Текст книги "All It Takes"
Автор книги: Sadie Munroe
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
Chapter 5
Star
I’ve managed to make it through just over half my breakfast unscathed when Lacey slides into the booth across from me. She does it so suddenly I actually flinch when I see her sitting there. The girl is like a freaking magician. She’s just lucky that my fight-or-flight instincts didn’t take over. If they had, the coffee I was holding would have ended up all over her crisp white T-shirt before either of us could blink. I’d been hoping that her whole lecture on the evils of Ash had ended the other day, but by the look on her face, I’d gotten my hopes up for nothing. I glance down longingly at my breakfast plate, empty save for the three slices of overcooked bacon and the last slice of toast.
Damn, I think as she pins me with a look. So close.
“What the ever-loving hell is wrong with you, Star?” she says and I cringe. Her voice is so shrill, it’s like nails on a chalkboard.
Be cool, I tell myself. Chances are, she’s talking about my deal with Ash—which is probably all over town by now, considering just how avidly people had been watching us over the last day and a half—but there’s always a chance she could be referring to something else. And since I’m not about to start digging my own grave here, I just paste an innocent look on my face and kind of blink at her, like I’m confused.
I’m not confused.
“What do you mean?” I ask, and I suddenly find myself wishing that I’d bothered to take drama in high school, instead of avoiding it like the plague. Maybe then I’d be a more convincing liar. Well, not liar, exactly. Not yet, anyway.
Either way, she isn’t fooled. I watch, trying to keep a reaction off my face as Lacey lets out the most dramatic sigh ever made by a human being over the age of five and kind of flops down on the table between us, folding her arms over her head like she’s building herself a cocoon. Either she took drama, or this is just some kind of hold-over from when we were little. I’m having flashbacks of the second grade, of us playing in the sandbox together. I remember building lopsided sand castles, and then Lacey, with her tiny blond pigtails blowing in the breeze, acting as though the world were ending because I wouldn’t be a princess with her. Because every castle needed a princess apparently. In my defense, who the hell would want to be a princess when they could be a dragon instead? I know I wouldn’t. Second-grade Lacey hadn’t agreed with my logic back then, so, judging by what is happening in front of me as I calmly drain the last of my coffee, I’m not holding out a ton of hope she’ll be swayed by my argument now.
I’d just assumed she’d grown out of using hysterics to make her point—I was wrong.
I look around the diner, frantically. I’m going to need way more coffee for this discussion. The middle-aged blonde waitress from the other day is back, but when I try to flag her down as she passes by, she just glares down her nose at me and keeps walking.
Yep, I think. Word has definitely gotten around. That would explain the death glares she’s been giving me all morning. But then again, it wasn’t like she’d been super friendly to me before Ash and I met, either. Maybe she is just an angry person. Could be.
You’d better cool it with the looks, lady. I think as she walks past me. Your tip is rapidly dwindling down to nothing. I turn a little in my seat and shoot her a glare of my own as soon as I see her back is turned, smiling a little when she disappears into the kitchen, and I know I’ve gotten away with it. At this point, I’ll take any victory I can get, no matter how insignificant. I turn back to Lacey, and instantly regret it. She’s left the private sanctuary of her arm-cocoon and is gazing at me with huge, almost cartoon-like eyes, like I’ve betrayed her somehow.
I sigh and gaze down at my empty mug. I definitely need more coffee for this.
“Why, Star?” she asks, her voice cutting through the quiet din of the diner with way more force than necessary. I have to bite down on my own tongue to stop myself from telling her to keep it down. People are already turning to look. Great. Just what I need. More attention. “Why would you talk to him after what he did?”
I pick at the last of my bacon, which is yet another disappointment in itself. They make it way too crispy here. It’s almost charred. I shrug and pop a piece in my mouth, anyway, but I’ve timed it badly and I’m stuck trying to chew like crazy to get it down while the blonde waitress makes another round. I’m not being at all subtle in my attempts to flag her down, but with my mouth occupied all I can do is wave in her direction. Which I’m doing. I’ve got nearly my entire arm flapping about, but even though I know she can see me, she still doesn’t come over. Instead she just stares at my arm like it has now managed to offend her delicate sensibilities somehow, and turns on her heel and walks away.
