The door is never locked, because who would want to steal this monstrosity? And how far would they get, anyway? It’s not exactly like it blends in with all the other cars. I pull the door open and climb up. I may not be particularly cool, but even I’m aware of how horrible this van is. I duck low behind the wheel and drive.
At the grocery store I load up my cart with the makings for my mom’s infamous chicken-and-rice casserole (the only ingredient we actually have at home is the rice). As each item goes into the cart, I subtotal the bill in my head. It’s easy for me, and oddly fun. Charlotte sometimes calls me Casio because she says I’m a human calculator. I pick up two gallons of milk (one of which will no doubt end up splattered across our table), bananas, Rice Krispies, Huggies and anything else I think we might be running low on. As I said, shopping with four three-year-olds would be appropriate torture for terrorists, so I’m trying to postpone my mom’s pain a little longer.
I add the 5.6 percent sales tax in my head and smile in the checkout line when my half-full cart of groceries comes to $104.23: exactly what I figured. I use the $50 my mom gave me and dip into my tutoring money to cover the rest. That money usually goes straight into my college savings account, but occasionally I use it to help out my parents. I’ll conveniently lose the receipts, put the groceries away before my parents get home and let them somehow believe we are living within our budget. Frankly, the money is probably better spent on bananas and milk than my impossible college dreams.
I load the groceries into the back of the Loser Cruiser, wedging the bags under the last row of seats.
“Can I take your cart, miss?”
“Oh, sure, thanks.” I remove the last bag and push the cart toward the guy who has offered. I look up to smile my thanks at him and find myself face-to-face with Mr. Eyelashes himself.
His gray eyes focus on me, there’s a slow-motion blink of the never-ending lashes and then recognition registers.
“Hey.” His reaction is friendly. Not necessarily enthusiastic, but at least he acknowledges that he knows me. He remembers my face. That’s something, right? Is it sad that I think that’s something?
“Hey,” I say, with an identical level of enthusiasm — no more, no less. This is how teenagers work, I’ve learned. Only give back what you’re given.
I assess my situation: in my church clothes, unloading diapers and applesauce into a bright blue van with a Bible quote on the side. Yep. If only I had a big box of tampons still in the cart. And maybe a mammoth zit right on my chin. Now that would be awesome.
Zenn doesn’t notice the van. Or at least he doesn’t comment, because how could he not notice? He takes my cart, and I note that he is wearing a bright orange safety vest over his green army jacket, which makes us slightly more even on the embarrassment scale. The vest doesn’t erase the memory of the fractal I got from his jacket, though. Just seeing the sleeves poking out reminds me of the heaviness, the darkness.
“You work here?” The most obvious question of all time.
He nods and adds my cart to the train he already has. “Unfortunately, it looks that way.”
“That’s cool.”
He glances down at his orange vest and gives me that little smirk. He doesn’t beam, doesn’t often full-out smile. Just quirks his mouth a little on one side in a sarcastic compromise. “Yeah.”
“Hello? Have you seen what I’m driving?”
Now he does smile with his whole mouth — both sides. I relax a bit.
“That is quite a ride. What are those?” He squints. “Sheep?”
“Clouds. I think. Very poorly drawn clouds.” I study the side of the van. “Or maybe they are sheep. I really have no idea.”
I turn back to him, but he is still studying the van. Light weekend stubble covers his jaw. His insane eyelashes blink once, twice. “I think your church should get a refund for that paint job.”
“I know, right? It’s ugly as sin, ironically.”
He nods and gives me a sideways smile. “It’s pretty baaaaad.”
Oh, my God. Did he just make a sheep joke? I laugh, trying not to be too obvious about how much I love that. We stand for a moment in post-awkward-joke silence, glancing alternately at our feet and the hideous van. I’m just grateful that he doesn’t ask why I’m driving a church van in the first place.
“Well,” I say, slamming the door shut. “I should let ewe get back to work.”
Zenn looks at me, a sparkle in his eye telling me he’s quick enough to get my joke, and goofy enough to appreciate it. “Right.”
“I’ll see you … when are we meeting again?” I know perfectly well we are meeting on Tuesday afternoon. I think his eyelashes have made me turn fake dumb.
“Tuesday?”
He remembered! My face and our meeting time!
“Right! Tuesday. I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll try not to be late this time.” He gives me one last half smile before pushing the line of carts toward the store.
“And remember your calculator!” I call after him. I secretly hope he will forget it again. Any excuse to spend more time with him.
He calls back, “I will,” but it sounds suspiciously like “I wool.” Which makes me think I might consider bearing his children immediately.
I climb back into the van and take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Calm down, Eva. Just calm. The hell. Down.
Chapter 7
Classes start late on Monday morning, so Charlotte and I meet at Java Dock before school. There is a Starbucks by the highway, but Java Dock is downtown by the water and the owners make their own muffins that are as big as your head. I always vote for Java Dock.
We split a Granny Smith muffin with streusel topping — Charlotte is a sucker for streusel — and sit on one of the sagging sofas with Charlotte’s cello case taking up the spot next to her. Sometimes she does this to keep older men from hitting on her. She may not attract the attention of high-school boys, but middle-aged men love Charlotte.
It’s kind of gross.
“Hey, new earrings?” I ask.
She touches them briefly. “Oh! Yeah. I got them at the farmers’ market. They’re made from sea glass they find on the beach.”
“Our beach?” The glass is a pale, translucent blue that matches Charlotte’s eyes. I reach out to touch them and then think better of it. Even the most beautiful things can hide secrets.
She nods.
“They’re pretty,” I tell her. Most girls in our school would not be caught dead wearing earrings bought at a farmers’ market made out of recycled garbage. This is why I love Charlotte: she is not most girls.