Gage looked over, distracted, and I forced my leg out of the hold then kneed him in the stomach. He reeled back and I jumped on him, pushing his face against the cushion.
“You’re ruthless,” he said.
“I learned it from you.” I let him go, then stood. “Hey, Braden. How was your mom’s birthday dinner last night?”
“Same old, same old.”
I tilted my head, wanting him to go on. Braden was an only child, so he was always the center of attention . . . and expectations. Sometimes I felt like he came to our house as often as he did to be surrounded by chaos. To disappear. I stared at him, but he didn’t continue. He grabbed the remote off the end table and turned on the TV. “I thought for sure you guys would be watching the A’s game.”
“Whoa! What time is it?” I consulted the clock on the DVD player. “Crap. It’s already halfway over.” I claimed my position on the couch.
It was as if the sounds of the game called my brothers from their hideouts, because soon the living room was full, everyone shouting at the TV, soda cans and chips open on the coffee table. We didn’t have a favorite sport in our house. We liked them all.
My dad came down and gestured for Gage to scoot over, which meant I had to scoot over into Braden’s hard side. He moved his arm to the back of the couch to make more room. The smell of his deodorant assaulted my senses. “You smell good.”
He pulled me into a headlock, holding me there for a minute. “You’re stuck now.”
I opened my mouth, ready to bite, when he must’ve realized what I was doing because he pushed me away with a laugh. I threw both my legs over one of Gage’s and grabbed the jar of peanuts off the coffee table.
“No!” Braden yelled at the television, right in my ear.
I elbowed him.
“Sorry,” he said, distracted.
Gage absently patted one of my knees with his closed fist. Thump thump thump. I kicked a little and he stopped. But then Braden, drinking a soda, gulped loudly in my ear. Seriously, was he the loudest swallower in the world? I stood and started collecting empty soda cans off the table in front of us.
Braden reached up and pushed me over a little so he could see the TV.
“Oh, excuse me, was I in your way?”
“Yes, actually, so move it or lose it.”
“Lose what?”
He pushed on the back of my knee with his foot and my leg gave out from under me, causing me to fall, the soda cans landing on the floor.
“Death to you.”
I dropped to my hands and knees on the floor and collected the soda cans, then carried them toward the kitchen. As I reached the door, I looked over my shoulder. All their eyes were glued to the television. Warmth surged through my cold heart. I loved these guys so much. They were my life and I couldn’t think of anything better than all of us together, just hanging out and doing nothing. I must have lingered in my happy feelings for too long, because Braden looked up, met my eyes, then gave me the “What’s your deal?” face: one eyebrow raised, mouth twisted up.
I scrunched my nose at him and then walked into the kitchen.
Chapter 6
I hoped so badly that the guys never, ever came to visit me at work. This was my wish the next day as I stood in front of what had to be the most awful mirrors in the world—they showed three angles simultaneously—trying on the bajillionth outfit for Linda. I looked ridiculous.
We were behind some large flowered screens at the back of the store, so at least people walking by on the street outside couldn’t witness my humiliation.
“These clothes fit you well,” she said, adjusting the flowing top that hung a little too low in the front for my taste. I was used to the high neck of a T-shirt. And I always thought jeans were meant for comfort. These jeans felt like they were attempting to hold my thighs in place.
“This is why models are so tall. Because clothes look good on tall people. It’s completely unfair.”
“Okay, I think I’m done playing dress-up forever. Which ones do you want me to buy?”
“Well, that’s up to you, Charlie. Which ones speak to you?”
I coughed as I got a big whiff of the incense she had lit for this “experience.” I waved my hand through the air. “Not a single piece of clothing spoke to me.”
She placed a finger on my forehead. One thing I was learning rather quickly about Linda was that she didn’t understand the concept of personal space. Not that I had a lot of personal space in my life, but generally strangers granted me that much. “Find your center. Feel your aura,” she said, her finger still on my head.
“Neither me nor my aura know how to pick out clothes. Which ones do you like?”
“Okay. That’s very practical of you. We are never fair judges of ourselves. An outside observer is much more likely to accurately tell us what looks the best on us.” She studied all the clothes I had tried on.
A movement to my right caught my eye and I looked over.
“Mama Lou, how old is this Chinese food?” Skye, the girl with the pink-tipped hair who had referred me to Linda, walked out from the back room, holding up a container and tilting it so we could see the noodles inside. I didn’t even know she was here. “Oh. Hi, Charlie. Cute outfit.” She pointed at me with a fork.
I tugged on the bottom of the uncomfortable shirt, wondering if it was see-through. The material felt so thin. “Thanks.”
