this totally annoyed look. “Well, are you coming or not?” she asks, opening the car door, not even trying to hide her frustration.
And even though it would be nice to get a ride home, the last thing I need is to be in a confined space with her and her disapproving mom. So I just shake my head and watch as she climbs inside.
And just as I start to walk away Sloane slides down her window, hangs her head out, and goes, “Kiss-kiss!”
And I smile as I turn to face her, knowing she’s trying to make up for all the tension by totally making fun of Jaci, just like we used to, before we were trying so hard to be her friend. But when my eyes meet hers, I realize she’s serious. And I remain on the curb, staring after the Lexus, until I can no longer see them.
On Friday nights I usually work in the café. Which basically means that my mom is totally taking advantage of my nonexistent social life, as well as possibly flaunting some very serious child labor laws. Sometimes, I even go so far as to wonder if she’s intentionally sabotaging Autumn and me, determined to raise two social retards with no life, just so she can save on overhead.
Not that Autumn’s a social retard. I mean, to me she may be a major dork, but ever since learning about little Crosby Davis’s crush on her, I’m starting to realize that other people don’t necessarily view her in quite the same way.
I pour two Strawberry Fields smoothies into two tall glasses, reminiscing about the time when I changed all the names, updating the signs to reflect more current titles to songs that people actually listen to. Like, “Don’t Phunk With My Heart Tart,” “Crumbs From Your Table Crumble,” and my very own personal favorite, “As Ugly As I Seem Smoothie.” But needless to say, my mom was not amused. And by the very next day everything was back to normal again.
After delivering the smoothies, I head to the back, where I grab two totally overstuffed and very heavy trash bags, which Iproceed to half drag and half carry all the way outside to the Dumpster, totally cringing when I see the unmistakable red glow of skinny dude’s cigarette, bobbing in the dark, at the end of the alley.
“Nice out,” he says, taking another drag as he approaches, nodding at me like we’ve been hanging out and chatting for years.
“Yup,” I say, struggling to heave one of the mammoth bags into the bin and failing miserably.
“Here, let me get that.” He clamps his cigarette between his lips and lifts the bag with surprising ease for someone with no visible muscle tone. “So how’s school treatin’ ya?” he asks, reaching for the other bag and tossing it in as well. “Learning anything?”
“Not really.” I say, feeling anxious to get back inside and far away from him.
“What grade ya in, ninth?”
“Tenth,” I say, feeling totally offended he thought I was a freshman.
“Yeah, well, they don’t really teach you anything ‘til college.” He nods, blowing two perfect smoke rings, and watching as they dissolve into the night.
“You went to college?” I ask, immediately regretting the amount of surprise in my voice, but still, I didn’t expect to hear that.
“ ‘Course I went to college,” he says, shaking his head at me. “What? You think I’m some philistine lowlife, working in a liquor store?”
“Um, no, absolutely not,” I say, gazing toward our back door, longing to be on the other side of it.
But he just throws down his cigarette, smashing the smoldering tip under the sole of his old, beat-up Doc Marten. “I thought you were different from all those other spoiled brats,” he says, shaking his head at me. “But apparently you’re just like the rest of them.”
And as he shakes his head, mutters under his breath, and heads back down the alley, part of me feels kind of bad about all that. While the other part really hopes that he’s right.
When I go back inside, I wash my hands, then head straight for Mr. and Mrs.
And even though it would be nice to get a ride home, the last thing I need is to be in a confined space with her and her disapproving mom. So I just shake my head and watch as she climbs inside.
And just as I start to walk away Sloane slides down her window, hangs her head out, and goes, “Kiss-kiss!”
And I smile as I turn to face her, knowing she’s trying to make up for all the tension by totally making fun of Jaci, just like we used to, before we were trying so hard to be her friend. But when my eyes meet hers, I realize she’s serious. And I remain on the curb, staring after the Lexus, until I can no longer see them.
On Friday nights I usually work in the café. Which basically means that my mom is totally taking advantage of my nonexistent social life, as well as possibly flaunting some very serious child labor laws. Sometimes, I even go so far as to wonder if she’s intentionally sabotaging Autumn and me, determined to raise two social retards with no life, just so she can save on overhead.
Not that Autumn’s a social retard. I mean, to me she may be a major dork, but ever since learning about little Crosby Davis’s crush on her, I’m starting to realize that other people don’t necessarily view her in quite the same way.
I pour two Strawberry Fields smoothies into two tall glasses, reminiscing about the time when I changed all the names, updating the signs to reflect more current titles to songs that people actually listen to. Like, “Don’t Phunk With My Heart Tart,” “Crumbs From Your Table Crumble,” and my very own personal favorite, “As Ugly As I Seem Smoothie.” But needless to say, my mom was not amused. And by the very next day everything was back to normal again.
After delivering the smoothies, I head to the back, where I grab two totally overstuffed and very heavy trash bags, which Iproceed to half drag and half carry all the way outside to the Dumpster, totally cringing when I see the unmistakable red glow of skinny dude’s cigarette, bobbing in the dark, at the end of the alley.
“Nice out,” he says, taking another drag as he approaches, nodding at me like we’ve been hanging out and chatting for years.
“Yup,” I say, struggling to heave one of the mammoth bags into the bin and failing miserably.
“Here, let me get that.” He clamps his cigarette between his lips and lifts the bag with surprising ease for someone with no visible muscle tone. “So how’s school treatin’ ya?” he asks, reaching for the other bag and tossing it in as well. “Learning anything?”
“Not really.” I say, feeling anxious to get back inside and far away from him.
“What grade ya in, ninth?”
“Tenth,” I say, feeling totally offended he thought I was a freshman.
“Yeah, well, they don’t really teach you anything ‘til college.” He nods, blowing two perfect smoke rings, and watching as they dissolve into the night.
“You went to college?” I ask, immediately regretting the amount of surprise in my voice, but still, I didn’t expect to hear that.
“ ‘Course I went to college,” he says, shaking his head at me. “What? You think I’m some philistine lowlife, working in a liquor store?”
“Um, no, absolutely not,” I say, gazing toward our back door, longing to be on the other side of it.
But he just throws down his cigarette, smashing the smoldering tip under the sole of his old, beat-up Doc Marten. “I thought you were different from all those other spoiled brats,” he says, shaking his head at me. “But apparently you’re just like the rest of them.”
And as he shakes his head, mutters under his breath, and heads back down the alley, part of me feels kind of bad about all that. While the other part really hopes that he’s right.
When I go back inside, I wash my hands, then head straight for Mr. and Mrs.
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