She Loves You, She Loves You Not...

Chapter
2

Carly didn't come home last night, or at least I didn't hear her. I don't mean home. Her home. Usually I sleep so hard my stepmom, Tanith, has to shake me awake, or my little brother, Paulie, jumps on me. I can't sleep here. Even when I was a baby, Dad said I'd fall into this deep sleep that he thought I'd never wake up from. I bet now he wishes I hadn't.

Carly's bedroom door is cracked, and I tiptoe down the hall to peek in. The bed's made. I want to go snoop around some more, but she could show up anytime. She doesn't seem to keep regular hours.

This is only my third day in exile, and already I'm bored shitless and thinking too much. What am I going to do for however long I'm banished? "Veg in front of the TV," I answer my own question. "Eat and get fat."

Shrivel up and die.

I need to stay busy, keep my mind off things. People.

Maybe I could get a job. I saw an outlet mall when we passed through Dillon and Silverthorne on the way up here from Denver. Carly was babbling away about all the summer activities in the mountains, the boating and biking and hiking trails, how much fun I'd have in Breckenridge, even though it's miles away from Majestic, where she lives. I was trying not to think about home, about Dad and Tanith and Paulie and Sar—

Stop thinking about her.

What is everyone doing at home? I wonder. What time is it in Virginia Beach? I check the clock. A little after seven AM. That'd be nine o'clock Eastern. I could call.

Dad might still be at home and answer.

Forget that.

I shower and dress in jeans and a white sleeveless button-down. The only shoes I brought besides flip-flops are leather boots. I remember thinking, Colorado. Snow. I'll need boots.

In June? How was I supposed to know it doesn't snow in the mountains in summer?

Carly said I could drive her other SUV, and she handed me the keys to her Mercedes. I was still dazed from the flight and the long drive to Majestic and how fast my life was disintegrating. I just stared at the keys.

A memory slices through the years. Carly bringing me home after we'd spent a day together. Dad and Tanith, the three of us, watching her walk from the porch to the curb, where she'd parked the Corvette convertible.

Dad said, "She looks like a hooker. A high-priced hooker if she can afford that car."

"Paul!" Tanith hitched her head down at me and widened her eyes at Dad.

Dad said to me, "What did you two do all day?"

"We drove to the beach," I told him. "We went shopping."

"Did she tell you what she does for a living?"

I knew what she did. So did Dad. "She's a dancer."

"Oh, right. Like strippers make that kind of money."

I didn't say stripper. I said dancer.

He turned toward the stairs. At his back, I said, "The car's a rental."

I heard Dad mutter, "So's she."

How old was I? Nine, ten? I didn't know what he meant then. I do now. And I know the difference between dancer and stripper.

It scares me to drive anyway, but a Mercedes SUV? She said I could. Still.

Majestic is within walking distance of the house, or at least it seemed close by when we whizzed past. Carly's house is built right into the side of Caribou Mountain—if you can call it a house. It's more like a resort, with an outdoor hot tub and sauna. How does she afford this?

I mean, how much do massage therapists slash personal trainers make?

More than strippers. Not as much as high-priced call girls.

With all my heart I wish for Dad to be wrong. But evidence doesn't lie.

I trudge down the winding access road to the highway. Trucks and semis pass, but I'm too chicken to thumb a ride. Who knows what wackos live in the mountains? About fifteen minutes into the walk, I wish I was brave or stupid enough to hitch. It's so hot out, and I'm soaking wet. I wish I'd packed my sandals. Or Chucks. I didn't bring everything I owned because…

"Because I'm going back," I say out loud. My throat is so dry that my voice cracks. No way I'm staying here. Dad will forgive me and remember how much he loved me before. I know he will. He has to.

"Stop." Stop torturing yourself.

Main Street is two blocks of square brick buildings with hokey-looking storefronts. Carly said it was built as a movie set in the 1990s. There's a souvenir curio shop, a liquor store, and a barn with a stenciled sign: USED BOOK EMPORIUM.

There are no HELP WANTED signs posted anywhere. The sidewalks are raised planks with wooden handrails, and I wonder what movie was shot here. Some dopey Western. As I pass the curio shop, I jump back and almost fall off the sidewalk. The window display is a coiled rattlesnake under glass. Snakes scare the bejeezus out of me. I press my heart to calm the pounding.

