Girl Mans Up (22 page)

THE NEXT MONDAY, HALLOWEEN HAPPENS. WHILE
kids ring our bell and force my mom to get up every thirty seconds, I'm at work with Blake. It's our first shift together, and I manage to get this old guy to buy a brand-new PlayStation console. At the checkout, he says, “Nice costume, kid. I went and saw the first
TMNT
movie when it came out in 1990.”

“That must've been epic,” I say. “What do you think of the new ones?”

He sighs like that's a loaded question. “People want to complain whenever someone tries to mess with the past. They want to get excited for the new, but they can't let go of the way things used to be,” he says, handing me his credit card. “I was excited to see it grow, become a thing for the new generation. And you know what? Even as a loyal fan since the original comics, I wasn't disappointed. They preserved the Turtle essence.”

This guy is smart. I wish he'd talk some more about this stuff. “Me and my brother went and saw the first one. I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat, I was so into it.”

There's this knowing smile on his lips like he totally feels me. The sale goes through, and I hand him his card and receipt. He says, “I don't need a bag. Take care, kid.”

I hand him the box, and he walks away.

“You just geeked out with a guy who's probably older than my dad,” Blake says after the man leaves.

“What are you talking about? That guy was badass,” I say. “Geeking out is badass. And Turtles are badass as hell.”

She reaches for my hand below the counter and I squeeze hers for a second. Every time I touch her, it's dangerous. Especially when we're in public. Sometimes I feel like I could kiss her right here and not give a crap about people walking in, about getting fired, about anything at all.

“I'm going to go put the returns away, okay?” she says, grabbing the basket of things people have brought back or
decided not to buy once they got to the register.

“You're going to leave me all alone up here?” I say.

“If anyone comes to checkout and it's too complicated, just call me over.”

When Blake is wandering the aisles to put stuff back on the shelves, I reach for my phone under the counter. Olivia's still not quite right. She calls it “feeling blah.”

The last thing I said was:
just wait it out

Her:
I'm tired but I can't sleep.

I want to ask her if she regrets it, the abortion. Maybe that's why she's feeling blah. But if she says she does regret it, then what?

Me:
u think maybe u should talk 2 some1???

Her:
About what?

Me:
how u feel & stuff . . .

Blake gives me a thumbs-up from the computer-game aisle, and I give her one back. A customer walks in, but he heads right over to the toy and collectible section, so I go back to my phone, making sure it stays under the counter. Mitch isn't so much into employees standing around texting.

Her:
I feel OK. It's just the sleeping thing.

Me:
think maybe it's the hormone thing?

Her:
Maybe.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm totally sucking at this friend thing. If Blake was in my shoes, what would she be telling Olivia? I keep telling her to just wait it out, but part of me wants to tell her to snap out of it, man up a little. Just dust yourself off and move on. My guy friends would get it, but I know it would
sound mean as hell when said to a girl.

Me:
just . . . wait it out i guess

I'm pretty sure that whatever I give her is a hell of a lot better than what she'd be getting from Colby. Johnny says just being there is enough, so that's what I'm doing.

BLAKE AND I GET
a pass to leave early from second period on Friday to set up for the photo shoot. The school camera we borrowed is fully charged and the memory card is empty. We have a couple of wide rectangular signs—that Robyn and Blake painted white for us in art class—and each person is going to hold one facing the camera straight on. Once all the photos are taken, we're going to use the school's editing program to place quotes on the sign in each picture. We already have three people waiting to get pictures taken by the time the lunch bell rings.

“What if we get more than twenty people wanting to pose?” I ask.

“We'll take them all. We'll get more quotes if we need to,” Blake says. “And we are so putting our own pics in there. It'll be righteous.”

“Yeah—I'll pass.”

“Olivia?” Blake says, and I turn to see Olivia wandering over from the science hallway. It blows my mind that she hasn't skipped school at all. “You're having your picture taken, right?”

She shakes her head no.

