Lock and Key(36)

I smiled, then cleared a space for myself across from him on the unmade bed and sat down. The room itself was a mess of clothes, shoes, and magazines, things strewn all over the place. One thing that stuck out was a box of candy, one of those samplers, on the bureau top, still wrapped in plastic. “What’s that?” I asked. “You somebody’s Valentine?”

He picked up the cigarette, sticking it into his mouth, and I instantly regretted asking this. It wasn’t like I cared who else he saw, if anybody. “It’s October.”

“Could be belated,” I said with a shrug.

“My mom sent it. You want to open it?” I shook my head, then watched as he sat back, exhaling smoke up into the air. “So what’s going on?”

I shrugged. “Not much. I’m actually looking for Peyton. You seen her?”

“Not lately.” A phone rang in the other room, then abruptly stopped. “But I’ve been working a lot, haven’t been around much. I’m about to take off—have to work lunch today.”

“Right,” I said, nodding. I sat back, looking around me, as a silence fell over us. Suddenly I felt stupid for coming here, even with my lame excuse. “Well, I should go, too. I’ve got a ton of stuff to do.”

“Yeah?” he said slowly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, closer to me. “Like what?”

I shrugged, starting to push myself to my feet. “Nothing that would interest you.”

“No?” he asked, stopping me by moving a little closer, his knees bumping mine. “Try me.”

“Shopping,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows. “No kidding,” he said. “One week at Perkins Day and you’re already fashion-conscious.”

“How’d you know I was at Perkins Day?” I asked.

Marshall shrugged, pulling back a bit. “Someone was talking about it,” he said.

“Really.”

“Yeah.” He looked at me for a moment, then slid his hands out, moving them up my thighs to my waist. Then he ducked his head down, resting it in my lap, and I smoothed my hands over his hair, running it through my fingers. As I felt him relax into me, another silence fell, but this one I was grateful for. After all, with me and Marshall, it had never been about words or conversation, where there was too much to be risked or lost. Here, though, in the quiet, pressed against each other, this felt familiar to me. And it was nice to let someone get close again, even if it was just for a little while.

It was only later, when I was curled up under his blankets, half asleep, that I was reminded of everything that had happened since the last time I’d been there. Marshall was getting ready for work, digging around for his belt, when he laid something cool on my shoulder. Reaching up, I found the key to Cora’s house, still on its silver fob, which must have slipped out of my pocket at some point. “Better hang on to that,” he said, his back to me as he bent over his shoes. “If you want to get home.”

As I sat up, closing it in my hand, I wanted to tell him that Cora’s house wasn’t home, that I wasn’t even sure what that word meant anymore. But I knew he didn’t really care, and anyway he was already pulling on a Sopas T-shirt, getting ready to leave. So instead, I began collecting my own clothes, all business, just like him. I didn’t necessarily have to get out first, but I wasn’t about to be left behind.

I’d never been much of a shopper, mostly because, like sky-diving or playing polo, it wasn’t really within my realm of possibility. Before my mom needed me for Commercial, I’d had a couple of jobs of my own—working at greasy fast-food joints, ringing up shampoo and paper towels at discount drugstores—but all that money I’d tried to put away. Even then I’d had a feeling that someday I would need it for something more than sweaters and lipsticks. Sure enough, once my mom had taken off, I’d pretty much cleared out my savings, and now I was back at zero, just when I needed money most.

Which was why it felt so stupid to even be buying clothes, especially with two hundred bucks I’d scored by doing absolutely nothing. On the flip side, though, I couldn’t keep wearing the same four things forever. Plus, Cora was already pissed at me; making her think I’d just pocketed her money would only make things worse. So I forced myself through the narrow aisles of store after store, loud music blasting overhead as I scoured clearance racks for bargains.

It wasn’t like I could have fit in at Perkins on my budget, even if I wanted to. Which, of course, I didn’t. Still, in the time I’d been there, I’d noticed the irony in what all the girls were wearing, which was basically expensive clothes made to look cheap. Two-hundred-dollar jeans with rips and patches, Lanoler cashmere sweaters tied sloppily around their waists, high-end Tshirts specifically weathered and faded to look old and worn. My old stuff at the yellow house, mildew aside, would have been perfect; as it was, I was forced to buy not only new stuff but cheap new stuff, and the difference was obvious. Clearly, you had to spend a lot of money to properly look like you were slumming.

Still, after an hour and a half, I’d vastly increased my working wardrobe, buying two new pairs of jeans, a sweater, a hoodie, and some actual cheap Tshirts that, mercifully, were five for twenty bucks. Still, seeing my cash dwindle made me very nervous. In fact, I felt slightly sick as I started down the airy center of the mall toward the exit, which was probably why I noticed the HELP WANTED sign ahead right away. Stuck to the side of one of the many merchandise carts arranged to be unavoidable, it was like a beacon, pulling me toward it, step-by-step.