Across the street is a video rental store that looks fairly new.

As I open the door to the video rental, a blast of air-conditioning hits me in the face. Relief. No one's here. I walk to the counter, and a tall, skinny kid with mega-zits shuffles out from the back. He has green hair. It reminds me of that summer Paulie started swim team at Dad's club and spent so much time in the pool that his hair turned green from the chlorine. Except this kid's color came from a bottle. "Who are you?" he asks.

"Who are you?" I answer.

"Who wants to know?" he says.

I sigh inwardly. "I'm looking for a job," I tell him. "Do you need any help?"

"Does it look like we need help?"

Brat. Okay, the place is deserted. It's possible they'd get a rush, though, right? "Weekends or something? Anything?"

His zits run down his neck to his shoulders. And he's staring at my chest. Perv. I turn to leave and he says, "You sorta look like someone. Do you know Carly?"

I twist back. "Yeah? Why?" How does he know Carly?

"Arlo's hiring."

The smirk on his face answers my question. Small town. "Who's Arlo?"

The kid goes, "Street before the light, take a right. You can't miss it. The Egg Drop-In."

I missed it the first time through. "Okay, thanks," I say.

"If you ever want to browse in the adult section, let me know." He wiggles his eyebrows.

Gross. Now I wonder if Majestic is populated with peanut-sized perverts.

The Egg Drop-In is a restaurant. More like a greasy spoon, but there are customers, at least. All the tables are full. A guy in a wheelchair is ringing up a sale at the cash register. He catches my eye, and I give him a little wave, like hi. He stares at me so long, I think he sees a ghost. Everyone in the room swivels to look.

Now I feel conspicuous, like I'm standing in the middle of the restaurant naked. Time starts again, and people resume what they were doing. Eating, talking, judging me. I approach the front counter, and Wheelchair says to the customer who just paid, "Thanks, Dutch. See you tomorrow." The customer is dressed like a real cowboy. No kidding. Worn, saggy jeans, a cowboy hat, and boots. Is he an actor? His face doesn't look familiar.

Wheelchair stares at me again. I open my mouth to speak, but he rolls through the swinging café doors to the back.

People are so rude here. I survey the shelves and cases. Bagels and muffins, cheese Danish. An espresso machine and a bottle of pulpy orange juice.

"Order up," Wheelchair calls through the opening between the kitchen and the dining room as he skids two plates across the counter. His eyes rise to meet mine, and he fixes on me again.

What?

I have a sudden urge to flee. Just get out of there. As I pivot, this girl nearly bulldozes over me. She juggles a tray stacked high with dirty plates.

"Sorry," I say.

She doesn't budge.

I glance around. Oh.

She needs me to… I step one way, and she mirrors my move. We both step the other way. I let out a little laugh. She doesn't.

She shoves the tray between us and cuts through. The name on her badge reads FINN. I watch her dump the tray, load up the hot plates along her arm, then serpentine through the tables and chairs.

Dyke! my gaydar screams. She has that self-confident aura. Plus, she's wearing carpenter shorts and leather hiking shoes. Dark curly leg hair. Hel-loooo.

Wheelchair says, "You're Carly's girl." He's sitting in the doorway, propping open the swinging doors with both hands. He has on latex gloves, and he reeks of green peppers and bacon grease.

Am I wearing a scarlet letter?

"What do you want?" he growls.

"Um…" Now I'm all rattled.

"Arlo, can we get some grub?" a guy at the end of the counter hollers. Wheelchair shouts, "Finn!" She twists her head. She has this long, black braid that hits her at the waist. So cool. I've never seen hair that long.

Wheelchair—Arlo, I guess he is—waves toward the customer, and Finn scrambles over there.

The doors close and Arlo disappears. He reappears through the order window at the grill, pouring pancakes from a plastic pitcher. I move closer to the cash register to talk to him. "I heard you had a job opening, and I was thinking about applying."

He doesn't look up from the grill. "Come in here," he says.

To the kitchen? Okay. I push through the swinging doors.

He's sitting on a platform so he can reach the grill. He wheels around. "Did she send you here to twist the knife?"