“You guys suck!” Blake says. “How about your truths? We all have to be in there somewhere.”

“We are,” I say. “We're taking the pics, editing them, and writing all the text slides.”

Blake rolls her eyes and heads for the spotlights we borrowed from the drama department. We've got three areas set up: in front of the library; in front of the massive mural that's an ugly mash-up of the school mascot, the school colors, and religious things; and in front of the first set of grade-twelve lockers, right around the corner from the mural.

“Hey,” Blake says, so Olivia and I look over at her. “I was talking with the guys and we think you two should totally organize a photo shoot for the band.”

“You don't even know if we can take a decent photo yet,” I say.

“It's all about the lighting anyway,” Blake says. “We're going to make a Facebook page for when the Battle of the Bands happens, so real band photos would rock. What do you think?”

“Can you guys afford to hire us?” Olivia asks. When Blake's face freezes awkwardly, Olivia laughs. “I'm kidding. I think a photo shoot would be pretty cool. Will you give us photographer credit?”

“Of course,” Blake says.

Olivia searches my gaze to see what I think of the idea. “I'm in.”

When first lunch starts, crowds of people head by our stations and they want to know what we're up to. Olivia is here to help people pose, while I fix the lighting. Blake and I decided we'd split the actual shooting between us and see whose pictures end up looking the best.

At first, it feels awkward, acting like some photographer. But then it becomes like a job, and we get into it. The caf starts to empty out next to us as lunch ends. Blake takes off to get done up for her turn in front of the camera.

“How's it going?” I ask Olivia while she flips through all the shots we've taken today. Those three words must come out of my mouth—or my fingers—three times a day. She's probably so tired of hearing them, but I can't stop asking. Her answer is a smile.

“My turn,” Blake says, swaggering over in the school skirt I never see her wear, fishnets, black boots that go up to her knees, and this cropped leather-looking jacket thing. She looks like some biker dude's girl. She looks like my girl. “I made my hair super big. Make me look absolutely amazing, people.”

“This will not be hard,” I say, hooking my finger with hers. “Damn.”

“Wait!” She heads for one of the empty cafeteria tables. “Do me here.”

I fumble with the camera. “Uh—”

“Please don't be gross,” Olivia says. “We're professionals.”

Blake ignores us and steps right up on the table. “Pass me a sign.” Olivia hands me one, then she drags the lighting equipment over. Blake's legs are spread apart and she holds the sign at waist level. She does this head-banging move to make her hair go nuts, and she looks down to where I'm sort of crouching, deciding to shoot her from below. Her face looks badass, like she's some demon slayer or something.

I take, like, seven shots.

“So?” she asks, hopping off the table.

“Hot,” Olivia says.

I nod. “Yeah, what she said.”

“Nice.” We do the finger-hooking thing, then she goes, “Okay, I have to go change back. I'll be quick!”

Blake disappears around the corner.

“Hey, guys,” Tristan says as he wanders over. “Can I be in your project?”

“Sure, dude,” I say. “Take a sign.”

Tristan takes a board from Olivia then follows me to the spot in front of the library. He goes right into one of his I'm-gonna-try-looking-up-through-my-long-bangs poses. Tristan's like a statue under my aim, and I'm ready to snap some shots.

“The hell are you doing, Tristan?” Colby's coming from my right.

“I wanted to get my picture taken,” Tristan says.

“Yeah? You some kind of model now? Let's go. Garrett's waiting for us,” Colby says. Then he turns to me. “Nice try, Pen. Tristan's one of us, so therefore he can't be one of you—no matter how girly his jeans are.”

“Come on, Colby. This is getting old,” Tristan says with a heavy shake of the head before turning around and going off on his own.

“What?” Colby says to me, coming a step closer. Now there are maybe five steps between us. “You got something to say?”

“Nope.”

“Nothing?”

“No. Oh, well, yeah,” I say. “You wanna be in our project?”

He lets out a chuckle, but his brow gets heavy. “Screw off, Pen.”

