Текст книги "The Weight of Rain"
Автор книги: Mariah Dietz
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
“LAUREN!”
I turn from where I’m holding an empty laundry basket midair, staring at one of the thousand piles of laundry that literally cover this house. My eyes find Mercedes and dance over the too-short skirt she’s wearing over a pair of tights, which are covered with stripes in every color, and a black T-shirt that says “It’s hard being a ten” and is covered in rhinestones and skulls. When my eyes meet hers, they’re narrowed again, her hands back on her slender hips. I have been babysitting for three weeks now, and little has changed between us. I grew up having only an older brother and an often times aloof father. My brother and I helped our dad from the time we were young, doing chores that included taking care of the land and the animals because there was always more work than hands. We had several men who worked on the farm for my father, and a woman named Nell who lived with her husband Alan—our foreman who takes care of the animals and machinery—in a small home situated an acre away from our house. Nell is great. She’s been around since before I was born and has played a large role in my life, participating in events my mom missed with her frequent absences. Our 300-acre cattle farm lies between Helena and Missoula, and although the town I grew up in is small, both nearby cities were large enough that I have seen and experienced a lot of people in my life. But I’ve never dealt with anyone quite like Mercedes.
Over the past few weeks, there have been moments when I’ve wanted to get an inch from her face and start screaming at her for acting so rude. Other times that I’ve wanted to walk away and quit. Then there have been moments when I have realized this ten-year-old girl who is acting like nothing in the world phases her, is trying to be tough for reasons I don’t understand, and it worries me that she will become hardened for life. Cold and ignorant to all of the small beauties and blessings that too many already miss. Those small windows are why I’ve lasted this long. Well, that and the fact that I’m making double what I was.
“You’re not paying attention. I almost hit you in the face!” Mercedes’ voice comes out petulant, her face distorted with anger.
“Yeah, I’m done.” I drop the empty laundry basket she’s been aiming a miniature basketball at. Her chin juts out, becoming more prominent as she clenches her jaw. “Why don’t we clean up some?”
“I’m not done,” she says, keeping her face locked in a silent threat.
“Well, then you’re going to have to find out if you have an actual basketball hoop that goes with your ball. If we start cleaning, we might find it by next week.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Good, I wasn’t trying to be.” Growing up, my room usually resembled the aftermath of a tornado. With clothes rarely ever being put away, but rather in heaps on the floor, across my desk, desk chair, and bed, along with CDs and books and the occasional stray piece of silverware that my foot always seemed find in the middle of the night when I was heading to the bathroom.
It took dorm life to learn simplicity and organization in my personal space, and it’s become even more prudent now that I’m living with Kenzie. My shoulders sag as a loud sigh leaves my lips. This house is a mess. Dead bodies could be concealed under these piles, and the carpets are covered in crumbs and dirt, bringing a personal rule to always wear shoes in the house.
“I know. Let’s ride bikes! The shop isn’t finished yet, but we can ride around outside. There are tons of trails.” The rubber basketball falls to the ground without a sound because it hits one of the many miscellaneous piles of junk.
“Not right now.”
“I do. Not. Clean. I’m ten.”
“Everyone cleans. It’s one of those universal rules: if you’re old enough to play, you’re old enough to clean. Besides, we have nowhere to do anything.” Mercedes’ eyes follow my arms waving around at the mountains of toys that are shoved against walls and piled on the couches along with more clothes, and several bikes and random metal parts that keep getting added to the space.
I look back at her, thinking she finally understands as she shakes her head. “I’m not cleaning. It’s not my job.”
“It’s everyone’s job.”
“No one else has to do it.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have space to play, and watch movies, and do things other than crawl over piles of stuff?”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
I fight to keep from rolling my eyes as her hand swings to her hip. She has more attitude than someone twice her age, and I don’t doubt for a second that she’s never been forced to clean up after herself. I can probably find a collection of toys from when she was three under one of these piles.
“Mercedes, I’m not playing with you until you help clean up.”
“I don’t need you to play with me. I can play by myself just fine. All of my other nannies just watched TV or played on their phones.”
“How lonely.”
Her back straightens and her eyes slit so I can’t see their ocean-green color. “I don’t need you.” Her answer is automatic, her tone filled with something that makes my heart hurt slightly because I don’t know why there’s so much vehemence.
