“Better?” I ask after I wipe my face, and I turn to face Mrs. Sandler. The Kleenex is black, probably a little salty now too.
“Much. You’re a really beautiful girl. Inside and out. Do you know that?”
“Um, thanks?” I say, or ask. How strange, I think, to be called both ugly and beautiful, two words I rarely hear, in the same day. The former because most people are neither that mean nor that truthful, the latter because it has never applied to me. Agnes called me hot today too—another word never before used to describe me—though I think of hot as altogether different from beautiful. Hot seems to be about guys liking you. Beautiful is about liking how you look.
Of course, Liam’s mom is old enough to think all sixteen-year-old girls are beautiful. Gem, on the other hand, sees me through clearer eyes.
“You can take the afternoon off if you need to,” Liam’s mom says, and her kindness almost makes me ache. Reminds me that when I go home, it will be to Rachel’s house. My mom will not be there to nurse me back from this. There is no longer a person in the world who is interested in everything I have to say just by virtue of the fact that it comes out of my mouth. Scar tries, but it’s not the same.
My mom will not make me a cup of cocoa with mini marshmallows, and we won’t share a plate of Chips Ahoy, more than a dozen between us, an indulgence reserved for bad days. My mom wasn’t strict about what counted when it came to me: a B on a math test I thought I had aced or losing my favorite charm bracelet. When she needed the boost, though, our ritual was reserved for only the very worst occasions: a cancer diagnosis, or later, a T-cell count being low. The word “spread” being used by a medical professional after looking at a black-and-white photo of her insides.
Eventually, I made the cocoa and drank both of ours. Ate all the cookies.
“Thanks, but I honestly could use the cash.” I picture Scarlett’s parents’ basement. Not home, not even close, but closer than what I have now. A big L-shaped couch and an oversized TV from last century, as thick as it is tall. The slightest hint of mold in the air, almost but never quite covered up by the smell of fresh laundry. It wouldn’t be so bad. School would be familiar and easy after Wood Valley. I’d have Scarlett back, maybe even my old job at the Smoothie King. My dad would barely notice I’m gone. He might even be relieved not to have to worry about me. I could do it. I really could.
Me: Your parents’ basement couch available, maybe next term?
Scarlett: For reals?
Me: For reals.
Scarlett: ABSOFREAKINGLUTELY. Though you might need to wipe it down first.
Me: Why?
Scarlett: Let’s just say it’s where Adam and I like to, um, play.
“So is all okay? Are you going somewhere?” Liam’s mom asks, breaking my intense bout of texting. Clearly, I should put my phone away and finish shelving. Today is not the day to get fired.
“Sorry?” I ask. She points behind me, and it’s only then, when I follow her finger, that I notice I’ve subconsciously migrated over to the travel section.
CHAPTER 23
Dad: Can we talk tonight, honey?
I pause. Since our pancake fight eight days ago, I have successfully avoided my dad. Not so much as passed him in the halls of Rachel’s house. This is his first overture toward peace, but screw that. Why should I always operate on his timetable? Be available when it’s suddenly convenient for him? Be the good daughter who makes things easy and simple? Be the one who plays along, tries to make him feel better about his bad choices? What about when I need him? Where is he then?
I quit.
He married Rachel. Let that be her job now.
I have nothing to say to him.
Me: Sorry, working late.
Dad: I miss you.
No, I have nothing to say at all.
CHAPTER 24
And so here it is: Wood Valley Giving Day. I take SN at his word and wear my Vans, mostly because I don’t have anything resembling work shoes and it’s too hot for my winter boots, which are comfy and ugly as hell and which would most certainly make Gem weep with joy at how easily I make myself a target. I wear my mom’s old University of Illinois T-shirt, the