The Art of Lainey (12 page)

I
drop Micah’s hand the second we’re back inside and then excuse myself to slip into a restroom and freshen up. Pulling off my floppy hat, I cringe. I look like I’ve played about three overtimes. My hair is frizzy on top and the ends are curling in all directions due to the humidity. Sweat has made my skin all shiny and wreaked havoc on my eyeliner. My left eye is doing the raccoon thing; my right eye looks basically naked. Maybe Jason and Dan weren’t laughing about Micah. Maybe they were laughing about how hideous I look.

Pulling a paper towel from the dispenser, I blot my whole face and apply powder until I’m not causing a physical glare in the mirror. I redo my eyeliner and then put my hat back on.

By the time I’m done making myself look human, Micah is leaning against the wall outside the bathroom holding
two sodas. “I hope you’re not one of those skinny girls who drinks diet,” he says. “I got you a Coke.”

“No way. Diet soda tastes like poison.” I take the cup he offers gratefully and swill down a long drink.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“Yeah. I wish we could see the game from here.” I gesture around at all the shade. “It’s about twenty degrees cooler.”

Micah’s face is a little flushed. I’m not sure if it’s from the heat or if he’s getting a sunburn. “The Cards scored another run while you were in the bathroom,” he says. “I’d say this one is in the bag. There’s no reason to stay if you don’t want.”

I take another sip of my drink and let out a happy sigh. Soda has never tasted so good. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Nope.” He takes a drink of his soda and mimics my ecstasy. “But there’s no point in wasting your time if you’re bored. We’ve accomplished what we came here to do, and like I said, if we don’t come back, your ex will wonder what we’re doing.”

“Good point.” I run my fingers across Micah’s forearm. “You’re looking a little pink. Let’s get out of here before we both end up with third-degree sunburns.”

Back on the MetroLink, I soak up as much air-conditioning as possible. As we near our stop, thick storm clouds begin to blot out most of the blue sky.

“I still can’t believe you don’t like baseball,” Micah says.

I shrug. “Jay and I usually go to a couple of games a year. I don’t hate it or anything. I just like soccer better.”

“Maybe next time you should take me somewhere you and Jason went together that you actually like.”

A smile plays at my lips as I think of the perfect place, a place I’m sure Micah would hate. But it would be fun to see him totally out of his element. “Good idea,” I say. “So next time we’ll go to Beat.”

“The dance club?” He makes a face like he swallowed a wasp. “Amber tried to drag me there for one of their full-moon parties. How about we forget I said anything?”

“Too late.” I elbow him in the ribs. “You offered. And speaking of Amber, did she call you yet?”

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Even as the sun cuts its way through the clouds, raindrops begin to plink against the train window.

Micah shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Have faith,” I say. “It might take a couple more dates.”

As the words tumble out of my mouth, I hope I’m right. The only thing that’s kept me sane without Jason the past couple of weeks is all the plotting and scheming in the name of getting him back. I try to imagine what my life would be like if it doesn’t happen. Days spent watching him from afar in the hallways, agonizing about whether to run toward him or away from him. Nights at home alone, wondering who he’s with. No. That’s not how I’m going to spend my senior year. I refuse to even entertain the possibility.

The MetroLink purrs to a stop and Micah and I jump
off. The rain is coming down in soft sheets now, drowning out what’s left of the sun. The air temperature has dropped a few degrees.

I pause at the edge of the platform and watch the silvery droplets add to puddles of pooling water at the edge of the parking lot. “I think I’m going to go by work and grab a pizza,” I say. “You want to come?”

“Nope. You can drop me off on the way.” Micah heads for the stairs leading down from the platform. “I get enough of that place as it is.”

“Okay. Hang on a sec.” Shielding my phone with one hand, I send Bianca a quick text.

She replies right away:

“Everything cool?” Micah asks.

“Yeah. It’s all good.” I slip my phone back in my purse, a little disappointed that Bianca is busy.

“You want me to get the car so you don’t get wet?”

“Nah. I like rain,” I say. “It beats sweating my ass off.”