Swallowing the last of my bacon, I sigh and slump down in my seat, defeated. I’m never going to get out of here. The service here is terrible, especially with the blonde in charge. I miss the waiter from last night, the one with the hipster jeans. He at least acknowledged my existence, even though he looked like he’d been ready to bolt like a frightened deer at a single movement from Ash.
The blonde waitress disappears into the kitchen yet again, taking the full carafe of coffee with her. And there goes the rest of your tip, I think and turn back to Lacey. I have to stifle a groan at the sight of her. Apparently ignoring her little outburst just made things worse. She’s managed to get herself so worked up now that there are actual tears shining in her eyes. Is this what I left behind when I went into foster care? Dealing with a spoiled brat? Child protective services outdid themselves, if that was the case. Because I’m pretty sure that if I had to grow up with her, one or both of us would be dead by now.
Lacey reaches out and grabs the hand I’d laid down on the table and pins me with a look, her fingers digging into mine. “Don’t you realize how dangerous that guy is?”
Ugh, I think. And that’s enough of that. I can’t help rolling my eyes this time, and I shake her hand off as gently as I can before leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms over my chest. “Look, Lacey,” I say, trying to choose my words carefully. Very carefully. I don’t want any further dramatics. I just don’t have the energy for them today. “No offense or anything, but really? Just stop. I have a million things to worry about right now, and Ash isn’t one of them. So thanks for the advice, but I’m good. And quite frankly, this is none of your business. This is between Ash and I.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off before she can get a word out. I’m done. I’m done with the looks and the tall tales and whatever else the people of Avenue want to dole out like candy on Halloween. I’m done.
“Seriously,” I say, my voice firm. “None of your business.”
We sit there in silence, kind of glaring at each other across the table. It’s like something out of one of those Old West movies, like we’re facing off at high noon, waiting to see who will blink first.
Luckily for both of us, today is my day, and Lacey’s the one that falters.
“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes and hauling herself out of her seat. “I need to get to work, anyway.” She’s already a few steps away from the table, having tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder in what I’d been hoping was a sign that our conversation was over, when she stops and whirls back around. “But just so you know,” she says, “when you wake up dead in a Dumpster somewhere, I’ll be expecting an apology. A good one.”
Oh, sweetie, I shake my head as she flounces off toward the back of the diner and disappears through the door marked Employees Only. I don’t think you thought that sentence through.
I wait until I’m certain she’s not going to come back out to make an amendment to her final words before I turn back to what’s left of my breakfast. Shoving the last bites into my mouth, I reach into my purse to check the time on my phone. I’ve got half an hour before I’m supposed to meet Ash at the house, so I make a quick decision and tug the plastic-covered menu from its resting place behind the ketchup bottle. I flip it open. Since I don’t know if we’ll be stopping work for lunch, I figure I might as well get Ash something for breakfast. I don’t want him to die of hunger midway through the job, and honestly, I feel a little bad for how people keep talking about him behind his back. Besides, the breakfast sandwich looks good, and if he doesn’t eat it, I will.
This time, when the blonde waitress walks by, I don’t give her a chance to ignore me. As soon as she steps close enough, I reach out and grab her arm. My grip isn’t hard, but it’s enough to stop her in her tracks. She seems genuinely startled for a second, but then that passes and she shoots me a disgusted look, like how dare you touch me, you peon, which is pretty rich considering it’s coming from a middle-aged waitress at a crappy diner. But I drop my hand, anyway. Sorry, lady, I think. But if you’re rude to me, I’m gonna be rude to you.
“Can I get the breakfast sandwich please? To go?” I ask. “And the bill,” I add quickly, because if I let her go now, she’s never going to come back again. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t hurl both the sandwich and the bill at my head from a distance, judging by the look Leslie—as her name tag reads—is giving me. Yeah, you’re not getting a tip.
“Fine,” she snaps, reaching down and snatching the menu off the table like she’s afraid I’m going to use it for evil and keep adding things to my order just to piss her off. Honestly? I’m tempted. “Will that be all?”