Linda looked up in surprise. “Skye. When did you get here?”
“Just now. I came in the back door.” She plopped down on a red circular ottoman next to the mirrors and lifted a forkful of noodles.
“I’m not sure how old that food is. At least a few days.”
Skye sniffed it, then put it in her mouth.
Linda started separating the clothes I had tried on into two piles. “To buy now.” She pointed at one pile. “To buy later.” She nodded toward the other. Then she looked at the outfit still on my body. The mirror in front of me assured me the top wasn’t see-through, but it felt so light. And it had a flower pattern on it. I could confidently say that I had never worn anything with flowers on it before. Well, maybe when I was five.
“And to wear now,” she said, referring to the outfit I wore.
“Uh . . . I don’t know that my aura is ready to jump right in with flowers.”
She laughed like I was kidding but then threw me a striped shirt, which I changed into quickly.
“Let me ring this stuff up, then you can start work.”
It felt like I had been hard at work for the last hour trying on those clothes. It was exhausting, and I hoped I never had to do it again. I checked myself out in the mirror again. I didn’t look like me.
“You look great,” Skye assured me through a mouthful of noodles.
When I came out from behind the screens Linda smiled. “So nice.” She sighed like she had just performed some miracle and was pleased with the results. At least, until her gaze reached my face and hair. I could tell she wanted to say something, but it was one thing to tell someone to change her clothes; it was a whole other thing to tell someone her face could use some work.
She positioned herself behind the register, and I watched as the number on the tiny black screen got bigger and bigger.
“Skye,” Linda called. “I got some more colored dye in.”
Skye leaped off her low stool and headed for the hutch in the corner. “Green. Nice. I’m coming back after closing so you can help me.”
Linda helped her dye her hair? Skye’s parents must’ve been really laid-back. Well, Skye looked older than I was. Maybe she didn’t live with her parents.
Linda tucked the receipt into her drawer, probably so she could deduct it from my paycheck later. “Sounds good,” she said. “So scoot on out of here. I need to train Charlie now.”
“Fine. Fine.” Skye headed toward the back, and a thought suddenly occurred to me.
“Are you and Skye related?”
“Oh, no. Her mother left when she was young.” A look of pity passed over Linda’s face as she gazed toward the back of the store where Skye had just left. “She just needs an extra helping of love. That’s all.”
My breath caught. Is that how Linda saw the motherless of the world? Lacking somehow? I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t need to. Linda filled the silence by showing me how to fold shirts, organize racks by sizes, and properly hang pants.
The two hours went by pretty fast, and I changed back into my normal clothes, then collected my bag of new clothes and my car keys. Linda said, “So, I’ll see you Saturday at ten a.m., Charlie.” She paused, thoughtful. “Is that a nickname?”
“Short for Charlotte. But Charlie fits me better.”
“It does.” She pointed to the bag of clothes. “You can wear them home, you know. They’re completely machine-washable.”
“Oh, yeah . . .” I shrugged my shoulders. “If my brothers saw me in these clothes, they’d never let me live it down.”
“We live in our own minds, child.”
Not in my house. In my house, we were always getting in each other’s heads. It was hard enough keeping the guys out without giving them extra ammo. “I guess.”
She had a set of keys in her hands and she followed me to the door, obviously about to lock up. “What about your mom? I’m sure she’d love to see you in those clothes.”
That look of pity Linda had given when talking about Skye’s motherless state flashed through my mind. I knew that look well. I’d seen it before. It was the look that always came after the line My mom died when I was six. That was my go-to line. That was usually followed by an apology from the listeners and then the look. Sometimes the look lingered for months, every time they saw me. It was hard to say which was worse: the look, or when the look finally went away, the memory of my story fading into the recesses of their minds. How could they forget when I couldn’t?
I hadn’t seen that look directed at me in a while. Most people just knew. We lived in the same house and went to the same schools pretty much my whole life.
I opened my mouth to avoid the question when “My mom’s like me. She doesn’t know a thing about fashion” came out. My face flushed hot and I stepped outside without turning back. Did I really just pretend my mom was alive? Not only that, I gave her my fashion sense. I knew that wasn’t even true. I’d seen enough pictures of her to know she always looked gorgeous. The picture my mind always went to was my mom in a long yellow sundress, standing on the beach looking out at the waves.
But I didn’t know much outside of pictures. I used to ask my dad questions about her, but as I got older I noticed the sad looks that accompanied the answers and stopped asking. I stopped asking long before I could start asking questions that really mattered. I wondered if I’d ever get the motivation or courage to start asking again.
