Don’t you have a tennis match to watch or something?”
“What? No. I hate tennis.”
I look around. “You might want to keep your voice down when you say stuff like that. You wouldn’t want to be kicked out of the club.”
“Are you trying to get out of the first career day?”
“I work Saturdays.”
“Time to start sending different signals.”
I picture our monthly calendar on the back counter. Remember filling it in with my mom at the beginning of the month like we always do. “We have a party booked. There’s no way I can leave her alone.” But maybe after the party . . .
He doesn’t say a word, just gives me a raised eyebrow look. The pressure from the burden resting on my shoulders intensifies and anger surges through me. Why am I in charge of my mom’s store? Why don’t I have any choices about my future?
“Okay, one o’clock.”
Saturday comes and I still haven’t mentioned the outing to my mom. My short burst of anger had melted into guilt. My mom is stressed and the store is broke. This isn’t the right time to rebel. Would there ever be a right time, though? One afternoon isn’t going to equal the ruin of the store . . . at least I hope it won’t.
The schedule confirms one birthday party from ten to noon. That should be perfect to help and then be done just in time to go with Xander. To go with Xander. On a date. Is that what this is? I try not to smile but my face seems to want to at this thought. I remind my face that Xander called it a career day and that seems to help.
My mom is in the back setting up the party while I’m watching the store. I know I need to talk to her, but I’m stalling. That guilt thing is gnawing at my gut. Nobody is in the store so I meander down the short hall and watch my mom set out little doll clothes on the table.
She turns to grab another stack and sees me. “Hey.” She glances over my shoulder. “Did you need me?”
“No. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need my help.” You are a huge wimp, Caymen.
“I’m good. Do you have all the paints ready out front for the eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I think we’re set.”
“Okay.” I walk toward the front but force myself to go back. She’s at her task again. I find it so much easier to talk to the back of her head. “Um . . . at one o’clock I’m going out with a friend if that’s okay.”
She straightens up and turns to face me, brushing off her hands. For seventeen years I’ve always waited until after the store closed to do anything. I’ve scheduled my life around store hours. All to avoid what I thought would be a look of disappointment if I asked. What I see makes me feel even guiltier: exhaustion. It’s set in the crease between her eyes, the downward tilt of her chin. But not in her voice when she says, “Of course, Caymen. Have fun. What are you and Skye doing?”
“No, it’s not Skye. It’s . . . just a friend from school.” I’m not quite ready to explain to my mom why I’ve decided to go against everything she stands for and everything I’ve always agreed with to hang out with King Rich himself. She doesn’t need the added stress in her life right now. What’s the point anyway when in a few weeks Xander will be done seeing how the other half lives? He’ll get bored with me and move on, looking for his next taste of excitement.
She goes back to her task. “One o’clock.”
Chapter 13
W hen the ten little girls come into the store, I direct them to the back and don’t see my mom again until she starts bringing the dolls out and telling me the eye color attached to them. I focus all my energy on staying in the pre-etched lines of the dolls’ eyes, adding green and black. Someone has asked for brown eyes so I apply a dark coat of brown. Then I squeeze a little gold onto the plastic tray and pick up the smallest paintbrush. Concentrating hard, I add little specks of gold on the brown.
The bell on the front door rings and I jump, sending a gold
“What? No. I hate tennis.”
I look around. “You might want to keep your voice down when you say stuff like that. You wouldn’t want to be kicked out of the club.”
“Are you trying to get out of the first career day?”
“I work Saturdays.”
“Time to start sending different signals.”
I picture our monthly calendar on the back counter. Remember filling it in with my mom at the beginning of the month like we always do. “We have a party booked. There’s no way I can leave her alone.” But maybe after the party . . .
He doesn’t say a word, just gives me a raised eyebrow look. The pressure from the burden resting on my shoulders intensifies and anger surges through me. Why am I in charge of my mom’s store? Why don’t I have any choices about my future?
“Okay, one o’clock.”
Saturday comes and I still haven’t mentioned the outing to my mom. My short burst of anger had melted into guilt. My mom is stressed and the store is broke. This isn’t the right time to rebel. Would there ever be a right time, though? One afternoon isn’t going to equal the ruin of the store . . . at least I hope it won’t.
The schedule confirms one birthday party from ten to noon. That should be perfect to help and then be done just in time to go with Xander. To go with Xander. On a date. Is that what this is? I try not to smile but my face seems to want to at this thought. I remind my face that Xander called it a career day and that seems to help.
My mom is in the back setting up the party while I’m watching the store. I know I need to talk to her, but I’m stalling. That guilt thing is gnawing at my gut. Nobody is in the store so I meander down the short hall and watch my mom set out little doll clothes on the table.
She turns to grab another stack and sees me. “Hey.” She glances over my shoulder. “Did you need me?”
“No. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need my help.” You are a huge wimp, Caymen.
“I’m good. Do you have all the paints ready out front for the eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I think we’re set.”
“Okay.” I walk toward the front but force myself to go back. She’s at her task again. I find it so much easier to talk to the back of her head. “Um . . . at one o’clock I’m going out with a friend if that’s okay.”
She straightens up and turns to face me, brushing off her hands. For seventeen years I’ve always waited until after the store closed to do anything. I’ve scheduled my life around store hours. All to avoid what I thought would be a look of disappointment if I asked. What I see makes me feel even guiltier: exhaustion. It’s set in the crease between her eyes, the downward tilt of her chin. But not in her voice when she says, “Of course, Caymen. Have fun. What are you and Skye doing?”
“No, it’s not Skye. It’s . . . just a friend from school.” I’m not quite ready to explain to my mom why I’ve decided to go against everything she stands for and everything I’ve always agreed with to hang out with King Rich himself. She doesn’t need the added stress in her life right now. What’s the point anyway when in a few weeks Xander will be done seeing how the other half lives? He’ll get bored with me and move on, looking for his next taste of excitement.
She goes back to her task. “One o’clock.”
Chapter 13
W hen the ten little girls come into the store, I direct them to the back and don’t see my mom again until she starts bringing the dolls out and telling me the eye color attached to them. I focus all my energy on staying in the pre-etched lines of the dolls’ eyes, adding green and black. Someone has asked for brown eyes so I apply a dark coat of brown. Then I squeeze a little gold onto the plastic tray and pick up the smallest paintbrush. Concentrating hard, I add little specks of gold on the brown.
The bell on the front door rings and I jump, sending a gold
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