She’s got such a sour look on her face, I can’t help it. I start to grin. I prop my elbows up on the edge of the table and rest my chin on my folded hands and smile at her sweetly. “Yep,” I say. “That’ll about do me.” You’re lucky I don’t report you to your manager, you hateful woman, I want to say. You’re in a service industry. Service means not being a witch to your customers. But I keep my mouth shut, and just keep smiling at her, even though my face is starting to hurt. Because it seems to piss her off even more.
“Fine,” she says, and turns on her heel and stalks away. Just before she gets out of earshot, though, I hear her mutter, “Inked-up little brat,” and I can’t stop the loud snort that escapes me.
Seriously? That’s her problem? My tattoos? I glance down at my arms. Other than the line of Latin that runs down the back of my right forearm and the names on the sides of my fingers, none of my tattoos are even visible. They’re all under my clothes, and even then, there’s nothing offensive about them. And, come on, this is a diner. It’s not like I showed up at church during Easter Mass with full sleeves on display. I don’t even have sleeve tattoos.
Well, I think, letting my grin fade into a smirk and tilting my head forward so I can hide it behind my curtain of dark hair. Why don’t we fix that? I reach into my purse and uncap the black permanent marker I’ve been using to label boxes at the house. Then, holding out my left arm and resting it on the tabletop, I grip the marker as steadily as I can. And then I get to work.
Ash
I’ve only been at the house a few minutes when Star pulls into the driveway. She’s out of the car, dark hair swinging around her shoulders, and as I watch her walk toward where I’m sitting on the front porch, I wonder if I should mention the package right away or if I should wait. Luckily, her eyes zero in on it before I have to decide.
“It has your name on it,” I tell her. “I’m not an expert or anything, but if it matters, I’m pretty sure it’s not a bomb.” I take one last pull from my cigarette before stubbing it out and pulling myself to my feet. She’s halfway up the walkway, a confused look playing across her face, and I don’t blame her. The box was just there when I got here, wrapped in brown paper and twine and absolutely freaking huge. It is the size of two of those Bankers’ Box boxes my Dad used to haul home from work put together. And it has Star’s name on it.
“Jeez,” she says, pulling the strap of her purse off her shoulder and dropping it down on the porch with a thud before kneeling down to get a closer look at the box. I’m kind of impressed. Not by the kneeling, I’m not a total freak, but by the fact she’s just willing to toss her bag around like that. My ex-girlfriend would have killed herself before she let anything happen to her purse. But then, Gina wouldn’t have been caught dead cleaning out a house like this, so I suppose that’s just the way it is. Different folks, and all that shit. “I wonder who . . . ” her voice trails off, and I turn bodily around to look at her, wondering why she stopped talking. As I watch, a grin spreads across her face, and she lights up like fucking sunshine.
“What?” I ask. “You figure out who sent it?”
“Yup,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate. Instead she just sinks down further until she’s sitting cross-legged on the porch, and tugs the box closer.
She looks like a kid at Christmas.
“So . . . not a bomb, then?” I say, but I can’t help the smile that I know is pulling at the corner of my mouth.
She turns to look at me. “Definitely not,” she says, and then leans over to reach for her bag. But she doesn’t actually move or anything, just starts waving her arms at her just-out-of-reach bag, keeping the box close.
“You’re so weird.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I can actually feel the color drain from my face. Fuck, I think. Already I can feel the panic start to rise up in my stomach. I’m such an ass. She’s definitely going to fire me now. But instead of getting pissed, she just throws back her head and laughs, and, unable to stop myself, my eyes trace down the long column of her neck, down to the neck of her T-shirt, where I can see just the barest edge of the tattoo I’m sure is hiding beneath the fabric.
