The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things (13 page)

I listen while we get the instructions for our experiment, then I turn to Ryan. “You ready?”

“I got your note. About my stories.”

“Yeah.” It’s true; he can make a trip to the QwikMart sound like an epic adventure.

“I guess … you have plans tomorrow night?” He says it with such awful resignation, like he can’t imagine a worse fate than
not
hanging with me.

“I do. But…” The invite slips out in response to his puppy eyes. “You can come to lunch on Sunday if you want.”

“I’m there.”

“I invited a bunch of people, apparently. We’re girl heavy, so—”

“Tell me you
didn’t
just invite me for my Y chromosome.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this angry. Ryan doesn’t have a temper; at least, not that I’ve ever seen. Until now. His brown eyes practically throw sparks behind the black frames of his glasses.

“I’m trying, okay? I can’t handle just the two of us yet. I mean, I want us to be friends, but—”

“Last week, I was trying to tell you I’m
in love
with you. I broke up with my girlfriend for you. Don’t friend-zone me.”

“Your girlfriend…? The one you were
lying
to? Don’t even try for the moral high ground.” I can’t believe that he’s acting like the injured party.

“Ryan and Sage, less 90210, more chemistry, please,” the teacher says.

“That’s their problem,” somebody cracks. “Not enough.”

Oh God. How did my life end up this way?
So much pointless drama, and Ryan’s just making it worse. Tired of it, I put my head on the lab counter and wait to be struck by lightning.

Sadly, this never happens. I’m forced to finish this class and two more, then make my way to work. By comparison, my shift at the Curly Q is a marvel of peace and quiet. We get two new customers, which is cool for Mildred. The second girl comes in half an hour before closing. She’s small with long brown hair and shaggy bangs. Her blue polo shirt has a pharmacy logo on it—along with the khaki pants, this looks like a work uniform. Just inside the door, she chews her lips nervously as I walk toward the front desk.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“I just need…” Her voice is tiny, hesitant.

Wow, she’s shy.

“My bangs trimmed. Maybe the split ends on the rest.”

That won’t take long, so I call to Grace, who did my highlights, “Do you have time?”

She nods. It’s ten bucks more than she would’ve made fiddling with her own hair.

“I have to shampoo your hair first,” I explain. “It’s the law. This way.”

I notice she’s actually shaking when she sinks into the red reclining chair. Maybe she’s never had a haircut in a salon before? Pondering why that would be, I run the water so it’s nice and warm and then go about my business of wetting, lathering, rinsing, and conditioning. Water speckles the lenses of her red glasses, the one pop of color about her. I usually throw in a little head massage if there’s time, but she has a lot of hair, and Grace needs her in the chair to get it done before eight.

“There you go,” I say, helping her sit up.

The customer follows me over to Grace’s station, where I settle her with protective cape. “Do you want a magazine? Some water?”

“Water would be nice,” she says softly.

I head back to the tiny employee lounge and fill a paper cone for her. When I get back with the drink, Grace is already at work with the comb. That accomplished, I go back to work cleaning the rest of the salon. The other stylists are all gone; Grace and I are closing up together tonight. Windex and towels in hand, I do all the mirrors by the time she finishes the trim.

“I don’t have time to blow it out,” Grace says, then shows the girl how it looks it in back.

“I like it. Thank you.” She digs into her purse and slips Grace a few bucks.

That makes me smile; some people seem opposed to tipping their stylists. I head over to the front desk to ring her out. A full haircut is twelve bucks, so I charge her eight for the partial. Her eyes look so sad as she counts out the singles that I can’t help but ask:

“Are you okay?”

“No,” she says softly. Then she squares her shoulders, like she’s about to drink some medicine. “See, I’m … I’m Cassie.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Oh. Crap.

I feel weirdly like the other woman. What am I supposed to say? “Ryan mentioned you.”

“Yeah … he talked about you all the time. I thought you were a coworker.”

“At which of his fictional jobs?” This is so awkward it hurts. To make matters worse, Ryan’s family has plenty of money; he’s never needed to work. They’re against it, focused on him getting good grades and participating fully in high school in order to get the best possible start. They’ve been looking at college brochures at the McKenna house since Ryan was fourteen.

Her pained gaze sparks with humor. “The one at the credit union.”

“So he was a bank teller in his secret life?”