“You can’t play with me or by yourself until you help me clean.”
“Then I’m going to get you fired.”
My shoulders rise with indifference at the conviction behind her words. “That’s your choice.”
She turns again and stomps to her room, her small feet echoing down the hall. I stretch my neck a few times, rubbing what’s become a constant nagging knot where my shoulders meet.
It takes only a minute to fill the laundry basket we’d been using as a basketball hoop, so high I can hardly lift it without random articles of clothing tumbling down the sides. I head out to the hallway, trying to carefully hold it at an angle that allows me to see around it, and pass Mercedes on my way to the basement. She’s sprawled across her bed, diligently ignoring me as my foot slides on a towel. Her snickers follow me down the hall, and I realize how much I’m starting to loathe my job.
I’ve never been down to the basement. Mercedes gave me a tour of the entire house my first day, but all she mentioned of the basement was that it was her uncle’s stuff and the laundry room. I’m in a small hall with only two doors, one of which is closed, and the other is open with clothes strewn about. When I turn on the light, I realize the entire room is packed full of clothes. There are so many I can hardly move. I’ve never seen anything like this. There must be thousands of dollars worth of clothes in this house. I drop the basket outside the door and carefully wade through the laundry, trying to steady myself as my feet shift with the moving garments. White and colored shirts are tangled with jeans and shorts. Pairs of socks and boxer briefs are strewn out, with bright pink shirts and flannel dotting the piles.
I sit down on a large pile with a sigh and close my eyes. I need to look for another job. I’m not equipped to help Mercedes, and this is becoming draining for me not only with all of her attitude and demands, but with less time to work on homework and the commute time to get out here each day. Plus, I’ve been missing my Comparative Art History class every Wednesday because I would only be able to attend for a few minutes before having to catch the bus out here. The combining effects of not getting along with Kenzie, the school stress, and now the added strain of my job makes me question so many things about this year.
I drop a final shirt onto the mass of clothes that I’ve spent the last hour separating, and look around. I don’t know where to start. At home we run anywhere from eight to ten loads of laundry a day. It’s not like I’m not used to having mass amounts of dirty clothes, but this is unreal. I gather a pile of Mercedes’ laundry and shove it into the washer while making a mental game of guessing how many loads are down here. Opening the cabinets that line the washer and dryer, I find the first clean and empty spaces in the house, and shake my head with the unveiling of a whole new issue: there’s no detergent.
My neck drops back so I’m staring at the bright lights overhead. “What did I ever do to you?” My words are intended to be rhetorical, said to no one in particular, except perhaps fate so she’ll give me a small break.
“Give up yet?”
My head feels like it weighs too much as I look at the doorway and see Mercedes wearing a gloating expression that instantly becomes the singular look I hope to never again see on her face. If we were on the farm, I’d probably throw her in the lake.
“I’m too stubborn and stupid to give up. Ask my roommate.”
“My dad doesn’t care about cleaning. He says life’s too short to worry about having everything perfect. Fun is what matters.”
“But you also have to appreciate what you have. Throwing all your stuff on the floor and not taking care of it isn’t appreciating stuff, or having fun.”
“Why are you so uptight?”
I clench my teeth to keep angry words from spilling out, and her eyes turn back to the familiar narrowed glare she’s fit for me.
“Go ahead, Lauren. Do you have something to say?”
I need this job. I hate that I need this job, but I need this job. Twenty dollars an hour is twice what I make at the restaurant. “You need to learn to appreciate things, otherwise, you’re never going to have fun because you’re never going to realize what you have.”
“I don’t have anything.” She turns with a final glare, and her feet stomp back up the stairs.
“IF IT doesn’t work out, we’ll find a place for you here, Macita.”
I wrap my arms around Estella and squeeze. Leaving the restaurant is relieving for the fact that I will no longer have to work closing hours, and horrifying because it means I’m fully committing myself to being Mercedes’ nanny.
“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“At least I know you’ll be returning to finish my mural,” she says, stroking my hair in a motherly fashion that makes my body itch with the need to move.
“That and you have me addicted to your pollo asada. I swear you’re lacing that stuff with something that’s not legal.”
“Yeah, my love,” Estella retorts, leaving me in a fit of laughter.
“We have to do a going away party!” Mia announces.
