The Art of Losing(43)

Spencer furrowed his brow. “It’s way too early to say,” he said.

“What good are you?” I said, smiling as I reached out to muss his hair. Spencer pulled out of my reach and looked at me seriously for a moment, trying to figure out whether I was joking or not. I forgot sometimes that he wasn’t good with sarcasm. But Aunt Tilly also told us it was good for him to learn.

“I’m just kidding,” I said. “You’re the best cousin I could ask for, even if you can’t tell me in July who’ll win the World Series in October.”

That got another smile. It felt like a victory. And given that I could barely look at Audrey at the moment, I’d take all the victories I could get.

On the way home, I got a text from Raf. It had been a week since the Fourth of July. He made a joke of it, asking if I was alive, if Floyd missed him, and if I wanted to meet him for a walk. I lied and told him I was at the hospital, and then instead of driving home, I drove in the direction of The Flakey Pastry. Cassidy had finally gotten me an interview for a job there. It wasn’t for another hour, but I could get there early.

I desperately wanted to see Raf. I wanted to see him and touch him and talk to him. And kiss him. But when I thought about kissing him, it made me think of kissing Mike. Which led me down the dark rabbit hole of my bitterness toward Audrey.

I wondered if it was the first time anything had happened between them. I couldn’t ask her, of course. And I’d never trust Mike to tell me the truth. So I spent long hours analyzing as many of Audrey and Mike’s recent interactions as I could remember.

I knew if I saw Raf, he would sense something was wrong. I squirmed just thinking about all of his perceptive, probing questions. More than that, though, I couldn’t bear to turn him down again. If he tried to kiss me, I didn’t know if I would have the strength to say no. And then I wouldn’t be the good influence, the good girl Mrs. Juarez had asked me to be.

I pulled up outside The Flakey Pastry and hung out in the parking lot in my car, letting the anemic air-conditioning in my ancient Honda dry the beads of nervous sweat on my nose and forehead. I knew Cassidy would be working, but it was still a relief to see a friendly face at the counter when I opened the swinging glass door.

“Hey,” I said. “I feel perkier already just breathing in the smell of this place.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said. “If you get this job, you may never want to drink coffee again. I leave work every night swearing I’ll never have another sip.”

I gave her a long look, and she laughed. “I know, I break that oath as soon as my next opening shift rolls around. And for friends,” she said, sliding an iced vanilla latte across the counter.

Samir—the other manager, the one who didn’t date employees (he was married)—was expecting me. With one hand he waved me over to an empty table near the trash cans. He held a clipboard and pen in the other. Like Cassidy, he was wearing The Flakey Pastry uniform, a black apron. Another reason I liked the place: no forced polyester outfit.

“So, Harley, thanks for coming in,” he said as we sat across from each other. He clicked open the pen but held the clipboard so I couldn’t see what was printed or the notes he was taking. “I have your résumé here.” He glanced up. “Have you ever worked in food service before?”

“Um . . . I . . . no,” I said, faltering. I wasn’t sure why I was so anxious. I knew this place as well as Cassidy did. “Not exactly. I’ve worked a couple of times at the bake sale for the literary magazine . . .” I let my voice trail off. That was not the kind of experience Samir was looking for.

I glanced up at the counter, hoping Cassidy could somehow help. But Will had appeared. They were behind the counter, laughing together. He wasn’t dressed for work, so I wasn’t sure what he was doing here. Maybe flirting with Cassidy behind Janine’s back?

Samir cleared his throat, and I snapped my focus back to him.

“Sorry,” I said. “Oh, I forgot to mention that I’ve worked for Cassidy’s mom’s catering company a few times.” I just helped load and unload the van, did dishes in the kitchen, and put hors d’oeuvres on trays, but that still counted as work.

His face brightened a little, betraying some relief. “Listen, your timing is good because I just lost someone yesterday and I need to fill a few shifts a week. I’m going to give you a shot because you’re Cassidy’s friend, and you’ve spent a lot of time in here. But I expect you to do your job and learn quickly. It’s three strikes and you’re out.”

That seemed a little extreme for a coffee shop where I had never seen a line more than two people deep. I had no idea what qualified as a strike, either, but I nodded enthusiastically anyway.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “I’m a coffee lover. I’ll do my best to make it proud.”

“The coffee?” Samir asked.

“Uh, yeah.” I flushed, hoping Samir wasn’t already regretting his decision to hire me. But I’d made the first step. Not toward anything like emancipation, but toward . . . something. Making Mom happy and getting her off my back. But more: Freedom. My own money. My own life, away from home and school. And the hospital.

Audrey was awake and sitting up when I came back later that afternoon. Neema had come to visit, and they were watching something on her iPad.