Micah and I race across the parking lot to the Civic. We slip inside the car and I use my hat to blot a few stray
droplets from my face. Flipping on the radio, I tell him to pick a station. He finds something playing music I’ve never heard before. Once again, I kind of like it. When I slow the car to a stop in front of his apartment building a few minutes later, I turn sideways to look at him. “Let me know if you hear from Amber.”

“Yeah. You too.” He watches me warily, like he’s expecting me to give him a hug or something.

I fiddle with the radio preset buttons. Commercial. Commercial. Annoying boy-band song. I end up going back to the station Micah was listening to. The Civic idles loudly. “Otherwise I guess we’ll talk at work. . . .” I trail off.

“Yup.” Micah slides out of the car with a wave.

“Hey,” I call after him. “I’ll wash your shirt and get it back to you soon, okay?”

“No hurry. It looks better on you anyway.” He grins. “See you around.”

As he crosses the lawn in a few long strides and disappears into the building, I feel a little lost.

I’m not used to being all by myself.

W
hen I wake up the next morning, there’s a note on the table that says Ebony called in sick so my dad will be at Denali all day. He’d love it if I came in and helped out, but it’s okay if I already have plans or don’t want to work.

I don’t want to, but going to work is about the only thing that will keep me from staring at my phone all day waiting for Jason to call. Plus Bianca is working this afternoon, so I can fill her in on the baseball game later.

When I get to the shop, the line of customers is out the front door. I catch a glimpse of my dad through the front windows, and he’s actually taking orders at the counter. Dad’s the kind of guy who still does his taxes on paper. He’s terrified of the computerized cash register, so they must be slammed for him to be working the front.

I quickly park between an old station wagon decorated
with dancing bear decals and Micah’s lime-green rust bucket. I thought he was off today. My dad probably figured there was a .0001 percent chance of me coming in on my day off so he dialed up the more reliable members of the staff too.

I struggle to make my way into the shop. “Excuse me,” I say, elbowing my way past a bunch of kids dressed in hoop skirts and fake armor. Now I see why it’s so busy. A Renaissance festival must be going on somewhere nearby.

The line is starting to turn into a mob, and people are actually beginning to block part of the street. No wonder Dad was trying to recruit extra help. “Coming through.” I slide between a pair of pale, gangly boys sparring with wooden swords, narrowly avoiding a thwap in the ribs. “Watch what you’re doing.” I give the offender my patented “back the hell up” look. The boy mumbles an apology and sheathes his sword. His friend calls me a “saucy wench.”

Inside, the wind chimes and music are drowned out by the bean grinder, overlapping animated conversations, and the occasional clank of armor against armor. I fight my way through the crowd to the counter. My dad’s glasses are starting to fog up. He mops sweat from his brow with one of the gray rags we use to wipe down the tables. He doesn’t see me until I’m practically on top of him.

“Lainey!” He says my name like I’m some sort of superhero who has come to save the day.

I grin. It feels good to be needed. “Just let me clock in.”

He grabs me by the wrist. Dude, he is really sweating.
“I’ll clock you in later,” he says. “Take over for Micah so he can help out in the back.”

I nod and toss my purse in the drawer beneath the register. Then I slide over to the back counter where all the stainless steel coffee machines are lined up. “Messing up everyone’s orders?” I joke.

“Hey,” Micah says breezily as he looks up from the bean grinder. “What are you doing here? Don’t you need your beauty sleep?”

“Obviously not.” I turn a small pirouette for effect. “I didn’t even know you knew how to make drinks.”

Micah whistles innocently. “I don’t.” He gestures to the mob at the counter. “But they don’t know that.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Go help out whoever is cooking before he quits. Maybe if we feed the masses they’ll stop making so much noise.”

It takes us about two hours, but eventually the crowd thins out and Bianca comes in to work the front. My dad immediately heads for the safety of the back. Bee clocks in and then takes her place in front of the register.

“Did you dye your hair?” She strokes my teal streak.

