Sarah Dessen (8 page)

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Mmmm.” He poked at it with the fork, gently. “So tasty.”

“You,” I said finally, “are
really
pissing me off.”

He shrugged, as if he’d heard this before, then pulled the plate back toward himself, dipping the fork in for another bite. The cleaning crew was chattering away in the front of the room, stacking chairs. One woman with her hair in a long braid picked up my mother’s bouquet, cradling it in her arms.

“Da-da-da-dum,” she said, and laughed when one of her coworkers yelled at her to stop dreaming and get back to work.

Dexter put down the fork, the tasty, non-chalklike cake gone, and pushed the plate away. “So,” he said, looking at me, “this your mom’s first remarriage?”

“Fourth,” I said. “She’s made a career of it.”

“Got you beat,” he told me. “My mom’s on her fifth.”

I had to admit, I was impressed. So far I’d never met anyone with more ex-steps than me. “Really.”

He nodded. “But you know,” he said sarcastically, “I really think
this
one’s going to last.”

“Hope springs eternal.”

He sighed. “Especially in my mom’s house.”

“Dexter, honey,” someone called out from behind me, “did you get enough to eat?”

He sat up, then raised his voice and said, “Yes, ma’am, I sure did. Thank you.”

“There’s a bit more of this chicken dish left.”

“No, Linda. I’m full. Really.”

“Okay then.”

I looked at him. “Do you know
everybody?
”

He shrugged. “Not everybody,” he said. “I just bond easily. It’s part of the whole repeating-stepfather thing. It makes you more mellow.”

“Yeah, right,” I said.

“Because you have to just go with the flow. Your life is not your own, with people coming in and out all the time. You get mellow because you have to. I mean, you know exactly what I’m saying, I bet.”

“Oh yes,” I said flatly, “I am just so easygoing. That is precisely the word that describes me.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” I told him. “It isn’t.” And then I stood up and got my bag, feeling my feet ache as they settled into my shoes. “I have to go home now.”

He got to his feet, taking his jacket off the back of the chair. “Share a cab?”

“I don’t think so.”

“All right,” he said, shrugging. “Suit yourself.”

I walked to the door, thinking he’d be behind me, but when I glanced back he was across the room, going out the other way. I had to admit I was surprised, after such intense pursuit, that he had given up already. The drummer had been right, I supposed. The conquest—getting me alone—was all that mattered, and once he saw me up close I wasn’t so special after all. But I, of course, knew that already.

There was a cab parked out front, the driver dozing. I climbed into the backseat, sliding off my shoes. It was, by the green numbers on the dashboard, exactly 2 A.M. At the Thunderbird Hotel across town, my mother was most likely fast asleep, dreaming of the next week she’d spend in St. Bart’s. She’d come home to finish her novel, to move her new husband into the house, to take another stab at being a Mrs. Somebody, sure that this time, indeed, it would be different.

As the cab turned onto the main road, I saw a glint of something through the park, over to my right. It was Dexter, on foot, turning into a neighborhood, and in his white shirt he stood out, almost as if he were glowing. He was walking down the middle of the street, the houses dark on either side of him, quiet in sleep. And watching him head home, for a second it was like he was the only one awake or even alive in all the world right then, except for me.

“I know what you’re thinking. I do. But this is different. I wouldn’t do you like that. Don’t you trust me?”

I put down the stack of checks I’d been counting and looked up at her. She was leaning on her elbow, chin cupped in her hand. One of her earrings, a huge gold hoop, was swinging back and forth, catching the sunlight streaming through the front window.

“I don’t do blind dates,” I told her, again.

“It isn’t blind, honey, I know him,” she explained, as if this made some kind of difference. “A nice boy. He’s got great hands too.”

“What?” I said.

She held up her hands—impeccably manicured, naturally—as if I needed a visual aid for this basic part of human anatomy. “Hands. I noticed it the other day, when he came to pick his mother up from her sea salt scrub. Beautiful hands. He’s bilingual.”

I blinked, trying to process the connection between these two characteristics. Nope. Nothing.

“Lola?” a voice called out tentatively from inside the salon, “my scalp is burning?”

“That’s just the dye working, sugar,” Lola called back, not even turning her head. “Anyway, Remy, I really talked you up. And since his mother is coming back this afternoon for her pedicure—”

“No,” I said flatly. “Forget it.”

“But he’s perfect!”

“Nobody,” I told her, going back to the checks, “is perfect.”

“Lola?” Now the voice sounded more nervous, less polite. “It’s really hurting. . . .”

“You want to find love, Remy?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand you, girl! You’re about to make a big mistake.” Lola always got loud when she felt passionate about something: now, her voice was booming around the small waiting room, rattling the sample nail polishes on the shelf above my head. A few more active vowels and I’d be concussed, and as quick to sue as the woman whose hair was burning off, ignored, in the next room.

