Darling Rose Gold(4)

“Not a great time,” I mumbled.

He opened his eyes and cocked his head. “What’d you say?”

“I said it’s not a great time.” I held my breath.

He waved me off. “I didn’t even suggest a time. Are you busy forever?”

I was never busy, but that wasn’t the right answer. I cracked my knuckles and tried to swallow. My throat was dry.

Brandon raised his eyebrows. “Are you gonna make me beg?”

I imagined spending the next forty-eight hours reliving every word of this conversation. I just had to get out before I screwed up. I tucked a strand of hair—short and stringy—behind my ear. “I’m sorry,” I said to his T-shirt.

Brandon took a step back from the counter. His cheeks turned pink. I watched his smile morph into a sneer. I must have said the wrong thing. I flinched, waiting.

“Are you busy pretending to need a wheelchair?”

My mouth fell open. My hand covered it.

“And you think you can hide those teeth? They’re fucking disgusting. You’re fucking disgusting,” Brandon hissed.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“I only asked you out because my friend dared me,” he said. On cue, an overjoyed boy popped out from behind register two. Tears began to well in my eyes.

“Like you could reject me?” Brandon scoffed, and strolled off with his plastic Gadget World bag. His friend high-fived him. The first fat tear escaped and rolled down my cheek.

As soon as they left, I speed-walked away from my register, ignoring Arnie’s stare. I thought about Maleficent and Jafar and Cruella de Vil and Scar and Captain Hook: the bad guys always lost in the end.

The break room was empty. I closed the door and locked it.

I hadn’t sobbed that hard since I’d heard my mother’s verdict two months ago.



* * *



? ? ?

After work I carefully drove Mom’s beat-up van nine miles to my apartment. I’d gotten my driver’s license two months ago with the help of Mom’s former best friend, Mary Stone, who had signed me up for a driver-education course, then taken me to the DMV for my written exam and behind-the-wheel test. The DMV clerk said I was the first person to get a perfect score that month. Sometimes I got in the van and drove in circles around the block, just because I could.

I parked outside my apartment complex. Once I got the cashier job at Gadget World, Mrs. Stone had also helped me search for cheap rentals in Deadwick. Sheridan Apartments was a run-down four-story building—Mrs. Stone said it had been built when she was a kid. Sometimes I had little mouse visitors, but rent was less than four hundred dollars a month. Mrs. Stone said this was a good starter home for me. I wasn’t sure what I was starting.

I locked the car doors and headed toward the building. My phone vibrated in my pocket as I walked up the concrete path. I made sure to think of Brandon while I stepped on every crack.

    Phil: Chat tonight?

Me: Yes please, rough day

Phil: What happened?



Inside, I kicked off my boots and headed straight for the bathroom scale. Since moving out of Mom’s house nine months ago, I’d gained thirty pounds. Recently my weight had plateaued. I looked down. Still one hundred and two.

I avoided the mirror as I left the room. I didn’t have the energy to go through the whole routine. (Step one: check whether the whitening strips were working. I rated every tooth on a scale of one to ten, then recorded each tooth’s score in a small notebook so I could track improvements. Step two: use a cloth measuring tape to check how much my hair had grown. I’d tried fish oil pills, biotin, and vitamins, but nothing worked; my hair still wouldn’t grow any faster. Step three: scan myself from head to toe, body part by body part, and catalogue the things I didn’t like. I kept a running inventory in my head so I knew what needed to be worked on.) I tried not to do the routine more than once a day and avoided it altogether on bad days like this one. I turned off the bathroom light. I was hungry.

In the kitchen, I threw a frozen Tex-Mex mac-and-cheese dinner in the microwave and leaned against the counter. I read the meal description on the box and wondered what “chorizo sausage” tasted like. Since moving into my own place, I had mostly lived off of cereal and frozen dinners. I’d been trying to teach myself how to cook, but I kept getting the timing wrong—burning vegetables or undercooking rice. I missed having someone around to prepare my meals, even when they were PediaSure. Sometimes I lit little votive candles to make dinnertime fancy like Mom used to do.

The microwave beeped, and I took out the mac and cheese. Still standing at the counter, I ripped the plastic wrap off the macaroni and dropped the pasta gently into my mouth, pressing the cool tines of the fork against my tongue. Curly noodles coated with Pepper Jack cheese slid smoothly down my throat, confident of their one-way travel. Bread crumbs crunched between my molars. Then the spice hit me—chorizo had a kick to it! My eyes watered. Goose bumps popped up on my arms. I would never tire of all these new flavors.

I opened the fridge and pulled out a Lunchables meal and a gallon of chocolate milk. I thought about chugging from the carton, until I pictured her lava stare. I poured the milk into a glass instead.

    Me: Some high school kid came into the store and acted like an a-hole