I can’t believe I haven’t seen her since the day I went to Mizz Creant’s. I completely forgot to tell her about my streak. “It’s a clip-in. Micah’s sister did it for me.”

“Cute,” she says.

Smiling, I make myself a skinny iced chai and survey the dining room. Most of the tables are taken. No one looks like they need anything. “I’m going to take a break,” I tell Bee.

She nods. “Go ahead. I’ll yell if I need you.”

Micah is in the back making pizza dough while Cal—aka C-4, though all the girls refuse to call him that—is keeping up on the orders for salads and sandwiches.

“What’s up, freaks?” I ask.

Micah spreads a glob of dough onto a silver pizza pan. “Well, if it isn’t our TV star and future alumni of Hazelton Forest University. Anyone ask for your autograph today?”

“Ha-ha.” I lean against one of the prep tables as I sip my chai.

Cal plates up two Alpine Slammer sandwiches and a salmon salad. His beard is so long it’s practically dragging on the dishes. He looks in my direction. “Food runner?” he asks.

I cross my arms. “I’m on break.”

“Whatever.” Cal balances the plates on his arm and heads toward the dining area. My dad will kill me if he sees I let Cal run food. Between his monster beard and the shocks of bushy hair protruding from both sides of his ponytail, he looks more like a Sasquatch than a human. I cross my fingers that Dad stays back in the office for at least a couple more minutes. Then I turn back to Micah.

“Why do you give me so much crap about that commercial? There’s nothing wrong with Hazelton Forest.” I pluck a black olive from the salad station. “Half the kids we go to school with will end up there.”

The smile fades from Micah’s face. “I wish my mom worked at a college so I could go for free.”

“Sometimes I wish mine didn’t so I could go someplace else,” I reply. “Hazelton Forest’s soccer team is only Division III. They don’t play anyone good. I want to go to a Division I college but I’d need to land an athletic scholarship to pay for it.”

Micah sighs. “I’ll be lucky to afford community college. I could save all of my pay for ten years and not even come close to paying for where I really want to go.”

I imagine Micah and his mohawk strolling down the ivy-lined paths of Princeton or Harvard, a sorority girl on each arm. I hold back a snide comment. “Where’s that?” I toss the olive up in the air and catch it in my mouth.

“The CIA.”

“With tattoos and a mohawk? Aren’t spies supposed to blend in?”

“Not that CIA, dummy,” Micah says. “The Culinary Institute of America. Their pastry chef program is one of the best in the country.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You want to make pies for a living? Seriously?”

Micah grabs a walnut from the salad station. He flicks it in my direction. Direct hit. It pings right off the blotchy tan spot on my forehead. “Pastry chefs make all kinds of stuff. Sorry, not everybody wants to be a big, badass EMT like your loser ex-boyfriend.”

I pull my bangs down and glance around, considering my options for ammunition. “He is
not
a loser.”

Micah grins. “Keep telling yourself that.”

My hand reaches out for the nearest thing I can grab and flings it in his direction. It’s a half full measuring cup of flour and it ends up everywhere—the counter, the floor, all up and down Micah’s T-shirt and baggy chef pants.

A white cloud hangs in the air. Micah coughs from the dust. “You little . . .” he starts. But he can’t even finish his sentence because he’s laughing too hard.

I’m laughing too. “Dude, you’re such a cokehead. I’m totally going to tell my dad.”

Micah tosses a raw egg in my direction. I reach out and catch it without it cracking. “Ha. Is that all you got?”

“Actually, no.” He lobs another egg at me. And then another. And then one bounces off me and cracks onto the kitchen floor. Micah advances on me, pantomiming like he’s going to slam an egg onto the top of my head, but I wrap my hand around his wrist and use all my strength to push his arm away from me.

He tries to wriggle free of my grasp but can’t. “Mr. Mitchell,” he hollers at no one in particular. “Tell your daughter to stop groping me.”

“You wish.”

“No I don’t.” Micah points to my arm up against his. “I’m not into girls who are orange.”

I push Micah back away from me. “Shut up. At least I’m not whiter than this flour.”