“We’re not having a party.” Estella shakes her head. “We only have parties when we’re glad they’re leaving. Lo’s coming back to visit. Weekly.”
MERCEDES’ COMMENT about having nothing is still haunting me three days later as I make the twenty-minute trek on foot to the Knight residence. It’s like being around her has heightened this maternal instinct in me, making me wish to shield her from any conceivable pain or ugliness, yet in the few weeks that I’ve been working at the house, I have seen so little that could constitute as experiencing pain or ugly.
“Hey, Lauren!”
I turn toward the kitchen as I manage to get my key free from the lock, and see Kashton along with a woman and another guy, leaning against the kitchen counters. “Hey,” I call back. My voice is soft and comes out cracked, causing my cheeks to heat. I pocket my key and head over to where the three of them are facing me.
Kashton smiles in greeting and lifts a hand to the man on his right. He’s tall, a few inches taller than me at least, with hair as dark as midnight and two rings that curl around his lower lip, and another in his eyebrow. He’s wearing a light gray beanie that brings out the darker shades in his blue eyes, making them resemble the storm clouds outside. “Lauren, this is Parker.” His elbow twists and his hand rotates to the woman on his left. Her hair is long and auburn with unnatural shades of red and purple peeking through. Not surprisingly, she’s smaller than I am, looking petite and beautiful in a pair of designer jeans and a hoodie. It reminds me of French design, almost messy, yet sophisticated and feminine. Her entire face is set with indecision as her clear green eyes scan over me. “This is Summer. Guys, this is Lauren.”
“The kidlet was right. You are pretty hot.” Parker’s compliment—if you can call it that—only makes me feel more uncomfortable.
Summer takes a few steps closer to me, extending her hand. I take it and swallow my unease. I loathe standing beside small women. I feel like it only accentuates how large I am. Drawing visual comparisons to how much longer my legs are, how much bigger my hands are.
“But jeez, you’re tall,” Parker comments, confirming my very thoughts.
“Don’t be a dick.” Kashton looks at me, his lips turned down as though he’s embarrassed as well.
“It’s nice to meet you guys. Do you know where Mercedes is?” I ask in an attempt to skirt the discomfort.
“Yeah, I think she’s in her room, but do you mind if we chat real quick?” My eyes stretch and my pulse quickens as I look to Kashton, and it isn’t because my boss resembles a male supermodel.
I’m going to get fired.
Sweat quickly coats my palms, making me feel even more uneasy and self-conscious.
“You guys mind meeting me out in the shop? I’ll be out there in a few,” Kashton says, turning to acknowledge both Summer and Parker.
“Yeah, take your time. It was nice meeting you, Lauren,” Parker says, pushing off from the counter.
“Nice meeting you too.” Weaving my fingers together in front of me, I try to meet their eyes as they pass, and then hastily wipe them across my thighs as the front door shuts.
“I just want to touch base and see how things are going. Kenzie assured me that you’re responsible and great with kids, so I know Mercedes is in good hands. I’m just used to hearing a few things by this point.”
I try to hide my surprise by forcing a smile. I don’t know what has me more off kilter, the fact that I don’t think he’s trying to fire me, or that Kenzie said nice things about me. “That’s okay. I totally understand that you’re busy, hence my being here.” I scratch my eyebrow, wondering what kinds of things previous nannies have shared. “Things are well, though. We’re … working on getting acquainted.”
Kashton presses his lips together and edges them up ever so slightly as if he’s trying to smile but can’t. That twinge of unease in my belly seems to burn brighter. “I hope this doesn’t make me sound like an asshole, but whatever you see or hear in this house, or outside in the shop, is confidential. It doesn’t leave.”
My eyebrows draw downward, knitting with confusion as my mind races, wondering what in the hell he’s referring to. Could he be a drug dealer? A money launderer? What’s in his shop? “Don’t you work on bikes?”
Kashton’s eyes grow wide and his lips part for a second and then lift into a genuine smile that makes his brown eyes relax. “She was right. You have no idea.”
I turn my head to glance in the direction of the front door. The action is instinctual, as though I need to measure the space to know how fast I need to run.
“I sound like a fucking crazy person. I’m sorry. That’s what happens eventually, I guess.” Kashton raises a hand and runs it over his short hair, then clasps the back of his neck for a moment before straightening. “I’m not crazy or dangerous, and neither are those guys. We’re BMX racers.”
