Just Another Girl Page 8

  “You don’t have to make anything for me, Mrs.—I mean, Gabriela.” I give her the biggest smile I can with my mouth closed. I feel a little guilty since I know she’d make me a steak if I asked.

  “Nonsense! You girls have to eat. Do you like hummus?” She takes out a container filled with brown paste.

  “Sure,” I reply, even though I’ve never had it before. Beggars can’t be choosers. Suddenly, a huge yawn takes over me, and I cover my mouth, trying to hide it.

  Mrs. Kaplan puts the container down and focuses on me. “Are you okay? You look a little tired.”

  Tired is an understatement.

  “I’m fine. I had a horrible night’s sleep.” I rub my eyes, hoping the friction will make them want to stay open.

  She puts her hand on my wrist. “How are you doing? Really?” she asks in a quiet voice as she steals a glance at the staircase to ensure it’s safe for us to talk.

  “I’m okay,” I reply, because I don’t want Hope to walk in on us having a heart-to-heart. “I am a little tired.”

  She nods slowly. “You know what? I’m feeling a little sluggish today as well. I could use some coffee. Would you like some?”

  I want to kiss her. “That would be amazing, thank you.”

  “It’s Friday—we deserve a treat. Let me pop downtown and get us some of those decadent mocha coffee drinks they serve down at the café. Maybe some of their sinful desserts, too. Does that sound good?”

  I’m usually in control of my emotions, but there are times when the weight of what happened knocks me on my side.

  I can’t speak. I only nod as tears burn behind my eyes.

  I’m running on fumes. Not only from last night, but from my life. No sixteen-year-old should be this exhausted. It isn’t fair.

  “Oh, hon.” Mrs. Kaplan pulls me in for a hug and it’s all too much. The dam I’ve built finally bursts. Tears start streaming down my face. It’s torture being so close to what I crave.

  I let Mrs. Kaplan hug me. She brushes my hair and tells me that everything is going to be all right. But is it? How does she know? How can anybody know?

  The sound of Hope’s footsteps wakes me from my daze. I pull away from Mrs. Kaplan and wipe the tears from my face.

  “Why don’t you use the powder room, and I’ll stall Hope,” she says.

  I close the door right as Mrs. Kaplan asks Hope what she wants from the coffee shop. Once again, I splash cold water on my face. I take one of the soft hand towels and wipe away any physical evidence of my breakdown.

  That was too close. What would’ve happened if Hope had seen? She would’ve had questions, wanted answers.

  It can never happen again.

  I need to toughen up if I’m going to last sixteen more months. Once people know the truth, they start to keep a closer eye on me. Which in theory is great, except Hayley’s unraveling, and if she goes down, I’ll go down with her.

  While there are so many people who are rooting for me, there are others, like Hope, who would be delighted by my demise. She was only one floor away from discovering the truth.

  All because of a stupid cup of coffee.

  476 DAYS LEFT

  I don’t wake up until nearly noon.

  I always sleep better at Lila’s. Her home’s quiet, warm, safe.

  I stretch out in her bed, relishing in the softness of her sheets. After my day yesterday, I’m impressed I woke up at all. I didn’t even stir when Lila got up to go to her away basketball game. As much as I want to stay here all day, I have to go back to work in a couple of hours, so I need to get some more studying done.

  Plus, I have a deposit to make.

  I reach into my weekend bag and pull out the money belt, which has all my tips and tutoring money, in addition to this week’s paycheck from the pizzeria. I pad downstairs on the plush carpeting in my bare feet, greeting Lila’s parents, who are reading in the living room.

  “Sleeping Beauty awakes!” Mr. Beckett calls out with a laugh when he sees me.

  “Sorry,” I reply automatically. I feel that all I do to my friends’ parents is apologize. Or say thank you.

  “Nothing to apologize for,” Mrs. Beckett reminds me. “We’re going to do leftovers for lunch in a bit, but if you’re hungry now, please help yourself.”

  “Thanks!” I stand there awkwardly in Lila’s old flannel pajamas.