So I hold up the camera. It's so quick and I've snapped a photo of him standing there, arms out, feet wide apart, and head to the side.

“Oh damn—I better watch my ass. You just took a picture of me,” he says. “You're lame, Pen. I don't know how I ever looked past how lame you are.”

I give him no reaction before turning around and heading back to where Olivia's waiting. She turns her back to Colby, too, as I sidle up to her.

“You're not putting him in the project, are you?” she asks.

“I'm just messing with him,” I say.

She doesn't look impressed. “Maybe you shouldn't do that.”

I know that. Part of me wishes Blake wasn't my girlfriend, and Olivia wasn't my friend, so that I could get back at him without worrying he'll go after them. In my mind, I've done all kinds of things to him—talked shit about him at school, told his parents stuff he'd never want them to know, showed up at his house with the guys in Blake's band to take Colby and his buddies on—but most of the time, it's just him and me and I finally tell him everything. Maybe I tell it all with one quote plastered over his smug face.

“You should delete the photo,” Olivia says.

“Yeah. I should.”

LATER, MOM STOPS ME
as I head down the stairs to catch the bus for my shift in an hour. It smells like the white cookies she makes that I like, these hard, dry things I have to dunk in milk to be able to eat.

“Where you go?”

“I have to get to work,” I say, which is how I decide to announce I've got a real job.

“Work? Where work?”

“I work at the mall, at a store. I'm trying to save money.”

“You save the money? Why you need to save the money? You do schoolwork.” She tells me she won't have me screwing up school by having a job.

“I can handle it. I
am
handling it.”

Johnny still hasn't told me when he plans on talking to our parents, so I have to watch myself. Every day I want to tell her I've been at Johnny's; that her little plan didn't work for long. Instead, I'm riding the pissy aftereffects of her trying to steal my toys.

“You no work like that,” she says, pointing to my clothes, one of the shirts I brought home with me from Johnny's, and these black dress pants I used to save for special occasions.

“We all dress like that. We have a uniform shirt anyway.”

“You no dress like that at you work!” She says I'm embarrassing myself in front of professional people, strangers. “You go change!”

“My manager gave me the job when I looked like this. Anyway—it's not like it matters what you think.” I throw on my
jacket and slip into my skater shoes. “I gotta go. I don't want to be late.”

“I call you father, Penelope. I call him, we talk, then you,
Mãe e Pai
talk. We talk all tomorrow.”

Tomorrow I still won't be listening.

AT WORK, I RING
in six sales in a row. I only mess up twice. Once by hitting “cash” instead of “debit,” which makes the register pop open into my stomach when I reach over for the PIN pad. The other time is when I accidentally override the price of something and end up giving a customer a thirty-dollar game for half off.

“Mitch will have to report that to mall security,” Elliott says. “It'll go on your mall-employee record, but only for seven years.”

“What? For real?”

“Nope. What the hell is a mall-employee record?” Elliott says, cracking a grin. “I just made it up. Sounds legit, doesn't it?”

“Will I get in trouble, though?”

“My second shift here, I charged this woman a thousand dollars on her credit card and neither of us noticed until it went through and she was looking at her bill as she was walking away. She accused me of trying to rip her off,” Elliott says. “I'm still here.”

“I'm going to pay better attention on the next one.”

Mitch sweeps past us, and for a second I think I'm about to get in trouble, but he just tells us to work, look lively, and sell stuff, then he's on his way out of the store.

“So listen,” Elliott says. “You think I should back off from Olivia?”

“What do you mean?”

He pulls out a wad of transaction receipts and starts sorting them into piles. “I can't figure out if she's into it or not. She's sort of—I don't know—hot and cold or something?”

“Yeah, well,” I say, but that's where it stops because there's nothing to say. I can't give him advice about how to get with some girl I know, because that girl's my friend and I don't want some other dude messing with her. “Olivia's nice, and she's sweet or whatever—”