isabel was right, I could never forgive

myself. Just as my mother vowed never to forget the Fat Years, I could never let myself forget my Years of Shame. If I did, I was

no better than Bea Williamson or Caroline Dawes.

I watched Norman from the bathroom window. He was bent over the tailgate, looking for something. He’d never been anything but nice

to me.

For the rest of the day, I kept to myself. Isabel was gone by early afternoon, leaving Morgan and me to close together. Norman was

in the kitchen finishing up.

All I knew about him was what I’d seen and assumed. So many times I’d sat watching from my room as he lugged strange objects into

his apartment: dead fish mounted on plaques, someone’s old hockey trophies, a stack of TV trays decorated with the faces of

presidents, even an antique waffle iron that was so heavy it got away from him, tumbling down the grass to hit the birdbath with a

crash.

Then there were the portraits. That slow, loping way of moving. The sunglasses. And, finally, how I’d hurt him without even

trying. When I finally asked Morgan about him, she looked up at me and smiled, as if she’d been waiting for the question.

“Oh, Norman,” she said as we sprayed trays with Windex. She glanced back into the kitchen, where he was in the walk-in cooler,

examining a box of lemons. “He’s a sweetheart.”

“He is,” I said quietly. If anyone could forgive me for how I’d acted, it was Morgan. “What’s his story?”

She put her tray aside and folded her rag, neatly. “Well,” she said seriously, “he’s had a lot of family trouble. His dad is

Big Norm Carswell. He owns that auto dealership, the one with the searchlight, right before you come over the bridge? You’ve

probably seen the commercials. He’s got white hair and throws his arms around a lot, screaming about good deals.”