“Lola!” The woman, now shrieking, sounded like she was on the verge of tears. “I think I smell burning hair—”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Lola bellowed, angry at both of us, and whirled around, stomping out of the room. As a purple nail polish crashed onto my desk, missing me by inches, I sighed, flipping open the calendar. It was Monday. My mother and Don would be back from St. Bart’s in three days. I turned another page, running my finger down past the days, to count again how many weeks I had before I left for school.

Stanford. Three thousand miles away from here, almost a direct shot across the country. An incredible school, my top choice, and I’d been accepted by five out of the six others I’d chosen to apply to. All my hard work, AP classes, honors seminars. Finally it meant something.

Freshman year, when such decisions are made, my teachers had me pegged for the state party school, if I was lucky—someplace where I could do an easy major, like psych, with a minor in frat parties and makeup. As if just because I was, okay, blond and somewhat attractive with an active social life (and, okay, not the best of reputations) and didn’t do the student council/debate team/cheerleader thing, I was destined for the sub-par. Grouped with the burnouts and the barely graduating, where just making it down from the parking lot after lunch was far exceeding expectations.

But I’d proved them wrong. I used my own money to pay for a tutor in physics, the class that almost killed me, as well as a prep class for the SAT, which I took three times. I was the only one of my friends in AP classes except for Lissa, who as the daughter of two Ph.D.’s had always been expected to be brilliant. But I always worked harder when I was up against something, or when someone assumed I couldn’t succeed. That’s what drove me, all those nights studying. The fact that so many figured I couldn’t do it.

I was the only one from our graduating class going to Stanford. Which meant I could begin my life again, fresh and new, so far from home. All the money I had left from my salon paycheck after my car payment I’d stuck in my savings account, to cover the dorm fees and books and living expenses. The tuition I’d gotten out of my part of the trust left to me and Chris in our father’s estate. It had been set aside, by some lawyer who I wished I could thank personally, until we were twenty-five or for school, which meant that even during the lean times my mother couldn’t touch it. It also meant that no matter how she burned through her own money, my four years in college were safe. And all because each time “This Lullaby” (written by Thomas Custer, all rights reserved) played in the background of a commercial, or on lite radio, or was performed by some lounge singer in Vegas, it bought me another day of my future.

The chimes over the door sounded and the UPS man came in, carrying a box, which he put down on the desk in front of me. “Package for you, Remy,” he said, whipping out his clipboard.

I signed on the screen, then took the box. “Thanks, Jacob.”

“Oh, and this too,” he said, handing me an envelope. “See you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said. The envelope wasn’t stamped—weird—or sealed. I opened the flap and reached in, pulling out a stack of three pictures. They were all of the same couple, both in their seventies, probably, posing in some seaside setting. The man had on a baseball hat and a T-shirt that read WILL GOLF FOR FOOD. The woman had a camera strapped to her belt and was wearing sensible shoes. They had their arms around each other and looked wildly happy: in the first picture they were smiling, the next laughing, the third kissing, sweetly, their lips barely touching. Like any couple you’d see on vacation who would ask you to take a picture, please, of the two of us.

Which was all fine and dandy, except who the hell were they? And what was this supposed to
mean,
anyway? I stood up, looking outside for the UPS truck, but it was already gone. Was I supposed to know these people, or something? I glanced back at the pictures, but the couple just grinned back at me, caught in their tropical moment, offering no explanation.

“Remy, honey, get me some cold water, would you?” Lola yelled from the other room, and I could tell by her voice—cheerful but
loud
—she meant do it now, stat. “And some of that Neosporin from the cabinet beneath the cash drawer?”

“Sure thing!” I yelled back just as cheerfully, shoving the pictures into my purse.

I yanked the Neosporin out of the cabinet, adding some gauze and a few bandages, which from previous experiences, I thought we might need. Hair emergencies happened all the time, and the truth was, you just knew to be prepared.

Three hours later, when the drama had finally subsided and Lola’s customer had left with a bandaged scalp, a hefty gift certificate, and a written promise of eyebrow waxing for life, I finally got to lock the cash drawer, get my purse, and walk outside.

It finally felt like summer. Heavy heat, totally humid, and everything just smelled kind of smoky and thick, as if close to boiling. Lola kept the salon ice cold, so walking outside was like leaving an arctic freeze. I always got goose bumps as I walked to my car.

I got in, cranked the engine, and turned the AC on full blast to get it going. Then I picked up my cell phone and checked my messages. One from Chloe, asking what we were doing tonight. One from Lissa saying she was fine, just fine, but sounding all sniffly, which she knew I was getting sick of by now. And lastly my brother, Chris, reminding me that Jennifer Anne was cooking us dinner tonight, six sharp, don’t be late.

I deleted this last message with an angry jab of my finger. I was never late. And he knew it. Further evidence of brainwash ing by Jennifer Anne, who, unlike my brother, knew me not at all. I mean,
I
was the one who got him up each morning when he started for that Jiffy Lube job, otherwise, he would have slept through all three of his alarms, which he had set in various positions around the room, all requiring him to get up out of the bed to hit the snooze button. I made sure he wasn’t late, didn’t get fired, was out the door by 8:35 at the latest, in case he hit traffic down main street, which he always—

I was interrupted, suddenly, by a thwacking sound as something hit my windshield. Not hard: more like a slap. I looked up, heart jumping, and saw yet another snapshot of the old vacationing couple. Same WILL GOLF FOR FOOD T-shirt, same crinkly smiles. Now staring down at me, pressed against the glass, held there by someone’s hand.

