Puddin'(37)

The bell above the door chimes and, shockingly, a customer walks in. I nearly jump off my stool and recite the greeting Inga drilled into me. “Hi, welcome to Down for the Count. Are you a member or a first-time guest?”

The guy—tall and broad and on the huskier side—clears his throat before responding. “Uh, yeah. I’m not a member.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Millie rush over to the desk beside me.

My brow wrinkles for a moment as I try to place his face. Rosy cheeks, soft blue eyes, and a few acne scars on his chin. His blond curls have a reddish undertone, and something about his face feels boyish. “You’re in my grade, aren’t you?”

“Mitch, right?” Millie pipes in. “I think you know my friend Willowdean.”

His already bright cheeks turn a deep shade of red. “Uh, yeah.”

Mitch, Mitch, Mitch, Mitch. I squint. There it is! “You’re on the football team! With my boyfriend! Bryce. I knew I recognized you.”

Mitch has always been that big dopey guy who tags around with Bryce, Patrick, and all the other guys from the team. I don’t really know him, but now, stuck in this gym and phoneless, I feel like freaking Ariel from The Little Mermaid. I nearly scream, “I want to be where the people are!” Like this big burly dude is some kind of lifeline to my previous life.

But instead I just bite my bottom lip while Millie gives him the lowdown on all of our membership packages.

I take his cash as he pays for the first three months of his membership.

He looks at the cash longingly as I deposit it into the register.

“We appreciate your business,” I say, “but the way you’re looking at this cash, I sort of feel like I’m forcing you to pay a parking ticket.”

“A birthday gift from my dad,” he explains. “So I can get in some extra training before next season when the weight room at school is closed.”

“Senior year,” I say. “Surely you’ve had some scouts interested.” Unlike Bryce.

He shrugs. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“Well,” says Millie, “we’ll laminate your card while you work out and hand it back over before you leave. Towels are in the locker room and on the wall by the punching bags. My uncle Vernon—Vernon, wave!”

Vernon offers a quick wave but doesn’t look up from his duties.

Millie smiles sheepishly. “He’s a certified trainer and offers one-on-one sessions as well. If you need help operating any of the machinery, just ask Vernon or me for assistance. Callie here is still a newbie.”

I chuckle. “You’re a pro on the workout machines?”

I expect Mitch to laugh, too, but his lips turn into a straight line.

The color drains from Millie’s face, but her voice is defiant when she says, “Yes, actually. I am.”

“Okay.” It was a joke. The girl can barely get through a sentence without giggling, but suddenly she’s taking herself seriously?

Mitch clears his throat again. “Well, I guess I better get my dad’s money’s worth.”

Without a word, Millie takes his card to the back office to be laminated as Mitch adjusts one of the leg machines.

I sit down on the stool, and something about my whole body feels heavy. It’s guilt. It settles into my stomach and turns to concrete. What I said to Millie was dumb, I know. But it was funny! I mean, any other guy in Mitch’s crowd would have totally laughed.

I watch as Millie walks back up to the front desk.

I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say.

It doesn’t matter, though, because before I even have a chance to form a word, she slaps the card down on the counter and says, “Don’t forget to give him a welcome bag.”

“I won’t.” My voice squeaks.

I should’ve said I was sorry. I know that. But something inside me rears up, and I find myself somehow annoyed instead. It was just a dumb joke. And probably way more mild than what she’s used to hearing. She should just get used to it. The world is a tough place. Especially for people like her. She could at the very least get a sense of humor.

Everyone stands out in some way. It’s not like I don’t get upset every time some stranger thinks I’m not white enough or not Mexican enough or when someone thinks I’m Kyla’s babysitter and not her sister. Millie needs to toughen up, and I say that as someone who has had to do the same.

The next day at school, while I’m walking from English to World History, Bryce rushes up behind me and kisses my neck. I shriek from the shock and because I am super ticklish.

“Bryce!” I yank his arm and pull him up beside me. “What the hell are you doing? My mom has eyes in every crevice of this place.”

“I miss you.” He pouts.

“I miss you,” mimics his friend Patrick as he passes us in the hallway with Mitch close behind.

Bryce laughs and flips him the bird.

“Eat shit, Patrick!” I call.

Mitch offers a slight smile, and I nod my chin in his general direction. Yesterday I was thrilled to see him, but we’re not the kind of people who would actually acknowledge each other in public.

“You could come visit me at work,” I tell him.

“That place stinks,” he says. “And where would we have any privacy?”