  “Parker,” Mrs. Beckett says in her usual kind voice, “I feel like it’s been forever since we’ve seen your sister. Please let Hayley know she’s invited over for dinner anytime. It would be nice to catch up.”

  “I will,” I lie.

  Hayley used to join me at my friends’ houses for meals. She even spent a week with me at Lila’s after we were kicked out of our old house. But she started showing up less and less. I blamed her work schedule, but it was because of her toxic attitude. She once showed up to Brady’s house drunk. Right when I thought things couldn’t get worse, she threw up in the back of Brady’s car. I spent the rest of the evening scrubbing out his backseat.

  She’s supposed to be my guardian, but at times I feel as if I have to protect her. She certainly isn’t watching out for me.

  It’s because of Hayley that I asked Mr. Beckett to keep my money in his safe. After she was fired from the salon, she started demanding a portion of my money beyond what we’d already agreed to split. So I started hiding money from her. She doesn’t even know I’m tutoring. She has no idea of how much I’ve saved, and I need to keep that secret safe.

  I’d be willing to share more money with my sister if it would go to something useful, like classes. But she’s spending money on frivolous things. I often see a new outfit in her closet or a carton of cigarettes, which are expensive. Occasionally our wastebasket overflows with venti to-go coffee cups.

  A bank account isn’t possible, since Hayley would have to be the cosigner on it. I also can’t trust her enough to have the money in our trailer.

  “Mr. Beckett, do you think I could—”

  He jumps up from his armchair. “Of course!”

  We walk into his office. He opens up the wall safe and hands me my locked money bag. “I’ll leave you to it.” He walks out and leaves me alone.

  I take the key that hangs on a silver chain around my neck and open up the bag that contains my salvation. The white envelope is thick with money, although the majority of the bills are tens and twenties, with the occasional fifty-dollar bill from when I swallow my pride and actually go to the bank to cash my checks. I make any excuse to avoid the bank after what my father did.

  I sit down on the floor with a calculator and begin adding up my newest total. While I keep seeing the tally grow each week, I’m not sure if it’s ever going to be enough.

  How much does it cost to start over?

  473 DAYS LEFT

  Spending Valentine’s Day at a pizzeria isn’t the most romantic option, but it’s our only option.

  It’s Tuesday night and I have to work because the owner assumes we’ll be bustling. He’s under the impression that the red-and-white vinyl checkered tablecloths are romantic. We are, not surprisingly, fairly dead, although the delivery orders for his special heart-shaped pizza keep him ensconced in the kitchen.

  There are only two tables of people grabbing slices. We aren’t the kind of place that takes reservations, but I put a RESERVED sign up on the booth closest to the front counter so when Brady comes in, I’ll be able to sit with him when it’s slow.

  I check the clock and put on some more lip gloss Lila’s mom got as a free gift with purchase. There isn’t much more I can do to look nice for Brady. I have to wear a red polo T-shirt with The Pie Shoppe logo embroidered on it in white, plus I only have one pair of jeans I wear to work, because no matter how much I wash them, they still smell of grease. My hair has to be up in a ponytail so it doesn’t end up in people’s food.

  So really, it’s any other day. I begged Brady not to get me anything, since I can’t reciprocate. This morning he simply gave me a kiss when
I got into the car. I almost forgot it was Valentine’s Day until I walked by the school’s office, which was overflowing with flowers, balloons, and stuffed animals. Between every class the hallway was filled with announcements of people who had flowers. I stopped listening for my name by lunch. Then when I went to my locker at the end of the day, I opened it to find a wrapped rectangular box. I couldn’t help but be touched by the gesture. I turned around and saw Brady behind me with a bouquet of beautiful red roses.

  “Now, I know you said no presents,” he said as he took a step forward, “but you deserve a million roses and presents every day.”

  How could anybody get mad at that?

  I grabbed his T-shirt and pulled him in for a kiss, not caring who saw it. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  The memory brings a smile to my face as I touch the silver bracelet he gave me.