I wonder why she never went to see him at work. It seems like there would’ve been some natural moment in the last year where it all fell apart. Can it be that easy to live a double life? I mean, obviously I’ve heard about men who manage to have two wives, two families, but it sounds like an awful lot of effort. But if anyone could make it work, Ryan could. He’s diabolically smart; I just never expected him to use his brain for evil.

“That’s what he told me.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but … why are you here? I’m guessing not just for a trim.”

Cassie shrugs, looking upset and angry at the same time. “I told myself I’d just come in for a haircut—that I wouldn’t even tell you who I was.”

“Why did you?” In a way, I wish she hadn’t.

“Because you’re not like I thought you’d be.”

I’m confused now. “Did he tell you something about me when he…”

“Broke up with me? Yes, he said he had feelings for you. That things between us hadn’t been right in a while.” She sighs softly. “And I knew that. I thought he might be cheating on me, or that the relationship was just dying from lack of time. I’m at the daycare center from nine to five, and then I work midnights at the pharmacy.”

“Wow. You don’t get much sleep, huh?”

“I usually pass out between six and eleven. Ryan and I were lucky to see each other once every couple of weeks. We’d Skype in between, send texts, but it wasn’t the same.”

“No.” That explains why she never stopped to see him at work, however. No time. And really, if you trust someone, it never occurs to you that they could be inventing their whole life.

“I know he’s a liar, but … did he cheat on me, too? It probably shouldn’t matter, as I could do jail time for being with him, but I swear I didn’t know.” Tears stand in her big eyes, and I feel a fierce pang of pity for her.

“Hey, he lied, not you. You thought he was a bit younger, but not jailbait. It would’ve been weird if you’d carded him.”

“I will, going forward,” she mutters.

“And to answer you, no. He didn’t cheat. At least, not with me. If there’s someone else, I don’t know about her.”

“Where would he find the time?”

I laugh. “I have
no
idea. Learning about you shocked me, that’s for sure.”

“It’s none of my business, but … are you … will you…” Cassie trails off, obviously embarrassed that she still cares about the jackass.

“No. Ryan can’t have everything he wants, and that includes me.”

She actually smiles. “I’m a bad person, but that makes me happy.”

“Yeah, well. Nobody wants to break up with someone and then find out he’s with somebody else a day later.”

Grace calls, “Are you about done? It’s time to lock up.”

“Yes, she’s squared away,” I answer. Then dropping my voice, I ask, “Aren’t you?”

She nods. “Thanks for your time. You’re not like I thought you’d be.”

I raise a brow as I gather up my belongings. “How’s that?”

“Big hair, bright red lipstick, lots of spandex. Classic man stealer.”

This is so far from the truth that I laugh. “I don’t know any high school girls who look like that.”

“I wasn’t in a rational mood.”

“Night!” I call to Grace.

Cassie walks out with me as the stylist turns out the lights behind us. My bike is chained to the rack nearby. There are only a few cars parked at the meters, as the businesses downtown close pretty early. I assume one of them belongs to her. With a smile in parting, I dig into my backpack and start taping my sleeves, so I will annoy as many drivers as possible on the way home.

“Night,” I say, moving to unlock my ride. There’s no way I’m saying it was nice to meet her.

“This might be totally out of line, but maybe you’d like to get a coffee sometime, just to make Ryan profoundly uncomfortable?”

I smirk and give her my cell number. “I could be persuaded.”

“It won’t be for a while. Like you said earlier, I don’t sleep much. Which kinda makes it hard to have a normal social life.”

“I’m finding it impossible to imagine Ryan as a booty call.”

Cassie smiles slowly. “We had our problems, but … never that.”

Uh. Wow.

Since I don’t want to imagine Ryan having sex, I end the conversation by swinging onto my bike. With a wave, I take off down the sidewalk. I don’t look back. Cassie wasn’t like I thought she’d be either; I figured she must be sophisticated, but in fact, she didn’t seem much more together than me. She’s just a person, working hard, trying to save for college. On bad days, I imagine she’s sad and exhausted; on good ones, she probably sees the light at the end of the tunnel, where she’ll have enough cash to attend classes full time for a while. It’s kind of revelational to realize that graduation doesn’t also mean receiving all the answers. This is also depressing. I imagine being fifty-eight years old, still with no idea what the heck is going on.