Chapter 7
It was the first night in a long time that I woke up with a start. My hands shook, and I clenched them into fists, then crossed my arms over my chest to try and stop the quivering there as well.
The nightmare always began the same, my mother tucking me into bed, kissing my forehead, and saying good-bye. Rain pounded the window as if trying to make her stay, my heart seeming to keep up with the rapid pattering. After that it was a variation. Sometimes it was a car accident, her car sliding off the side of a road and down an embankment. That nightmare made sense because it was what had actually happened. As such, it was the one I had the most often.
But sometimes there were different versions altogether: hands made of rain ripping my mother from where she stood in my bedroom doorway, instantly liquefying her; a strong wind tearing the roof off our house and sucking her into the night. Tonight she had stood in front of our house, in white pajamas, and the rain itself had sliced bloody cuts down her body until she collapsed to the wet grass, her white nightdress now red, her limp hand filling my view as I stared at its lifelessness.
My new job had deprived me of my late afternoon run, leaving my body less exhausted than normal. I’d have to figure out a new running schedule for Tuesdays and Thursdays. My dad didn’t like me to run alone at night, and it wasn’t often I could talk one of my brothers into going with me.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering what my brain would do to me if I fell back asleep. Late the next morning, we were supposed to play a game of basketball on the elementary school’s outdoor blacktop. I wished it were morning already.
My clock read three a.m., and my now frayed nerves weren’t letting me go to sleep. I rolled out of bed and walked downstairs. First I paced the kitchen, then I went outside. Before I discovered the amazing effects of running four years earlier, I spent a lot of hours in the stillness of my backyard.
I walked the cement around the pool, staring down at the dark water as I did.
A set of headlights swept across the blackness as Mr. Lewis’s truck pulled up next door. I was surprised at how late he was getting home. Lights went on upstairs a few minutes later, and that’s when the yelling started.
I backed up to get a better view of the upstairs. A few more lights flipped on, and then the back door slammed shut. Peering through the cracks of the fence that separated our houses, I saw Braden emerge wearing a pair of boxers and a hastily thrown-on T-shirt, all twisted at the bottom.
“Psst,” I called through the fence. “Braden.”
He looked around and then straight at the fence, not able to see me, but obviously knowing it was someone in the general vicinity.
“Gage?” he asked.
“No, it’s Charlie. What’s going on?”
He walked closer. “Where are you?”
“You’re ruthless,” he said.
“I learned it from you.” I let him go, then stood. “Hey, Braden. How was your mom’s birthday dinner last night?”
“Same old, same old.”
I tilted my head, wanting him to go on. Braden was an only child, so he was always the center of attention . . . and expectations. Sometimes I felt like he came to our house as often as he did to be surrounded by chaos. To disappear. I stared at him, but he didn’t continue. He grabbed the remote off the end table and turned on the TV. “I thought for sure you guys would be watching the A’s game.”
“Whoa! What time is it?” I consulted the clock on the DVD player. “Crap. It’s already halfway over.” I claimed my position on the couch.
It was as if the sounds of the game called my brothers from their hideouts, because soon the living room was full, everyone shouting at the TV, soda cans and chips open on the coffee table. We didn’t have a favorite sport in our house. We liked them all.
My dad came down and gestured for Gage to scoot over, which meant I had to scoot over into Braden’s hard side. He moved his arm to the back of the couch to make more room. The smell of his deodorant assaulted my senses. “You smell good.”
He pulled me into a headlock, holding me there for a minute. “You’re stuck now.”
I opened my mouth, ready to bite, when he must’ve realized what I was doing because he pushed me away with a laugh. I threw both my legs over one of Gage’s and grabbed the jar of peanuts off the coffee table.
“No!” Braden yelled at the television, right in my ear.
I elbowed him.
“Sorry,” he said, distracted.
Gage absently patted one of my knees with his closed fist. Thump thump thump. I kicked a little and he stopped. But then Braden, drinking a soda, gulped loudly in my ear. Seriously, was he the loudest swallower in the world? I stood and started collecting empty soda cans off the table in front of us.
Braden reached up and pushed me over a little so he could see the TV.
“Oh, excuse me, was I in your way?”
“Yes, actually, so move it or lose it.”
“Lose what?”
He pushed on the back of my knee with his foot and my leg gave out from under me, causing me to fall, the soda cans landing on the floor.
“Death to you.”
