Twelve Steps to Normal(28)
Peach follows me into the waiting area and sits down next to me. An electronic voice calls numbers over the loudspeaker while we wait. I pull out my phone and send a text to Raegan, telling her that I’ll be there in half an hour. She responds with a grinning emoji followed by a dozen exclamation marks.
“Everyone looks thrilled to be here, huh?” Peach says.
I look around at all the glum, bored faces. She’s smiling when I glance back at her, like she’s told a really excellent joke.
I turn back to my phone. “Ecstatic.”
“My mother used to say that waiting at the DMV could have been one of Dante’s nine circles of hell.”
I wonder if another layer is living with three annoying people I barely know.
Peach takes a deep breath. “I know how it feels,” she starts, “to have someone you love pass away at a young age. My mother died when I was seventeen.”
I stiffen. I don’t want to talk about Grams with anyone, especially Peach. Especially not at the DMV.
My dad’s struggle with alcohol fluctuated after Grams passed. I told my social worker that because it was true. When he first started AA, he seemed like he was doing better. He’d take me to school and came to see me dance at all the football games, but that slowly changed. Even after Aunt June flew in as reinforcement, my dad became withdrawn, lonely. It hurt that he wouldn’t talk to me like he used to.
I can feel Peach’s gaze on me, but I don’t say anything.
The electronic voice calls my number a few minutes later. I launch out of my seat and walk over to the proper booth. Peach follows closely behind me and sits next to me as I fill out my paperwork. I give the woman my documents and pay the fee with my dad’s debit card. After taking an updated picture, I’m given a temporary license and told I’ll receive mine in a week or so.
Peach is quiet as we walk back to the car. Relief floods my chest as I hold on to my tangible piece of freedom.
I’m in a much better mood as she drives us home. A part of me wants to ask her how her mother died and why she’s so nice to me and why she insists on making me my lunch in the morning. But I don’t.
Once we get to the house, she hands over my keys with a quick “congratulations” before walking inside and shutting the door behind her.
Hanging out at Raegan’s house is less of hanging out and more of a nonstop assembly line of work.
I wish I was kidding.
We’re sitting on her porch in her backyard armed with pencils, rulers, paint pens, and glitter glue. The swampy heat makes it hard to grip my paint pen. Raegan has us working on Spirit Week posters because she doesn’t trust the cheerleaders to get them done on time.
I quickly discovered that there’s no talking sense into Raegan when she has a one-track mind on her presidential duties. Whitney is using a pen to create bubble letters since she has the best handwriting while Lin and I fill in her letters with red paint. When we finish, Raegan outlines them in gold glitter glue.
“It’s so hot out here,” Whitney whines as her hand curves the letter O. “Why can’t we do this inside?”
Raegan rolls her eyes. “My dad’s afraid the fumes will harm the baby.”
When Raegan’s mom answered the door when I’d arrived, it looked as if she were hoarding a beach ball under her stretchy maternity dress. Even though Lin told me she is due in November, I was still a bit surprised.
“Kira!” She gave me a quick side hug. “It’s so good to have you back.”
“Thank you,” I told her as I stepped inside. “Congratulations on your expectancy.”
“Only two more months.” She patted her stomach gently. “But Lord, I’m ready any day now.”
Now Raegan wipes her brow with the back of her hand. “Did this really have to happen during my junior year? I don’t know how I’m supposed to study for the SATs if she’ll be crying all night.”
“Typical,” Lin comments. “You’re worrying about problems that don’t even exist.”
Whitney and I laugh. Our eyes meet briefly, but she’s quick to turn back to her work.
It’s hard to not take offense to the obvious distance Whitney’s placed between us. She hasn’t exactly been super forthcoming whenever we’re together. Even though I’m back on the team, she doesn’t seem like she really cares. It’s as if she’d rather have me back in Portland, and that hurts.
“Ohmigod.” Whitney whips her head up, a sly smile playing on her lips.
“What? Did you mess up?” Raegan leans over to examine her work. “I told you to use a pencil—”
Whitney rolls her eyes. “No, chill.” She sits up a little straighter. Her glossy brown hair is pulled back into a perfect ponytail. “I was only wondering if y’all heard what happened in Mrs. Donaldson’s class yesterday?”
I freeze, the paint pen hovering over the Y I’d been coloring. I had been trying to put the Radical Races mishap behind me, but it sounds like my incompetence is already circulating through school.
My heart sinks. It isn’t fair. I was the target of gossip last year after the intersection incident with my dad. Do people really have to talk about the fact that I can’t solve an algebra problem? I bet there will be rumors on Monday that I’ll have to be put into remedial math. Which—no.