  All I can give him is a heart-shaped pizza.

  But, if there’s one thing I realized over the past year, it’s how little material goods mean. Yes, I would love not to have to work and take hand-me-downs, but at the end of the day, the most important thing you can give someone in a relationship—be it as a friend, lover, or family—is yourself. Being there for someone is what really matters. Having someone’s trust is more important than having the latest phone.

  While I had a string of bad luck and hard times, I’m fortunate enough to have good people in my life, especially Brady.

  It’s getting close to eight, so I know Brady will arrive shortly. The plan is for him to stay until the end of my shift, and then I’m going to spend the night at his house. I’m too afraid to see who Hayley will bring home tonight.

  I check on my two tables, and then peer back into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Peter!” I call out to my boss, who’s busy tossing dough. “How’s my special order?”

  “Like all my orders: perfection!” he boasts as he tosses the dough even higher into the air.

  “Show-off,” I say with a laugh.

  Peter opened this pizza place last year, when he returned home from college. He’d gone to DePaul University in Chicago, but realized big-city living wasn’t for him. He shocked everybody when he decided to come back to his small hometown and open up a pizza shop on the three-block strip that constitutes our downtown.

  Peter goes to the brick oven to move around some pizzas. “Ah, here it is.”

  He proudly sets down the pizza he’s made for Brady and me: a heart-shaped pizza, half with pepperoni and sausage, the other half covered with veggies. His eyes flicker behind me. “Well, would you look at that? Prince Charming is right on time.”

  A huge smile spreads on my face, crooked teeth and all, since Brady thinks my tooth gap is sexy. Although I think he’s overly generous.

  I take a towel to protect my arms, since I learned from a mistake my first week and have the scars on my inner forearms as proof. I turn around in a fluid motion with the pizza, excited to share this with Brady. But as soon as I see him, I feel like I’m in a horror movie instead of a rom-com. I quickly press my lips together. The plan was for Brady and me to eat together. Alone. It’s Valentine’s Day. I didn’t think it was necessary to clarify the alone part.

  But there she is.

  “Hey, babe,” Brady says. But he knows there’s something wrong. He glances over at Hope. “We had some more work to do on the machine and I thought she and I could grab a quick bite while you were still working.”

  “Of course,” I reply hoarsely.

  Hope looks pretty pleased with herself, as if this is part of some plan she concocted to get to spend Valentine’s Day with Brady.

  I wouldn’t put it past her.

  “Is this for us?” he asks when he sees the RESERVED sign with the heart around it.

  I nod. It is for us. Us being him and me, not him and Hope.

  They sit down while I stand there holding a heavy and rather scalding heart-shaped pizza. The other tables are getting ready to leave. There isn’t anywhere else I can put the pizza except in front of them.

  Brady shifts uncomfortably in his seat as I place the pie down.

  “I’d already put this order in for us,” I tell him.

  He looks up at me and I can see the guilt on his face. “This is so great, babe. I’m so sorry …” He lets the apology linger in the air. He glances over at Hope, but she’s too busy helping herself to a slice.

  “Oh, I love veggie pizza,” Hope coos with more enthusiasm than I’ve ever seen from her. “Can we get some plates? And silverware? And I’d love a Cherry Coke. Thanks.”

  I stand there stunned. Not only is she eating my pizza, she’s ordering me around.

  I know one thing for certain: This meal is no longer on the house.

  “Right away,” I reply in my best waitress voice. I turn to Brady. “And what can I get you, sir?” My voice betrays me and cracks at the end.

  “Parker …” Brady tries to grab my hand, but I pull away and instead get my notepad out from my apron.

  “We also have a special on fried oysters today.” I’m scribbling nonsense in my notebook. I don’t want Hope to see how much this has upset me.

  Part of me feels stupid. I have to work. Brady has to finish his project, and also needs to eat. But why is it only Hope? If Conor and Dan were here, it would be different.

  I can feel a breakdown coming. “Let me grab Hope’s Cherry Coke, and I’ll be back to get the rest of your order.”

