Puddin'(32)

“Uh, no sir,” says Inga. “This criminal is not touching our money.” She elbows me out of the way.

“Whatever you say,” I grumble. While I don’t like being referred to as a criminal, it’s kind of nice to come across someone who’s finally saying exactly what she thinks.

Inga snaps her fingers, and over the continuous wailing, she says, “I see fingerprints all over this glass. What have you even been doing all day?” She licks her thumb to count the bills in the register and leans a little closer to me. Too quiet for Vernon to hear, she says, “If your fate had been up to me, I would have thrown your spoiled ass in jail.”

I liberally squirt the glass cleaner all over the counter and look to her. In my most deadpan voice, I say, “You can’t fire me. I work for free.”

Inga snarls and closes out the register. She calls out each of the closing duties and uses the stopwatch from Vernon’s office to time me. For no reason at all. Except that she can. I hate the woman, but I’m also taking notes.

After we lock up, I find my mom outside in her Tahoe waiting for me. I watch as she gets out. I drag my finger across my neck in an attempt to get her to stay in the car, but she’s already bustling over to Vernon and Inga.

“I’m Callie’s mama,” she says, the words spilling out of her like a confession.

“Oh,” says Inga.

Vernon gives her a knowing look. “Babe, you wanna get the boys settled in their car seats?”

Inga nods firmly and walks away, but not before glaring at me from over my mother’s shoulder.

Mama’s face falls into a deep-set frown. “I just want to let y’all know how sorry I am. And so is Callie’s dad, and her stepfather, Keith. We just . . . we didn’t raise this type of girl.”

Vernon glances over her shoulder to where his two hellions scream as Inga buckles them into their car seats. “I’m new to the whole parent game,” he says, “but something tells me that the quicker you figure out that not all your kid’s mistakes are your mistakes, the better.”

Mama’s frown softens. “Wise words from such a new parent.”

Vernon laughs. And I can see now that he might be closer to my parents’ age than I thought. “Well, if my parents had taken all of my screw-ups personally, they’d be repenting for a whole slew of speeding tickets, property damage, and trips to the ER.”

“I’ve gotta thank you, too,” Mama says. “If it weren’t for your mercy, there’s no telling what kind of legal trouble Callie would be in right now.”

“Well, I tell you one thing,” he says. “The girl is passionate. I sure was sorry to drop the gym’s sponsorship.”

“Well, we thank you for your understanding and kindness. Don’t we, Callie?”

No cell phone. No dance team. No Bryce. The only people I’ve gotten quality time with are Millie and Inga. Maybe I would’ve been better suited going to court and serving community service or something. I’m a minor. Aren’t those records sealed or something? No one outside of this awful town would’ve ever had to know.

Mama clears her throat. “Don’t we, Callie?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, sounding more like a parrot than a human girl.

The whole ride home, Mama is mostly quiet. It’s not until we pull up to the driveway that she says, “Baby, Vernon was right. You’re passionate. So passionate. Like your mama. You just gotta learn how to direct that passion.”

“You mean you don’t want my passion in life to be smashing windows and vandalizing businesses?”

She tsks to herself as she turns off the ignition, and we head inside.

That night I lie awake in my bed for hours, hoping for sleep. I’m so used to falling asleep scrolling through my feed or watching videos that this silence is something I’m still not used to. The quiet stillness of night means being left alone with my own thoughts. It’s like seeing yourself naked in a mirror with bright fluorescent lights overhead.

When all I’ve got left is what’s in my head, my thoughts spin out. Bryce cheating on me at whatever huge party is happening this weekend. Sam confessing to Melissa that the job of captain was always going to her anyway and that she just kept me in the running to be nice. Whispers as I walk down the hallway about how I was never really that talented or that pretty.

But worst of all is the realization that I’ve spent so long building my life around dance. From the moment I found my mom’s yearbook when me, her, and Claudia moved into that little apartment after she and Dad split up. That picture of her on the football field in her white skirted uniform and matching jacket with its blue-and-red trim and her white boots. I knew I wanted that life. I wanted to wear that uniform. I did everything I could to carry myself to that moment in ninth grade when I auditioned for the team. And so did my mom. Even as a single mother, she sacrificed to send Claudia to voice lessons and me to dance class. She’d buy me new dance shoes, which I was constantly growing out of.

And now my closet is made up of more dance-team uniforms than it is real clothes. Everything from our signature red, white, and blue cowgirl outfits to our shimmering green leotards with Shamrocks written in gold sequins. Because up until a few weeks ago, I defined myself in two ways: dance team and Bryce. Only one of those remains.

I sit up in bed. Maybe if I could just talk to Sam. Maybe there’s some big plan I don’t even know about to get me back on the team next year. It’s a small, stupid hope. But sisterhood. She called us a sisterhood. I barely believed it at the time, but I don’t have much else left to believe in.