“Like BMX bikes?”
Kashton nods, looking slightly sheepish. “Yeah. You’ll see other racers around too, and the team. They’re all harmless, but we take our privacy seriously, and here at the house, we’re not on. We don’t worry about the shit we say or what we’re doing. We just like to work hard and have a good time.”
“That’s cool.” I swallow, trying to understand what that means exactly when I know absolutely nothing about BMX racing or what that world entails. “And you don’t have to worry, I won’t say anything.”
He smiles, and while it doesn’t look like he’s reassured yet, it still helps me relax. “Okay, so now that I have one awkward thing out of the way, let’s move on to the next.” Rubbing his palms together, he settles his gaze on the counter behind me. “Everyone who’s ever watched Mercedes has been from an agency. You’re the first person that I’ve ever hired from a reference. Yesterday I realized I don’t know much about you. I don’t need to run a background check on you, I guess, but I just feel like I should know more. I mean I’m leaving you with my daughter.”
It relieves me to hear that Kashton is realizing how informal and fast our relationship has progressed, but it spotlights how out of character this seems for a parent, which makes me wonder if Mercedes is feeling like he doesn’t care enough about her.
“My brother, King, usually takes care of all of the business stuff. He’s my manager and does all the paperwork and arrangements, but he’s over in Switzerland right now for an ad campaign, so I went with Kenzie on this. Don’t get me wrong…” his hands span in front of him “…I’m really glad she referred you. You’ve been great! I’m just not used to this stuff.”
“I understand.” My words are a lie, but for some ridiculous reason, I suddenly want to protect and comfort Kashton as much as I do Mercedes.
“King will be back soon, and that will help, but yeah … If you don’t mind, just share some things with me. I don’t know,” he says, running a hand across the back of his neck again and wincing just slightly with the movement. “What do they normally ask on a job application?”
My eyes widen, trying to recall the last one I filled out. “Do you want my address?”
“No, I already know where you live.”
My eyebrows knit together and Kashton shakes his head. “I mean, since you live with Kenzie, I know.”
I nod a couple of times though that still seems odd since I’ve never seen him come over. “Do you have my number?”
“Yeah, do you have mine?”
I nod once more. I’ve never used it, but it’s one of the few things Kenzie provided me with.
“What else?” he asks.
“I can give you a list of references, previous jobs, my dad’s address.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Let me grab some paper really fast.”
I lean against the counter as he jogs to the door adjacent from the kitchen, one that I haven’t ventured to open after Mercedes announced it as the office. While he’s gone, I look around the kitchen that has become messier as the weeks have gone by. It was so clean when I got here, leading me to initially believing it wasn’t used, but now, I realize it must have been used by previous nannies.
“Okay, um, I found this old application, and here’s just some paper.” Kashton passes me several sheets that I set on the edge of the counter. “Sorry, I forgot a pen, hang on.”
“That’s okay, I have one.” I dig through my bag, grabbing a handful of long cylinders to see what I’ve managed to catch, and sift through several pieces of charcoal and a couple of pencils. I drop them back in my bag and fish again, grabbing a new handful that has several colored pencils, another piece of charcoal, and a pen. I hold on to the pen, drop the other items inside, and look up to see Kashton watching me.
“Kenzie said you go to PSU for art.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s cool. Do you practice art? Or are you learning about it?”
“Both.” I shift my weight so I can lean against the counter. “I’m studying art history as well as taking several classes with the creation of art and restoration.”
“No shit. Maybe I can see some of your work sometime? I keep wanting to have a mural done out in the shop.”
I smile because I can tell he’s saying this out of obligation, and turn my attention to the papers.
“You don’t have to fill them out now. Just get them back to me when you have the chance.”
“Alright, I’ll get them back to you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, I would appreciate it. Sorry to start your shift with this…”
“Don’t sweat it. I completely understand.”
He smiles and then rubs a hand over the back of his neck once more before he turns to head out the front door.
“WHAT ARE you doing?”
Turning to Charleigh as she comes through the door of my studio apartment, I look over her outfit that is overdressed even for her. “Homework. What are you doing?”
“I thought we were going to that dollar cinema tonight for the three showings?”
I bring a hand to my face with a near silent groan. “Oh, Charleigh, I completely forgot! I’m sorry. Let me change really fast and we can go.”
