Page 25 of The Last to Let Go
“Ally, the boy needs a haircut. Unless youwantto look like a girl?” Even Aaron knew not to answer that. “Listen,” he said sharply, jabbing his finger into Aaron’s shoulder. “You clean up before you step foot out of this house. Can’t have you walking around town looking like a bum. Understood?”
Aaron nodded.
Mom sat in her spot next to Dad at the table and poured herself a glass of orange juice. Both Callie and I saw the gray-blue bruise circling her wrist as she reached across the table. “No problem, we can go after school.” She smiled like things were just perfect. “Right, Aaron?”
He nodded again.
Everyone was finally quiet. And I remember thinking that if we could stayjust like this, then everything would be fine. I ate my cereal one Lucky Charm at a time, trying to make it last a little longer, not even caring about the time on the stove or our unmade lunches or being late to school.
RAVENS
LATER THAT DAY AT WORKI’m exhausted. Thankfully, it’s been a slow morning. Jackie’s had me detailing the espresso machine and the coffee grinders. She told me that today would be the day I’d learn more on the register; up until now she’s had me on menial, pointless tasks.
The bell dings. I hear Jackie call out across the shop, “Hey, Owen!”
They make small talk as he comes behind the counter and pulls an apron over his head, tying the straps behind his back, working his O charm on her, too. I do my best to make it seem as though I haven’t taken notice of any of this. And then I feel their eyes on me. I look up again only because I hear my name.
“What?” I ask.
“I was just telling Owen how you’re going to be picking up a few hours here and there.”
“Oh. Yeah,” I tell him.Stellar, Brooke.
“Sweet,” he says in this way that makes me feel like he thinks the idea of working with me is the exact opposite of sweet.
“Nice to meet you,” I offer.
He looks at me, a slow grin turning the corners of his mouth upward. “We’ve gone to the same school since kindergarten,” he tells me as he pulls on hisJACKIE’Shat over his now-shoulder-length dreads. As he stands there in front of me, with his brown skin and deep eyes, I can see why all those other girls, even guys, are in love with him. I can’t help but think about how much simpler life would be if I could just have a crush on him too, like everyone else.
“Yeah, but...” All right, so I look stupid. That’s okay, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter. I pretty much always look stupid when it comes to my fellow Riverside students. “Well, anyway. Not anymore. I’m going to Jefferson this year.” I don’t know why I’m saying this; I realize how snotty it sounds the instant it’s out of my mouth. I am seriously socially impaired.
The phone rings behind the counter and Jackie goes to answer it. Then Owen and I are left standing there together.
“Why would you wanna do that?” he finally asks, as if going to Jefferson is the worst idea he’s ever heard.
I don’t know how to explain the million reasons why. “Well, they offer a lot more AP classes there,” I tell him.
“Maybe, but they got nothing on the Ravens, let me tell you,” he answers. “I guess you probably don’t care about football, though.”
“Not so much,” I admit. “Sorry.”
“It’s cool.” He shrugs. “To each their own, right?”
And this has officially become the longest conversation I’ve ever had with a fellow Riverside student since my lunch table of friends-by-proxy all graduated at the end of my freshman year, except for Aaron, who had dropped out by then. I open my mouth to answer, but the bell dings again, and as I turn to look, my stomach flips when I realize who it is.
Jackie whispers, holding her hand over the phone, “Owen, help Brooke with this one, will you?”
I walk up to the register, Owen so close behind me I can feel him breathing. I want to hide behind him. Because Monica B. is standing there, tapping on her phone, sunglasses still on, looking nothing like that awkward little girl who was my friend for a few hours in sixth grade.
“Hey, O!” she says, finally looking up from her phone, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Wait, I’m mad at you. You didn’t come to my party last weekend,” she accuses.
“I know, I know, my bad. Between practice, work. Couldn’t make it. Sorry. Next time, I promise.”
“Fine, I guess I’ll forgive you,” she teases.
“All right, thank you,” he says, playing along. “You know Brooke?” he asks her.
She looks at me for the first time. I know she remembers. But she looks through me, squinting, turning her head as if she’s having trouble placing me. I hate her so much.