I dropped to my hands and knees on the floor and collected the soda cans, then carried them toward the kitchen. As I reached the door, I looked over my shoulder. All their eyes were glued to the television. Warmth surged through my cold heart. I loved these guys so much. They were my life and I couldn’t think of anything better than all of us together, just hanging out and doing nothing. I must have lingered in my happy feelings for too long, because Braden looked up, met my eyes, then gave me the “What’s your deal?” face: one eyebrow raised, mouth twisted up.
I scrunched my nose at him and then walked into the kitchen.
Chapter 6
I hoped so badly that the guys never, ever came to visit me at work. This was my wish the next day as I stood in front of what had to be the most awful mirrors in the world—they showed three angles simultaneously—trying on the bajillionth outfit for Linda. I looked ridiculous.
We were behind some large flowered screens at the back of the store, so at least people walking by on the street outside couldn’t witness my humiliation.
“These clothes fit you well,” she said, adjusting the flowing top that hung a little too low in the front for my taste. I was used to the high neck of a T-shirt. And I always thought jeans were meant for comfort. These jeans felt like they were attempting to hold my thighs in place.
“This is why models are so tall. Because clothes look good on tall people. It’s completely unfair.”
“Okay, I think I’m done playing dress-up forever. Which ones do you want me to buy?”
“Well, that’s up to you, Charlie. Which ones speak to you?”
I coughed as I got a big whiff of the incense she had lit for this “experience.” I waved my hand through the air. “Not a single piece of clothing spoke to me.”
She placed a finger on my forehead. One thing I was learning rather quickly about Linda was that she didn’t understand the concept of personal space. Not that I had a lot of personal space in my life, but generally strangers granted me that much. “Find your center. Feel your aura,” she said, her finger still on my head.
“Neither me nor my aura know how to pick out clothes. Which ones do you like?”
“Okay. That’s very practical of you. We are never fair judges of ourselves. An outside observer is much more likely to accurately tell us what looks the best on us.” She studied all the clothes I had tried on.
A movement to my right caught my eye and I looked over.
“Mama Lou, how old is this Chinese food?” Skye, the girl with the pink-tipped hair who had referred me to Linda, walked out from the back room, holding up a container and tilting it so we could see the noodles inside. I didn’t even know she was here. “Oh. Hi, Charlie. Cute outfit.” She pointed at me with a fork.
I tugged on the bottom of the uncomfortable shirt, wondering if it was see-through. The material felt so thin. “Thanks.”
Linda looked up in surprise. “Skye. When did you get here?”
“Just now. I came in the back door.” She plopped down on a red circular ottoman next to the mirrors and lifted a forkful of noodles.
“I’m not sure how old that food is. At least a few days.”
Skye sniffed it, then put it in her mouth.
Linda started separating the clothes I had tried on into two piles. “To buy now.” She pointed at one pile. “To buy later.” She nodded toward the other. Then she looked at the outfit still on my body. The mirror in front of me assured me the top wasn’t see-through, but it felt so light. And it had a flower pattern on it. I could confidently say that I had never worn anything with flowers on it before. Well, maybe when I was five.
“And to wear now,” she said, referring to the outfit I wore.
“Uh . . . I don’t know that my aura is ready to jump right in with flowers.”
She laughed like I was kidding but then threw me a striped shirt, which I changed into quickly.
“Let me ring this stuff up, then you can start work.”
It felt like I had been hard at work for the last hour trying on those clothes. It was exhausting, and I hoped I never had to do it again. I checked myself out in the mirror again. I didn’t look like me.
“You look great,” Skye assured me through a mouthful of noodles.
When I came out from behind the screens Linda smiled. “So nice.” She sighed like she had just performed some miracle and was pleased with the results. At least, until her gaze reached my face and hair. I could tell she wanted to say something, but it was one thing to tell someone to change her clothes; it was a whole other thing to tell someone her face could use some work.
She positioned herself behind the register, and I watched as the number on the tiny black screen got bigger and bigger.
“Skye,” Linda called. “I got some more colored dye in.”
Skye leaped off her low stool and headed for the hutch in the corner. “Green. Nice. I’m coming back after closing so you can help me.”
Linda helped her dye her hair? Skye’s parents must’ve been really laid-back. Well, Skye looked older than I was. Maybe she didn’t live with her parents.
Linda tucked the receipt into her drawer, probably so she could deduct it from my paycheck later. “Sounds good,” she said. “So scoot on out of here. I need to train Charlie now.”
“Fine. Fine.” Skye headed toward the back, and a thought suddenly occurred to me.
“Are you and Skye related?”
“Oh, no. Her mother left when she was young.” A look of pity passed over Linda’s face as she gazed toward the back of the store where Skye had just left. “She just needs an extra helping of love. That’s all.”
