Henry heads for the door. “I’m going to sing the song in our set Friday night. Come. We’re playing at Scream Shout. Ten o’clock.” Scream Shout is a dive about five blocks away where local bands play to small, mostly wasted crowds for little or no money. I tag along with Skye occasionally, but it’s not really my scene.
Xander watches him go and then turns back to me, all business. “My grandmother asked me to pick up a doll she ordered.”
“Your grandmother?” I open the book, wondering if I had missed an order.
“Katherine Dalton.”
“Mrs. Dalton is your grandma?”
“Why does that surprise you so much?”
I close my open mouth. Because Mrs. Dalton is sweet and down-to-earth and amazing. . . . You take yourself too seriously, have perfectly manicured nails, and line your clothes with money (or at least that’s the excuse I give him for such good posture). “I just had no idea.”
“So I guess she never talks about her brilliant grandson?”
“I just thought she was sending Alex in.”
“I am Alex.”
Oh. Duh. Xander. As in Alexander. “So do you go by Alex or Xander?”
He gets an arrogant smirk on his face like I had Googled him or something.
“Your credit card,” I say, reminding him he had used it last time he was in.
“Oh. Yes, I go by Xander, but my grandparents call me Alex. I’m named after my grandpa so you know how that goes.”
I have no idea how that goes. “Yeah, totally.”
“So, Susan’s daughter . . .” He leans his elbows on the counter, looks at a small wooden apple a customer gave us years ago, and starts spinning it like a top. “Do you have my doll?”
I laugh a little at how that sounds. “Yes, I do. Give me one minute.” I retrieve the box from the back room and bring it to the counter. It surprises me that my mom hasn’t opened it to inspect the doll. Sometimes they come cracked or broken, and the service we use is responsible for that. I grab a box cutter from a silver cup next to the register and cut the packing tape. “Just let me make sure she hasn’t had any limbs amputated on her journey.”
“Okay.”
I remove the doll box from the shipping box, only displacing a few packing peanuts in the process, and carefully open it.
“‘Mandy,’” he says, reading her name off the lid.
“Mandy’s in good shape. Your grandma will be happy. I guess she’s for your sister?”
“No. My cousin. Scarlett. That doll looks a lot like her. It’s a little creepy.”
“Your cousin wears lacy socks and knit dresses?”
“Well, no. But the hair . . . and my cousin definitely has that sly look in her eyes.”
“So your cousin has a black bob and is looking for trouble?”
“Exactly.”
I slide the box across the counter to him. “Tell your grandmother hi for me.”
“And she’ll know who ‘me’ is?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Everybody but me, it seems.” He takes out his phone and pushes a few buttons.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m telling my grandma you say hi.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s cheating.”
“I didn’t realize we were playing a game.” He offers me his first smile of the day, and I’m suddenly glad he keeps that thing put away. It’s more disarming than any weapon. “Hi, Grammy. I got your doll. . . . Yes, a young lady at the store helped me with it. She told me to tell you hi. . . . No, not Susan.”
I laugh out loud.
“Her daughter. Dark hair, green eyes.”
I look down, surprised he knows the color of my eyes. His are brown with gold flecks. Not that I’ve noticed.
“Sixteen . . . ish?” He widens his eyes, asking if he guessed right. I shake my head no. “Seventeen?”
And a half.
“Caymen?” He raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug my shoulders. “Well, Caymen says hi. . . . Sweet? I don’t know about sweet, but she’s something.” He’s quiet for a while. “I am being nice. You should tell her to be nice. She wouldn’t even tell me her name. . . . No, not because I’m being mean.”
I love Mrs. Dalton.
I write down in the book the date and time the special order was picked up. Then for some reason I add the “ander” on the end of the “Alex” I had written before. I close the book and put it beneath the counter. He’s still listening intently to something his grandma is saying. He meets my eyes at one point and then holds up a finger. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet and a credit card without even looking at it.
“She already paid,” I whisper.
He nods and puts it away.
His grandma says something that makes him smile. The smile. What is it about that smile anyway? Maybe it’s his perfectly straight and white teeth that make it so amazing. But it’s more than that. It’s a little crooked, one side going up more than the other. And once in a while his top teeth bite his bottom lip. It’s a very unguarded smile, unlike the rest of his appearance, which is a fortress.
“Well, hey, Grammy, I gotta go. Caymen is staring at me, probably wondering if I’m ever going to leave her store so she can get back to work.”
It’s weird to hear him say my name. It makes him seem like more than just some random customer. Almost like we know each other now.
He pockets his phone. “Caymen.”
“Xander.”
“Does this mean I won the game?”
“I didn’t realize we were playing a game.”
He picks up the doll and backs away with his lower-lip-biting smile. “I think you did.”
Chapter 5
About a year ago my mom started booking little girl birthday parties in the back room of the store. It sounded ridiculous at the time (still does), but she had a vision of ordering unfinished dolls and then having the girls come in and pick out the finishing touches—clothes, hair color, eye color—so they could go home with their own personalized doll. At first my mom let them paint on the eyes, but that turned into Creep Show 101. So now I sit at the register painting eyes while my mom stays with the party in the back and helps them pick outfits and hair. On a good day we finish with a hundred dollars in our pockets. On most Saturdays we’re lucky to break even (my mom is a sucker and lets the kids pick more than the three allotted clothing items).
Today I think we made twenty bucks, and I’m wishing beyond anything that we would stop booking Saturday parties. But it makes my mom happy—some nonsense about the laughter of little children—so I don’t complain. The girls giggle their way out of the store, clutching their newly clothed dolls and touching everything as they go. My mom will spend the next two hours cleaning up the “party room” (formerly known as the break room).
I look up when Skye walks in, Henry tagging along behind her. “We missed you last night,” she says.
I search my memory but come up empty. “What was last night?”
“My band’s show at Scream Shout,” Henry says with a “duh” in his voice.
“Oh yeah. How’d it go?”
Skye smiles. “He wrote me a song.”
Henry sets down his guitar and plops down next to it. “We thought we’d do a repeat of the night.”
“Awesome,” I say, looking over the list my mom made of the doll clothes we were running low on and checking off the ones I’d already ordered.
“She sounds like she’s not excited, but she totally is,” Skye says to Henry.
“Totally,” I assure him dryly.
He strums a few chords. “Caveman has no life,” he sings. I throw my pen at him, but then I need it back so I walk to where it landed on the floor behind him and pick it up.
Skye laughs. “She has a life, Henry. It’s just a boring one.”
“Considering I’m with you half the time, Skye, I’d watch what you say.”
“Caveman has a boring life,” he sings. “She needs some toil and strife.”
“No, I’m fine with boringness, thank you.” In fact I’ve settled into my monotonous life pretty well, only feeling the urge to rip my hair out about once a week now.
Skye straightens a doll on the shelf beside her. “But seriously, Caymen, you should’ve come last night. Why didn’t you?”
“What time did you get home?” I ask.
“I don’t know . . . two-ish.”
“And that’s why I didn’t go. I had to work this morning.”
“It’s like she’s a grown-up already,” Henry says.
Who asked you?
“Play her a song, Henry. A real one.”