“Trust me,” she says, still grinning, “you’re not the first one to tell me that. Not even close.” She’s still trying to reach for her purse without letting the box get out of reach, and she hasn’t canned me, so I figure it must be pretty important. I reach out and nudge the bag toward her, and for the first time I notice the tattoo on her left arm, a flock of birds in flight, scaling the distance between her wrist and her elbow. It’s nice. Pretty. She grabs it and gives me a quick “thanks” before dumping the bag into her lap and starting to dig through it with more focus than I’ve ever seen on anybody.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, because this has become way more interesting than watching the well-paid people of the neighborhood walk their foofy-looking dogs, which is what I’d been occupying myself with while I waited for her. Except it was kind of a shit way to kill time, since seeing the dogs made me miss Bruiser, and seeing the people glaring at me like I was a serial killer wasn’t any better. Honestly, I’d been counting down the minutes until Star showed up.
“My keys,” she says. “I need something to cut open the box.”
I don’t even think, I just reach deep into my pocket and pull out my Swiss Army knife, the one Dad gave me when I was thirteen, before I decided the Scouts were lame. I toss it to her and she gives me the biggest smile ever, all bright eyes and rosy cheeks and goddamn she’s hot. I try to shake off the sudden punch to my gut that just keeps fucking happening around her, and watch as she makes short work of the twine and cuts open the flaps of the box.
Curious, because I’ve never actually been able to stay out of trouble, I lean forward to take a look.
That . . . wasn’t what I was expecting. I’m not entirely sure what I thought was going to be in the box, but cartons of garbage bags wasn’t it. But Star’s still acting like a little kid who just got a pony or something, smiling like crazy as she pulls item after item out of the box. Garbage bags. Twine. And about a million different colors of permanent marker.
“Um . . . ” I don’t actually know what I’m supposed to say here. “Did you get a care package from rent-a-hoarder or something?” I ask, and then immediately regret it. I need to shut up. I need to just not talk anymore. Why was I never taught that whole if you don’t have anything nice to say, keep your mouth shut rule like other kids? Why didn’t that shit sink in?
But Star just laughs and starts sorting through her new treasure trove. “Not exactly,” she says. “It’s from Autumn. My roommate. I told her that I had to clean out my mother’s house, but never told her how bad it was. But somehow . . . ”
“She knew.” Must be nice, to have someone like that.
Star nods, and her smile is so big it looks like the fucking sun. “Yeah,” she says, grabbing one of the boxes of garbage bags and tossing it to me. “She just knew.”
***
I don’t know what it was, whether it was the package or hearing from her roommate or what, but Star’s smile just went on and on. Even when we found the giant plastic bin full of comic books—good ones—that had been destroyed by being stored outside, she didn’t falter. She just kind of shook her head and helped me dig them out of the bin and junked them. Which was fucking criminal, since hey would have been expensive. And I’d know. I used to collect them when I was a kid, and my mother was always harping on about how much money I was wasting. But at least I took care of my comic books. These? These had been turned into pulp. And the way Star’s finger trailed down one of the covers before she threw it into the trash, I could tell it was something she would have liked. Maybe not now, but once upon a time, if things had been different.
Seeing her like that, smiling even though I knew she was having a hard time with it, made me wonder about my own collection, and if my parents still had it kicking around somewhere. I spent a few minutes mentally cataloging what I had left, and wondering if Star would like it before I realized what I was doing and shook the train of thought right out of my head.
Fucking stop it, I tell myself, hauling the empty plastic bin over to the side of the house so that I can wash it out with the hose. She’s not your girlfriend. She isn’t ever going to be anything close, so just drop it. You’re being an idiot.
I just have to get through the rest of the summer without fucking up and giving myself away. One wrong move and she’ll know I am into her, and I won’t be the guy helping her out anymore, I’ll be the creepy ex-con who hangs around her house and makes her uncomfortable. And I don’t want to be that guy.
You already are that guy, my brain supplies and I grimace and shove that feeling deep down inside myself. This is supposed to be my chance to start over. I’m not going to mess it up because I’m into the girl who is willing to give me a chance to redeem myself. No way in hell.
I reach down and grab another box and heft it up into my arms. I just have to keep working. That’s all there is to it. Eventually the feelings that are pulling at my gut will fade. They always do.
I just have to wait it out.
Star
It was almost completely dark out when we finally stopped for the day, exhausted. I was drenched with sweat, and I bid Ash an exhausted farewell as he pulled away from the curb, then headed back to the B&B to grab a shower before making my way over to the diner for a late dinner.