“No problem. If we miss the first movie, I won’t mind. It’s not really something I care about,” she says, coming around to sit on the couch that butts against the end of my bed and extends just into our small kitchen.
“You’re drawing him again.” Charleigh’s words are quiet, as though she only intended to think the words.
I stand from my stool and clear my throat before flipping the cover of my large sketch book closed. “No, these are old, actually. I was just working on some shading techniques with colors. You know, since I usually stick to black and white.” My answer is only a partial truth. I truly found the unfinished sketch when I was looking for something to motivate me. You often hear about writer’s block in the art world. What you don’t hear about very often is that artists who sculpt, paint, draw, and create, also face these same empty stretches where nothing holds our attention, or seems adequate nor inspiring. I’ve been facing this stretch of black for several weeks—since I met him at that party in July. Today I saw an old sketch of his eyes, the shadow of his brow, and the slight bridge in his nose, and all I could see was him as I put my charcoal to the paper. It was his hands that I was working on when Charleigh arrived. I am amazed at the details I can remember about him when I can’t remember something as important as his name. Nonetheless, some of these details seem more significant. I can recall the line of his jaw, the way his hands were stained from working outdoors, his lips that curved into an uneven smile, and the scar that carved a long path up his forearm. Yet even those details pale in comparison to what I can remember about how he made me feel. I have stored to memory his warm breaths against my cheeks and the solidity of his muscles as he flexed while inside of me, and the exquisite way he seemed to know exactly what I wanted and needed without me ever giving direction.
A heat that has been less familiar as of late with me trying to forget about him makes my body tingle and my face flush as I face my closet and pull out a clean shirt to exchange the old sweatshirt I threw on when I got home. Artists have two wardrobes: the one we wear to work in, and the rest of our clothes. It doesn’t matter how careful I am while I work; charcoal dust always gets on me, and paint is worse. I hate having to worry about it. That’s why I always change while I’m working and bring extra clothes to change into before I leave school to watch Mercedes.
“We could bring it up to Kenzie again? Maybe she’ll think of someone new to ask.”
“I’m not asking her again. We’ve been down that road several times. Do you know how embarrassing it is to ask for the name of the guy I slept with at a party? Not only that, but now I sound like I am completely hung up on him because it’s been over three months! There’s no way, Charleigh. I’m over it. I was just sketching. It’s no big deal.”
“Maybe—”
“Charleigh, no. Don’t make me sing. You know I will.”
“You’re going to do that anyway.”
“And you love it.”
“No I don’t, because you don’t actually sing the words. You just say them. And I now have this awful habit of turning other people’s words into songs. It’s terrible!”
A small laugh has Charleigh standing with her arm raised, ready to strike at me. “It’s not funny! Stop laughing!”
“I’m teaching you American music.”
“We have American music in England.”
“American culture, then.”
“That isn’t American culture, it’s Lauren culture,” Charleigh objects as she follows me to the door.
“Same difference.”
“No, you’re crazy.”
I open my mouth to say words that will turn her words into another song.
“Lauren!” Charleigh groans, following me down the stairs. “Stop, or I will ask Kenzie.”
I stop and turn to flash her a smile before I start humming the tune.
“COME ON.”
“What?” Mercedes asks, looking up from the pile of toys she’s been making a valiant effort to shrink.
I stand up from where I’ve been sorting small bolts and screws from across the living room into buckets that I found out in the garage, and look at Mercedes. Over the past week we’ve barely spoken, but she’s slowly become less and less despondent about the idea of cleaning and has started to join in my efforts. By Halloween we might be able to see the floor. “I think we need a break today.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let’s go somewhere. Get some fresh air before it’s too cold to go outside.”
“It’s raining.”
“You won’t melt.”
Mercedes doesn’t bother with a retaliation; she simply rolls her eyes upward and stares at me through her lashes. “Fine, but we’re staying inside.”
“Come on, I’ll take you to the donut shop my friend works at. You’ll fall in love.”
“Donuts?” I notice the glint in her eye and the softening of her jaw as she repeats the word.
“Grab your coat.”
“I don’t understand how you don’t have a car.” Mercedes’ tone is back to being annoyed as we trudge down the long drive.
“I live in the city. There’s not much use for one.”