"What? Who?"

He scans me up and down. Then shakes his head no.

Why not? What does he see that he doesn't like? "I really need a job," I tell him. "I'm a hard worker."

"I'll bet you are."

I catch the innuendo, and heat rises up my neck. "I'm not Carly," I say.

He mutters, "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Sure, I think.

He glides down the ramp and past me to a refrigerator. He opens it. He reaches up for something he can't get.

I hurry behind him. "What do you need?"

"You! Outta here!" he barks.

I stumble back, and he hollers, "Finn!"

She whooshes through the swinging doors.

"The damn eggs!" Arlo yells at her. "Don't put 'em up so high."

I try to catch her eye to telepath God, what a jerk, but Finn just retrieves a cardboard tray of eggs from the fridge and rushes past Arlo and me to set them on the counter by the grill. The bell tinkles out front and Finn dashes out, not even glancing my way.

"You better scram," Arlo says.

A guy in overalls appears at the swinging doors. "Could I please get a cup of stinkin' coffee in this turd-infested rat hole sometime this century?"

Arlo grins. He wheels forward so fast, he smashes through the doors, almost taking the guy down. "The rats are working as hard as they can, Bullwhacker. Now sit Your Flatulence down and wait your turn."

Overalls chuckles and tramps off.

Arlo scrutinizes me again. "You ever work one of those machines?" He thumbs at the coffeemaker.

"Um, yeah," I lie. Carly has an espresso machine, which I wouldn't even know how to plug in.

He says, "Take the counter."

Now?

Finn flies past me and says, "I got it."

I could've done it.

Arlo asks me, "You have waitressing experience?"

"Tons," I lie again. The only job I've ever had is lifeguarding at Dad's club in the summer. He never let me work during the school year because he wanted me to concentrate on my studies.

I feel Arlo checking me out. What is he looking for? I flex my right bicep.

That earns me a lopsided grin, at least. He rolls backward into the kitchen. Three people at the counter are holding up cups, and before I can even think, Finn's filling them from a pot of brewed coffee. Arlo hollers, "Order up!" as he slides two plates of steaming pancakes onto the counter.

Finn slips behind me. "Excuse me," she says. She has this soft, low voice. As she's picking up the plates, Arlo says to her, "What do you think? Should we hire Carly's girl here?"

Finn whirls and drops the plates. The shattering glass makes everyone jump. Finn is frozen in place, staring at my face, into me so far I feel her eyes ripping through my gut.

She stoops to clean the mess, and I crouch down to help, but she says, "I've got it." Kind of cold. She stands and shakes her head at Arlo.

Arlo exaggerates a smile at me. "The decision is unanimous." He aims the spatula at the exit. "Go home to Mommy Dearest."

Chapter
3

All the way back to the house, I alternate between anger and humiliation. What just happened in there? I almost got the job, but then that Finn blew it for me. Fine. She's not my type anyway.

Not that I care. I've sworn off love forever.

Carly owns a laptop, but I haven't seen her use it. She did say whatever I wanted I could use. I take the computer up to my room, open the lid, and press the ON button. Windows boots. I check my Hotmail and find six messages.

None from Sarah.

I don't know why I think she'd write to me. She'd better not. I begin a letter:

I don't press SEND. I don't even mean it. It just feels good to get that out.

I lie in bed, and the jumble of emotions turns to tears. What did I do wrong? If I could only figure out what happened, the when and where and how of it. I thought I was the perfect girlfriend, that we were perfect together. "What did I do, Sarah?" What?

October

She came on to you. She started it. "Are you going to homecoming?" she asked.

We were at GSA, getting settled for the meeting, waiting for stragglers.

You told her, "I'm not really into football."

"Not the game. The dance." She bumped your shoulder with hers. She was always touching you, playing with your jewelry, sitting so close that your arms got twisted up. At every GSA meeting, she'd immediately gravitate to wherever you were. If M'Chelle or Ben was there, Sarah would insinuate herself in the middle.

You have to admit you liked the attention, the warmth of human interaction. Your last girlfriend, if you could call her that, lived in Michigan. Your whole relationship played out online. Ben would e-mail or text you: R U HAVING CYBERSEX YET?