“Believe it or not, he doesn’t just have a clue. He has an entire Pinterest board.”
“Whoa. Does he have good taste?”
She slides her tablet between us, taps in her security code, and brings up the Pinterest app. She types his name, and his home decor board materializes.
I scroll through it, surprised. “Is he really going to put a swing over his swimming pool?”
“His daughter would like him to.”
“What’s his budget?”
“He can afford to put a swing over the pool, and he can afford me.” Mom runs her index finger against a taupe velvet that matches the color of her skinny jeans. Like Mona, Mom has great taste in fashion.
As she tips her wineglass to her mouth, I almost tell her about the contest, but chicken out. Instead, I remind her of my phone’s dire state.
“I thought…” She leans back in her chair and shoots me the strangest look. “Didn’t you just get a new phone?”
“It wasn’t that new.”
She frowns. “It’s still in the box.”
“What box?”
“Over there.” She points to the white marble console table by our front door that looks like a roll of toilet paper flew off the holder and unspooled—but prettier. On top of it lies a small box.
I stride over to the table and pick up the box. “Where did you get this?”
“It was in our mailbox.”
Ten’s face pops into my mind. Did he get me a new phone?
“Next time, please warn me before making such a big purchase, okay?” she says.
“I didn’t buy it.”
“Then where did it come from?”
“I, uh, have no clue.” I pause. “Actually, maybe I do.”
Her eyebrows almost converge on her forehead. “Okay…”
“I should go set it up.” I head up the stairs and into my bedroom to get out of Mom’s line of sight while I check the accuracy of my hunch. I dig the phone out of the box, plug my chip inside it, then power it on. After I finish setting it up, I stroke the pristine screen that feels like velvet under my thumb.
ME: Did you get me a phone?
A couple of seconds later, a message pops up: Who’s this?
ME: Angie.
BEAST: I owed you one, didn’t I?
ME: You owed me a new screen. Not a new phone!!
BEAST: Costs the same.
ME: No it doesn’t.
Pulse drumming, I text: I can’t accept it.
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. But then the word Beast flashes on my screen. I bite my lip. Texting him is one thing, but talking to him … that’s something else. I suck in some courage and answer.
“Did you take it out of the box?” he asks.
Shoot. I hadn’t thought about that.
“I’ll pay you back, then, but it’s going to take me a couple of months to get you the whole amount. My allowance—”
“Angie, keep the phone. And keep your money.”
“But—”
“Look, someone gave it to me, but I already had one. I didn’t need it. You did.”
I bite my lower lip. “I don’t like owing people.”
“Consider it a thank-you gift for not pressing charges.”
“Charges! I would never.” I fold my legs underneath me and sink onto my comforter. “Maybe your little sister wants a new phone.”
“My little sister’s phone is brand-new.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek so hard I almost draw blood. “Well, thanks.” I hesitate to hang up, but decide to be courteous. After all, he gave me a brand-new phone. And my mom’s working for his dad. “Where did you live before here?”
A pause. Then: “New York.”
“You liked it there?”
“I did. Better than here.”
“Why?”
“Because New York isn’t obsessed with country music.”
Why am I talking with him again? Right. The phone …
I think of Rae, of her telling me that she tried to talk Ten into hanging out with her over the weekend, but he acted about as excited as her grandma during Sunday Mass, and she’s always dozing off.
“Do you have a girlfriend back in New York?” I blurt out, then wince.
“No.” After a beat, he asks, “What’s with the cross-examination?”
“I’m just trying to figure you out … You’re not exactly forthcoming. But then you patch up my knees and give me a phone, so”—I drum my fingers against the wrinkled white duvet cover—“so I assume you’re not completely insensitive.” I look at Mona’s poster, which hangs next to my full-length mirror. “Mom took me to New York when I was little. It was very … overwhelming. And loud. I was completely terrified of getting hit by a cab.”
“Did you?”
“Nope.” I smile. “I’ve only gotten hit once, and that was in my home state, by an SUV.”
I hear the sound of springs. I wonder if he’s lying on his bed. I wonder what his room looks like. Is it a disaster zone, or has Mom finished decorating it?
“What does your father do?” he asks.
What made him think of my father?
I tuck my hair behind my ears, but my willful strands rush straight back around my jaw. “He was the lead guitarist of the Derelicts.”
“Was?”
“Passed away when I was three. Car crash.”
“Shit,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” I’m about to ask if he’s heard of the Derelicts when I remember he hates music. “What about your mom? What does she do?”
“My mother’s dead, too.”
I gasp softly. “Oh. I’m sorry, Ten.”
“It’s fine. She died a long time ago. Heart cancer.”
“Heart cancer?”
“Did I say cancer? I meant heart attack. She had a bad heart.”
I’m a little stumped at how detached he sounds about her death, but then assume he wasn’t very close to her. Unless aloofness is his way of coping with loss. “So it’s just you, your dad, and your little sister?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is your sister?”
“Twelve.” A breath whooshes through the phone. “You ask a lot of questions, Angie.”
My spine jams up tight. “I was just trying to be friendly.”
“Is that the only reason you’re interested in my home life?”
I bristle, because I wasn’t the only one asking questions. “You think I’m trying to suck up to you because your dad’s an entertainment lawyer? Get over yourself.”
Instead of acting mature, I hang up, feeling a strong urge to toss the phone he gave me at the wall.
So much for trying to be courteous.
9
Defrosting More than Freezers
I spend all of Saturday attempting to come up with lyrics.
I thought it would be easy matching words to my melody, but it’s not. I toss my notebook aside and listen to my Discover Weekly selection from Spotify for inspiration. When that doesn’t help, I put on running shoes and sprint out the front door. I don’t run far or long, just far and long enough to get rid of my writer’s block.