Tell Me Three Things(49)
Again today he didn’t say hello to me in the hallway. Just another phone salute.
I tell myself it’s because he’s scared of ruining our never-ending conversation, but I tell myself a lot of things I don’t actually believe.
So I lie.
Me: Promise.
When I get to work, Liam’s mom is behind the counter. Pure relief that I don’t have to face Liam. Instead of saying hello, she hands me a box of books, asks me to shelve them.
“Sure thing,” I say, looking through the pile. A lot of financial guides. Overnight Millionaire. Beat the Market. Money Now. I head over to the shelf that Liam’s mom has labeled GET RICH QUICK! and begin to sort the books alphabetically by author. For a second, I think about picking one up for my dad, but then I remember that (1) we are no longer on speaking terms, and (2) my dad could actually write one of these books, though it would be a bit short: Marry Up.
“I like your can-do spirit,” Liam’s mom says, since I shelve fast. Anything to keep busy. She smiles Liam’s smile at me. I’ve worked here for weeks now and I can’t remember her name. I just think of her as Liam’s mom, or sometimes, I guess, Mrs. Sandler. I bet if I ran into her somewhere else, un-bookstore-related, I wouldn’t recognize her. She looks a lot like the moms back home: no-nonsense hair, everything maximized for efficiency, not necessarily attractiveness. Like a real mom, not an aging actress.
I try to think about Caleb’s smile, but I’m not sure I’ve actually seen it. Which makes sense. SN is not exactly the smiley type. I can easily picture Ethan’s smile, though: how it unfolds across his face, from left to right, like a perfect sentence.
Clearly, I need to stop this Ethan obsession. Not healthy.
“You okay? You look a little…smeared,” Mrs. Sandler says, handing me a tissue. “You want to talk about it?”
Damn it. Forgot that I experimented with mascara this morning. Despite my protests that makeup and I are not friends, Agnes had promised that waving a wand against my eyelashes would change my life. Now it’s just unclear what’s smudged mascara and what’s bruising.
“Not really.” I wonder if Mrs. Sandler likes her son’s girlfriend, if she has ever met Gem. Does Liam have to keep his bedroom door open when she’s over? Somehow, I doubt it. Those are quaint Midwestern rules; they don’t apply in LA, where the kids openly smoke pot and drive fresh-from-the-dealership cars and have parents who will donate money to get them out of trouble. Liam’s mom probably buys him condoms, jokes over take-out sushi about not wanting him to make any Little Liams.
I think of Caleb’s mom, prone on the couch, so out of it she can’t be bothered to eat lunch. What did he bring her? I wonder what his mom looks like, if she too is tall and handsome. If she too prefers to wear gray.
“Better?” I ask after I wipe my face, and I turn to face Mrs. Sandler. The Kleenex is black, probably a little salty now too.
“Much. You’re a really beautiful girl. Inside and out. Do you know that?”
“Um, thanks?” I say, or ask. How strange, I think, to be called both ugly and beautiful, two words I rarely hear, in the same day. The former because most people are neither that mean nor that truthful, the latter because it has never applied to me. Agnes called me hot today too—another word never before used to describe me—though I think of hot as altogether different from beautiful. Hot seems to be about guys liking you. Beautiful is about liking how you look.
Of course, Liam’s mom is old enough to think all sixteen-year-old girls are beautiful. Gem, on the other hand, sees me through clearer eyes.
“You can take the afternoon off if you need to,” Liam’s mom says, and her kindness almost makes me ache. Reminds me that when I go home, it will be to Rachel’s house. My mom will not be there to nurse me back from this. There is no longer a person in the world who is interested in everything I have to say just by virtue of the fact that it comes out of my mouth. Scar tries, but it’s not the same.
My mom will not make me a cup of cocoa with mini marshmallows, and we won’t share a plate of Chips Ahoy, more than a dozen between us, an indulgence reserved for bad days. My mom wasn’t strict about what counted when it came to me: a B on a math test I thought I had aced or losing my favorite charm bracelet. When she needed the boost, though, our ritual was reserved for only the very worst occasions: a cancer diagnosis, or later, a T-cell count being low. The word “spread” being used by a medical professional after looking at a black-and-white photo of her insides.
Eventually, I made the cocoa and drank both of ours. Ate all the cookies.
“Thanks, but I honestly could use the cash.” I picture Scarlett’s parents’ basement. Not home, not even close, but closer than what I have now. A big L-shaped couch and an oversized TV from last century, as thick as it is tall. The slightest hint of mold in the air, almost but never quite covered up by the smell of fresh laundry. It wouldn’t be so bad. School would be familiar and easy after Wood Valley. I’d have Scarlett back, maybe even my old job at the Smoothie King. My dad would barely notice I’m gone. He might even be relieved not to have to worry about me. I could do it. I really could.
Me: Your parents’ basement couch available, maybe next term?
Scarlett: For reals?
Me: For reals.
Scarlett: ABSOFREAKINGLUTELY. Though you might need to wipe it down first.