My breath caught. Is that how Linda saw the motherless of the world? Lacking somehow? I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t need to. Linda filled the silence by showing me how to fold shirts, organize racks by sizes, and properly hang pants.
The two hours went by pretty fast, and I changed back into my normal clothes, then collected my bag of new clothes and my car keys. Linda said, “So, I’ll see you Saturday at ten a.m., Charlie.” She paused, thoughtful. “Is that a nickname?”
“Short for Charlotte. But Charlie fits me better.”
“It does.” She pointed to the bag of clothes. “You can wear them home, you know. They’re completely machine-washable.”
“Oh, yeah . . .” I shrugged my shoulders. “If my brothers saw me in these clothes, they’d never let me live it down.”
“We live in our own minds, child.”
Not in my house. In my house, we were always getting in each other’s heads. It was hard enough keeping the guys out without giving them extra ammo. “I guess.”
She had a set of keys in her hands and she followed me to the door, obviously about to lock up. “What about your mom? I’m sure she’d love to see you in those clothes.”
That look of pity Linda had given when talking about Skye’s motherless state flashed through my mind. I knew that look well. I’d seen it before. It was the look that always came after the line My mom died when I was six. That was my go-to line. That was usually followed by an apology from the listeners and then the look. Sometimes the look lingered for months, every time they saw me. It was hard to say which was worse: the look, or when the look finally went away, the memory of my story fading into the recesses of their minds. How could they forget when I couldn’t?
I hadn’t seen that look directed at me in a while. Most people just knew. We lived in the same house and went to the same schools pretty much my whole life.
I opened my mouth to avoid the question when “My mom’s like me. She doesn’t know a thing about fashion” came out. My face flushed hot and I stepped outside without turning back. Did I really just pretend my mom was alive? Not only that, I gave her my fashion sense. I knew that wasn’t even true. I’d seen enough pictures of her to know she always looked gorgeous. The picture my mind always went to was my mom in a long yellow sundress, standing on the beach looking out at the waves.
But I didn’t know much outside of pictures. I used to ask my dad questions about her, but as I got older I noticed the sad looks that accompanied the answers and stopped asking. I stopped asking long before I could start asking questions that really mattered. I wondered if I’d ever get the motivation or courage to start asking again.
Chapter 7
It was the first night in a long time that I woke up with a start. My hands shook, and I clenched them into fists, then crossed my arms over my chest to try and stop the quivering there as well.
The nightmare always began the same, my mother tucking me into bed, kissing my forehead, and saying good-bye. Rain pounded the window as if trying to make her stay, my heart seeming to keep up with the rapid pattering. After that it was a variation. Sometimes it was a car accident, her car sliding off the side of a road and down an embankment. That nightmare made sense because it was what had actually happened. As such, it was the one I had the most often.
But sometimes there were different versions altogether: hands made of rain ripping my mother from where she stood in my bedroom doorway, instantly liquefying her; a strong wind tearing the roof off our house and sucking her into the night. Tonight she had stood in front of our house, in white pajamas, and the rain itself had sliced bloody cuts down her body until she collapsed to the wet grass, her white nightdress now red, her limp hand filling my view as I stared at its lifelessness.
My new job had deprived me of my late afternoon run, leaving my body less exhausted than normal. I’d have to figure out a new running schedule for Tuesdays and Thursdays. My dad didn’t like me to run alone at night, and it wasn’t often I could talk one of my brothers into going with me.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering what my brain would do to me if I fell back asleep. Late the next morning, we were supposed to play a game of basketball on the elementary school’s outdoor blacktop. I wished it were morning already.
My clock read three a.m., and my now frayed nerves weren’t letting me go to sleep. I rolled out of bed and walked downstairs. First I paced the kitchen, then I went outside. Before I discovered the amazing effects of running four years earlier, I spent a lot of hours in the stillness of my backyard.
I walked the cement around the pool, staring down at the dark water as I did.
A set of headlights swept across the blackness as Mr. Lewis’s truck pulled up next door. I was surprised at how late he was getting home. Lights went on upstairs a few minutes later, and that’s when the yelling started.
I backed up to get a better view of the upstairs. A few more lights flipped on, and then the back door slammed shut. Peering through the cracks of the fence that separated our houses, I saw Braden emerge wearing a pair of boxers and a hastily thrown-on T-shirt, all twisted at the bottom.
“Psst,” I called through the fence. “Braden.”
He looked around and then straight at the fence, not able to see me, but obviously knowing it was someone in the general vicinity.
“Gage?” he asked.
“No, it’s Charlie. What’s going on?”
He walked closer. “Where are you?”