As I ride home, I consider. Some of my friends, like Ryan, know what they want; he has his future all mapped out. He’s going to MIT, where he’ll major in computer science. Others, like Conrad, are still living at home, three years after graduation, and he doesn’t seem to have any plans at all. I fall somewhere in between. I definitely intend to go to college, and basically, my decision will be driven by the school that offers me the best scholarship. There’s a college in Maine that I would love to attend; I’ve crunched the numbers and if I keep my grades up, I could earn a presidential scholarship at Unity, plus if I factor Aunt Gabby’s income, I’ll be eligible for some financial aid, too. We’re doing okay, but we’re not rich. If I do well on the SAT, it’ll probably cost around eight grand a year, which would be sweet. I’d
love
to finish college without any student loans.

Before I know it, I’m turning down the drive to my house. Two and a half miles isn’t that far, and it’s still before nine. By this point I’m starving, though, so I can’t wait to see what’s for dinner.
Oh my God, yum.
She’s made one of my favorite dishes, stuffed peppers.

“I’m home,” I call.

“Good day?” My aunt’s already eaten, judging by the plate beside her on the coffee table. I grab it and take it to the kitchen, then pull my plate out of the oven.

With a contented sigh, I plop down at the end of the sofa and then eat about half of my stuffed peppers, before remembering to praise her cooking. I’m afraid if I don’t, she’ll start doing takeout all the time. “This is so good. Uhm. Just so you know, we’re apparently having a small party on Sunday.”

“
How
small?”

“Like seven guests. We’re having lasagna.”

She cocks her head, thinking. “I have plans on Friday, but if you do the shopping on Saturday, we can put a couple of pans of lasagna together that night, and then bake them right before your friends come over on Sunday.”

“Plans, huh? UPS Joe strikes again?”

Her cheeks color. “Just call him Joe.”

“Noted. It’s awesome you’re letting me do this. I’d hate to tell everyone tomorrow that it’s not on, after they ask their parents and everything.”

“Next time, I’d appreciate more notice, but … this is a momentous occasion.”

“It is?”

“You’ve never wanted to invite people over before.” I hear the
ping
of happiness in her voice—that I’m doing normal things, making new friends, and having them to our house to eat pasta. If I’d known it would thrill my aunt this much, I’d have rounded up some random people to feed earlier.

“I guess not.” It seems like a bad idea to tell her that this was a conversation that got away from me, not some master plan to come out of my shell. “I’ll make sure to give you more than two days next time … and of course I’ll do the shopping. I can get some salad stuff, too.”

“Sounds good.”

While my aunt watches TV, I finish my dinner, then take my plate to the kitchen and clean. I have to prove that I’m not more trouble than I’m worth. Life with my mom was hell, and the group home was just as bad—in a different way. Everything was regimented, and I had no privacy. The first month, I shared a room with a girl who kept trying to smother me. Eventually, the housemother caught her during a random bed check and she was relocated. They were always searching our rooms for contraband and taking away our scant privileges, but sometimes I couldn’t
help
fighting. Sometimes it was self-defense.

I wash the dishes, wipe the counters and stove. The floor looks okay, so I’ll leave it.

“You don’t have to,” she calls, but she hates cleanup.

Since I can’t cook like she does, this division of labor makes sense. I’m learning, though. I can do a few of her recipes. Hopefully by the time I move out, I’ll have a respectable number of dishes, so I don’t wind up living on Maruchan. I had enough of that in elementary school, and I’m not looking to repeat the experience. Without noodles and gas station burritos, I probably would’ve starved. It’s hard to imagine sometimes; there’s such a demarcation between then and now, but once you’ve been truly hungry you never forget the feeling. And it’s hard not to think about where the next meal is coming from.

It’s ten, so I spend an hour on homework, and then fall in bed. It’s one before I finally drift off, and even then, my sleep is sporadic, plagued by the Dream. There are half-empty liquor bottles everywhere. I break one. Another. The glass sprinkles over me. I walk on it, but there’s no pain. I’m crying, but I can’t feel it; my face is numb. The tears taste like salt in my dry mouth, and my feet are bleeding. The red stains crushed packs of cigarettes, and my toes nudge a bright yellow lighter. Yellow on a stoplight means caution, but I pick it up anyway.