The Distance Between US by Lindsey Osorio (read an ebook week TXT) 📕

really knew him at all. She could rarely answer any of my questions so I stopped asking. But every once in a while she says things in passing that I want to remember. Things that might help me discover . . . him? Me?

Even thinking that makes me angry. As if I need him to be a whole person. He left my mother to fend for herself. How could I want to be anything like him? But I’m practical, rational, and if I need to find him one day, I want to know as much as possible. I close the book and underline the title again. You never know when you might need a kidney or something one day. That is why I keep this notebook. It’s the only reason.

Chapter 12

 

The next morning my attitude hasn’t improved much. Thinking about my dad always puts me in a bad mood. And the discovery of the empty doll casket in back made me realize the store is in even more trouble than I thought. I had been hoping that we always ran in the red; now I know we don’t. But the fact that my mom ordered that lady her doll AT COST makes me realize something else: my mom might not have enough business sense to get us out of our financial trouble. Are we months away from homelessness? I sense the burden falling on my shoulders and I don’t know what to do with the extra load.

I grab my backpack and walk out of the store. The air is cold today and bites my cheeks as I step outside. Halfway down the block Xander appears at my side and hands me my already-been-sipped-once drink. I savor the heat as it coats my mouth and throat. I can’t believe we’ve been walking together all week. I hide my grin as I take another long sip.

“You okay?”

I look over at him and he’s staring at me with a critical eye. “What? Yeah, of course.”

“You just usually have something sarcastic to say right out of the gate.”

Does he know me that well already? “Am I your required dose of daily abuse?”

“That works.” He coughs a little. “Okay, new game. A challenge if you will.”

“Listening.”

“You don’t know what you want to do with your life. I don’t know what I want to do with mine. But we both know that we don’t want to do dolls or hotels.”

“That sounded bad, but I’m following.”

“So I’m going to discover your destiny and you can discover mine.”

“Uh, what?”

“I’m going to try to figure out what you like to do.”

“How?”

“By trying different things, of course. Career days, if you will. I’ll set up the first one. Tomorrow, one o’clock. Be ready.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday. Don’t you have a tennis match to watch or something?”

“What? No. I hate tennis.”

I look around. “You might want to keep your voice down when you say stuff like that. You wouldn’t want to be kicked out of the club.”

“Are you trying to get out of the first career day?”

“I work Saturdays.”

“Time to start sending different signals.”

I picture our monthly calendar on the back counter. Remember filling it in with my mom at the beginning of the month like we always do. “We have a party booked. There’s no way I can leave her alone.” But maybe after the party . . .

He doesn’t say a word, just gives me a raised eyebrow look. The pressure from the burden resting on my shoulders intensifies and anger surges through me. Why am I in charge of my mom’s store? Why don’t I have any choices about my future?

“Okay, one o’clock.”

Saturday comes and I still haven’t mentioned the outing to my mom. My short burst of anger had melted into guilt. My mom is stressed and the store is broke. This isn’t the right time to rebel. Would there ever be a right time, though? One afternoon isn’t going to equal the ruin of the store . . . at least I hope it won’t.

The schedule confirms one birthday party from ten to noon. That should be perfect to help and then be done just in time to go with Xander. To go with Xander. On a date. Is that what this is? I try not to smile but my face seems to want to at this thought. I remind my face that Xander called it a career day and that seems to help.

My mom is in the back setting up the party while I’m watching the store. I know I need to talk to her, but I’m stalling. That guilt thing is gnawing at my gut. Nobody is in the store so I meander down the short hall and watch my mom set out little doll clothes on the table.

She turns to grab another stack and sees me. “Hey.” She glances over my shoulder. “Did you need me?”

“No. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need my help.” You are a huge wimp, Caymen.

“I’m good. Do you have all the paints ready out front for the eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I think we’re set.”

“Okay.” I walk toward the front but force myself to go back. She’s at her task again. I find it so much easier to talk to the back of her head. “Um . . . at one o’clock I’m going out with a friend if that’s okay.”