“But what do you do when you go grocery shopping?”
I glance over at her and watch her dodge a large puddle that has become a constant on the road. “I bring a few bags with me.”
Her eyes meet mine as we continue. “Are you poor?”
A small smile rounds my lips. “I’m twenty-two. Of course I’m poor.”
“So you can’t afford a car?”
“I probably could afford a car, but with the additional costs that come with it and parking it downtown, I’d rather spend my money on things I need and enjoy.”
“How poor are you?” I meet her eyes once again and see worry cross her small features. “It’s okay that I ask, right? I mean … I’m not saying anything bad, am I?”
I shake my head and shove my hands into the pocket of my sweatshirt as I smile at her with assurance. “I don’t mind, but some people probably wouldn’t appreciate the question.” I kick a small rock with the toe of my shoe and watch as it sails a few feet in front of us and rolls to the side of the road. “My dad owns a cattle ranch, so money has always been kind of tight. Farming has changed a lot over the years.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a lot of competition now. People like my dad who own their own farms are being forced to lower their prices because there are so many commercially owned farms now. It makes things really hard for the smaller guys.”
“Do you want to own a farm someday?”
I shake my head and turn my face skyward, allowing a few cold drops to splash across my cheeks and forehead. “No I don’t.”
“What do you want to be?”
My hand slides up to readjust the hood of my sweatshirt and then falls back into my pocket as Mercedes and I skirt around another large puddle. “I want to do something with art. That’s what I’m going to school for.”
“What kind of art?”
“Ideally”—I look over to Mercedes, catching the way her attention is rapt for the first time, truly interested in my words—“I would like to become an independent artist and sell my work to galleries.”
“Is that hard to do?”
My eyebrows rise and my chin tilts as her question brings forth memories of my dad and the countless times I’ve heard him tell me that art is a hobby, not a career.
“It’s difficult to break into the circle.”
“So what are you going to do if you fail?”
The word fail has the temperature of the air lowering as it coats my throat. “I guess we’ll see.” I don’t chance looking over at her when she doesn’t respond. Regardless of her expression, I am pretty certain I don’t want to see it.
“Our bus will be here in just a few minutes,” I say, tracing the time schedule on the wall of the small enclosure.
“So you ride this every day?”
“Yup.”
Mercedes keeps her hands shoved in her pockets and her face down as we wait along with a couple of guys who look to be in high school and whom I dutifully ignore, positioning my body between them and her.
“They were checking you out,” Mercedes hisses as we find a couple of empty seats across from each other on the warm bus.
“They were just talking.”
“They were checking you out.”
I pull off my hood and tighten my ponytail, ignoring her comment as the bus moves forward. She doesn’t mind. She moves her attention to the other passengers, sometimes staring too long at a person, bringing their attention to her. When this happens, she doesn’t look away. She keeps their gaze, and I watch as each person who meets her stare, smiles. It’s as though the gesture is inescapable. Today Mercedes’ long hair is once again winding down her back, dark as coal. Her skin is becoming a lighter shade of olive as we spend more and more time inside with the rain becoming a constant. It’s her eyes though that catch everyone off guard, with the clarity and rare color that is such a stark contrast against her dark complexion.
“You’re staring again. It’s weird.” I blink a few times to stop focusing on details and take in her expression. When I attended my first art class that Nell signed me up for when I was ten, the teacher came over to me. Her hair was wiry and gray, falling to the small of her back, and she always smelled of coffee and stale cigarette smoke. Her voice was gravelly and her eyes were coated with too many shades of blue eye shadow, but there was something I innately liked about her, and when she leaned beside me and said, “You have the attentiveness of a true artist. I can see it in the way you watch people,” I felt like she understood me.
“I want to go to the mall first,” Mercedes says, looking out the bus window.
“What do you want at the mall?”
She shrugs and turns to look back to me. “Whatever I want. I’m not poor.”
Her comment is delivered as an insult, but it doesn’t make me blink. Not having money isn’t something that I’m ashamed of. It doesn’t define me. However, the fact that she obviously believes that this creates a division between her and others bothers me for several reasons.
We get off at Pike’s Place Square and follow a train of people to her desired destination, my thoughts stuck on wondering how she has become so jaded.
We wander through several stores in the mall, Mercedes pulling farther and farther away from me with each new store that she rummages through.