  I turn around quickly and head toward the kitchen, even though the soda dispenser is behind the counter. I need some space to breathe, to tell myself I’m being silly.

  Peter is there, his usual smile replaced with a scowl. “Why is that Kaplan girl here with Brady? On Valentine’s Day?”

  “They have a project …” My voice gives out. I feel tears cascading down my face. It seems as if all I’ve been doing lately is crying.

  “Do you want me to tell her to leave?” he asks.

  I shake my head. I want Brady to tell her to leave.

  Peter’s attention goes to behind the counter, while I push myself against the wall so nobody can see me. Peter asks, “What can I do to help you, Brady?”

  Brady’s voice is measured. “I was hoping I could talk to Parker.”

  “She’s in the middle of something. I’ll have her out to you as soon as she can. Is there a message you’d like me to deliver?” Peter loves chatting up customers and is generally a jovial guy, so Brady can tell he’s annoyed.

  There’s a pause. I find myself wishing Brady’s going to say Hope is leaving. Or he wants to apologize to me. Something, anything to make up for what he’s done.

  “It’s okay,” Brady replies with a sigh.

  Really? Because nothing seems okay to me.

  Peter approaches me and places his hand on my shoulder. “Tell me what I can do.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. I go back to the employee room for a couple of minutes to get my composure back.

  This is just any other day. Brady made a horrible error in judgment. His competition is less than three weeks away. They have things to do. I have to work. Hope will leave after they eat, then he and I can be alone.

  As I return to the dining area, I imagine a few scenarios: Brady will be by himself; Brady will look miserable, knowing he screwed up; or Brady will be waiting for me at the counter with a heartfelt apology.

  Instead, Brady and Hope are laughing over our pizza. They look like a couple having a blast. There’s no remorse, no awareness of how wrong this all is.

  I feel utterly helpless and alone.

  I hate Valentine’s Day.

  I know, what a surprise that a perpetually single girl pining over someone with a girlfriend hates Valentine’s Day. Yep, total shocker.

  But it’s more than that.

  Every Valentine’s Day starts out the same: My parents canoodle (and that’s the polite way of describing it) over breakfast as they sip champagne and feed each other strawberries. I
feel like a third wheel in my own family.

  Then I get to school.

  There I have to suffer through the day where happy couples hold hands and make out in the hallways, reminding all of us unboyfriended and ungirfriended souls that today is not for us. In between classes, I hear every student’s name get called to the office except mine.

  I think I speak for every unattached person out there when I say we don’t need a reminder that we’re single.

  As I watch what seems like everybody in high school collecting their flowers, balloons, and teddy bears, I can’t help but think: Why not me?

  Why can’t I find somebody who will love me back? Will I ever find that person? All I want is to feel like I really belong with someone.

  But then I look in the mirror and the answers come screaming in my head: I’m not pretty enough, skinny enough, smart enough.

  While I basically feel like that every day, Valentine’s Day always stings the most.

  So everything is going exactly like it does every year until second to last period, when my name is called. I walk into the office assuming I’ve misheard the name or that the principal needs to speak with me. Only I did hear correctly. There is a huge vase filled with two dozen gorgeous red roses waiting for me.

  From my parents.

  Which almost makes it worse.

  Since I can’t fit the roses into my locker, I have to spend the last two periods answering everybody’s questions about them. It’s as if my classmates can’t believe someone would send me flowers. Then when I have to admit they’re from my mom and dad, I pretend not to notice their looks of pity.

  I try to hide the bouquet behind my back when Parker comes up to me between classes. At first I considered making up a boyfriend, but know I’d be caught in a lie she’d never believe. So I’m forced to tell her the truth.

  “Your parents are so sweet,” Parker replies. “That’s really nice of them.”

  Oh yeah, how nice that my parents sent me something. I’ve seen the bouquet that Brady’s been hauling around for her. It should have its own zip code.

  I’ve never been so glad to get home, especially since I don’t have to be tutored today.