She straightens up and turns to face me, brushing off her hands. For seventeen years I’ve always waited until after the store closed to do anything. I’ve scheduled my life around store hours. All to avoid what I thought would be a look of disappointment if I asked. What I see makes me feel even guiltier: exhaustion. It’s set in the crease between her eyes, the downward tilt of her chin. But not in her voice when she says, “Of course, Caymen. Have fun. What are you and Skye doing?”

“No, it’s not Skye. It’s . . . just a friend from school.” I’m not quite ready to explain to my mom why I’ve decided to go against everything she stands for and everything I’ve always agreed with to hang out with King Rich himself. She doesn’t need the added stress in her life right now. What’s the point anyway when in a few weeks Xander will be done seeing how the other half lives? He’ll get bored with me and move on, looking for his next taste of excitement.

She goes back to her task. “One o’clock.”

Chapter 13

 

When the ten little girls come into the store, I direct them to the back and don’t see my mom again until she starts bringing the dolls out and telling me the eye color attached to them. I focus all my energy on staying in the pre-etched lines of the dolls’ eyes, adding green and black. Someone has asked for brown eyes so I apply a dark coat of brown. Then I squeeze a little gold onto the plastic tray and pick up the smallest paintbrush. Concentrating hard, I add little specks of gold on the brown.

The bell on the front door rings and I jump, sending a gold streak across the black pupil. “Crap,” I breathe out.

“I’m a little early,” Xander says when I look up, surprised.

The clock on the register says twelve thirty. The party was supposed to be done a half hour ago. I hadn’t realized it was so late. Had I noticed I would’ve gone to the back and hurried them along, like I have to do a lot.

He walks closer and rubs a finger across his cheek. “You have something on your face. Paint maybe?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I wipe at my cheek.

“It’s still there.”

He’s walking closer, and I realize I’m still holding the paintbrush with the gold paint and the doll with the gold-flecked eyes sits on the counter in front of me. “Will you watch the store for a minute?” I blurt out, jumping off the stool, grabbing the doll, and heading for the back without waiting for his answer.

“Mom, you’ve gone over.”

“What? I have?” She claps her hands together. “Time to finish up, girls.” She throws me a look over her shoulder—a combination of “I’m sorry” and “you know me.” I do know her and that look makes me laugh.

“Are you done with that doll?” She picks up the electric heater off the counter to dry the eyes.

I look down at the doll in my hands. “Yes. Oh, wait. No. I messed up on it.”

She studies the doll’s eyes. “That’s kind of pretty,” she says. The gold streak across its pupil looks purposeful, like a shimmer. “I think you should leave it.”

“Okay.” I hand her the doll. “My friend is here.” Her eyes fly around the room with the announcement. “I won’t leave until the girls are gone, but just leave the mess for when I get back. I’ll help you.”

“Sounds good.”

I head back out front. Behind me my mom says, “Okay, let’s get this dolly’s clothes on.”

Xander is staring at a business card again when I come back out.

“There’s no hidden message there,” I say.

He puts the card back down. “You don’t have a cell phone.”

“Did the card tell you that?” I clean up the paints, closing their lids, and then wrap the paintbrushes in a paper towel to rinse off in the back. I glance over my shoulder, hoping my mom doesn’t come out right now. I’m trying to figure out how to ask Xander to leave the store without making the reason obvious.

“You’re never holding one, you don’t have a square lump in the pocket of your jeans, and you haven’t given me the number.”

“Your observation skills are getting better. Although I don’t think the last factor proves your theory.” I put the paints in a plastic bin. “I’ll be right back again. Why don’t you wait for me in the car, okay?”

He doesn’t move.

“I shouldn’t be long. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay.”

I wait for him to walk toward the door then take the paintbrushes to the sink in the party room, rinse them with soap and water, then put them in a jar to dry. The girls are gathering up their things and comparing dolls. I hurry ahead of the group and when I round the corner see Xander still standing there. I stop in my tracks and the kids push around me. He smiles as the girls sweep by his legs. I whirl back around and maneuver through a few girls, blocking my mom’s view.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I think one of the kids