And I knew. It was ridiculous I hadn’t figured it out earlier.

I hit the button for my window and it went down. Standing there, right by my side mirror, was Dexter. He took his hand off the windshield and the picture slid down the glass, lodging itself under one of my wipers.

“Hi there,” he said. He was wearing a white T-shirt under a uniform I recognized: polyester shirt, green with black piping. Right over the front pocket was neatly stitched FLASH CAMERA, the name of the one-hour photo place directly across the street from the salon.

“You’re stalking me,” I told him.

“What?” he said. “You didn’t like the pictures?”

“Will Golf for Food? How stupid is that?” I said, putting my car in reverse. “Is it supposed to mean something?”

“No musicians, no golfers,” he said, ticking these off on his fingers. “What’s left? Lion tamers? Accountants?”

I just looked at him, then put my foot on the gas. He had to jump out of the way to avoid my tire flattening his foot.

“Wait,” he said, putting his hand on my open window, “in all seriousness. Can you give me a ride?” I must have looked skeptical, because he added quickly, “We have a band meeting in fifteen minutes. And we instituted this new policy, so the repercussions for being late are brutal. Seriously.”

“I’m late too,” I said, which was a lie, but I wasn’t a freaking taxi service.

“Please.” He squatted down, so we were eye to eye. Then he lifted up his other hand, exposing a grease-stained bag from Double Burger. “I’ll share my fries with you.”

“No thanks,” I said, hitting the button to put up my window. “Besides, I have a no-food policy in my car. Repercussions are brutal.”

He smiled at this, stopping the window with his hand. “I’ll behave,” he said. “I promise.” And then, he started around the front of the car, as if I had said yes, grabbing the picture off my windshield and tucking it into his back pocket. The next thing I knew he was sliding in beside me, settling into the seat, the door swinging shut behind him.

What was it about this guy? Resistance was futile. Or maybe I was just too tired and hot to pursue another argument.

“One ride,” I told him in my stern voice. “That’s it. And if you get even a speck of food in this car you’re out. And I won’t slow down to do it, either.”

“Oh, please,” he said, reaching for his seat belt, “you don’t have to coddle me, really. Be blunt. Don’t hold back.”

I ignored this as I pulled out of the shopping center and onto the road. We weren’t half a block when I caught him sneaking a French fry. He thought he was being slick, cupping it in his hand and faking a yawn, but I was a pro at this. Lissa was always testing my limits.

“What did I say about food?” I said, hitting the brake for a red light.

“I’m hmphrgy,” he mumbled, then swallowed. “I’m hungry,” he repeated.

“I don’t care. No food in the car, period. I’m trying to keep it nice.”

He turned around, glancing at the backseat, then at the dashboard and floor mats. “Nice?” he said. “This thing is like a museum. It still smells new.”

“Exactly,” I said as the light changed.

“Take this left here.” He pointed, and I changed lanes, glancing behind me. “I bet you’re a real control freak.”

“Wrong.”

“You are, I can tell.” He ran a finger across the dash, then glanced at it. “No dust,” he reported. “And you’ve cleaned this windshield from the inside, haven’t you?”

“Not lately.”

“Hah!” he hooted. “I bet it would drive you crazy if something was out of place.”

“Wrong,” I told him.

“Let’s see.” He reached into the bag, carefully withdrawing a French fry. It was long and rubbery looking, bending as he held it between two fingers. “In the interest of science,” he said, waving it at me, “a little experiment.”

“No food in the car,” I repeated, like a mantra. God, how far away was his house? We were back over near the hotel where we’d had the reception, so it had to be close.

“Left here,” he said, and I hooked us onto the street, scaring a couple of squirrels into the trees. When I next glanced over at him, his hands were empty and the French fry, now straightened, was lying on the gearshift console. “Now, don’t panic,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “Breathe. And just appreciate, for a minute, the freedom in this chaos.”

I moved my arm out from under his hand. “Which house is yours?”

“It’s not messy at all, see? It’s beautiful. It’s nature in all its simplicity. . . .”

Then I saw it: the white van, parked crookedly in the front yard of a little yellow house about a hundred feet up. The porch light was on, even though it was broad daylight, and I could see the redheaded drummer, Ringo, coffee shop employee, sitting on the front steps with a dog beside him. He was reading a newspaper; the dog was just panting, its tongue out.

“. . . the natural state of things, which is, in fact, utter imperfection,” he finished as we jerked into the driveway, spraying gravel. The French fry slid off the console, leaving a grease trail like a slug, and landed in my lap. “Whoops,” he said, grabbing it. “Now, see? That was a first, good step in conquering—”