I have my laptop out in front of me by the time my food arrives, my email to Autumn waiting to be sent.
You’re ridiculous, you know that, right? I had written.
I can’t believe you sent me all that stuff.
How’s life in Climbfield? Have you managed to drive Roth bonkers yet? If so, send pics. I need to see his angry-face. It’s like Grumpy Cat and must be commemorated for posterity.
I miss yooooou.
<3 Star
It is stupid, but even after only a couple of weeks, I miss my roommate like crazy. I’ve barely known her a year, but we’re already closer than I have ever been with anyone, save for maybe my foster brother Brick when I was sixteen, before he disappeared from my life. And the fact that Autumn somehow always knows what I need, well . . . It is good to have someone like her in my life. Even if keeping in contact with her while I’m in Avenue is starting to become a huge pain in my butt. I still haven’t managed to find good Wi-Fi, and my cell phone is pretty much out as I am roaming to the highest degree imaginable. I only brought the damn thing for emergencies. It is probably a good thing that Ash had just shown up instead of calling me. After all the money I’m spending trying to get the house cleaned up, I don’t need a gargantuan cell phone bill on top of it.
After ten minutes struggling to stay connected to the diner’s Wi-Fi, I finally manage to get my email to go through, and I close my laptop victoriously and celebrate with a handful of half-decent fries from my plate.
I need to come up with a better plan than constantly eating at the diner. I spent a good portion of the past year trying to wage war against the freshman fifteen—and being only partially successful, but I figure seven pounds isn’t the end of the world—and it would suck to succumb to it now that my first year of college is officially over.
But honestly, at this point, I think the main reason I keep coming back to the diner is because I know I’m pissing people off. And I’m kinda starting to like doing so. God knows it isn’t because the food is great. When my grilled cheese sandwich came out, it was cold and hard as a rock. And Leslie has been shooting daggers at me with her eyes ever since I sat down, and she still hadn’t brought me out my soda, even though my meal is almost done. So yeah, I am completely okay with pissing her off.
After all, fair’s fair.
She’s been pissing me off pretty badly, too.
Between the grumpy waitress and my ever-dwindling funds, not to mention the fact that it is freaking boiling outside, I’ve just about reached the end of my rope. Again.
This summer is going to be a test of my mettle, I just know it.
I wait until her back is turned before I pull the handful of permanent markers Autumn sent me out of my bag and line them up on the vinyl seat next to me, hidden from view. Watching for her out of the corner of my eye, I take a deliberate bite of my sandwich and fiddle with my laptop, toggling from page to page until she disappears behind the counter to refill a drink. Then I uncap the first marker with a smile and get to work.
Soon there’s a garden of badly drawn but extremely colorful flowers growing up the inside of my right arm and line after line of poetry marching halfway down my left thigh.
If people are going to keep staring at me, I’m going to give them something to stare at. I snap the cap back on the pale blue marker I’ve been using, and drop it back into my purse. I hear footsteps coming up behind me, and I zip my bag closed just in time for Leslie—she of the constant disapproving glare—to walk up and slam my soda down on the table top hard enough for it to fizz up precariously close to the rim of the glass. I tilt my head back and grin up at her and reach out to wrap my hand around it. Bringing the glass to my lips, I take a long, deliberate sip of it, watching her as she just shakes her head and stalks away grumbling.
There’s a snort from behind me, and I turn around in my seat to look.
York, the waiter from the other night—the one with the baby face and the sinfully tight jeans—is clearing dirty dishes off a table and into a plastic bin. And he’s looking straight at me. But instead of the glares I’ve been treated to by everyone else in this place, he’s gnawing on his lip, like he’s struggling not to smile. And failing. He looks back and forth quickly, checking that the coast is clear, and then he shoves the last of the plates into the bin and hoists it up on his hip. But instead of heading straight toward the swinging door that leads to the kitchen, he veers slightly to the left coming within a foot of my booth, and as he passes by he slyly reaches out with his free hand, offering me a high five.
What else can I do? I give him one.
