Goodbye, spring break; hello, Hellmouth.
No estate sales. No vintage showcases. And the worst part? No FIDM college tour. I’m missing out because of Dad. Because of Bigmouth’s. Because of bowling. There will be other tours, other chances to explore my future in fashion design, but spring break is turning into a serious bust. And it hasn’t even started yet.
The city, with its dour skies and chilly air, beckons me from outside the tinted glass doors. Every April is the same; I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore. Spring is disappointing, the fog soupy and the sky weeping well into June. This is my city, and I thrive in it. The hipsters. The hippies. Our not-so-golden bridge. San Francisco may house eight hundred thousand people, but it’s mine.
I haul the trash bag onto my lap and unearth the vintage James Galanos I scored at my last estate sale. Break might be beyond saving, but at least I have my music and my endless sewing projects. There’s something soothing and methodical about mending ruined clothes. The Galanos dress’s hem is ragged, so I pull out my travel sewing kit to mend whatever disaster befell the once-glorious yellow silk creation.
Carefully angling the needle along the original seam, I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth in concentration. My time with a needle and thread began in middle school, when I worked on costumes for the theater department. I’m no talented thespian, but once I taught myself how to sew, I became an asset behind the scenes. Over the past few years, I’ve become addicted to renovating old clothing, mining gold from estate sales and reinventing them.
My mother also had an affinity for vintage, but I prefer to avoid the psychological implications of our overlapping interests.
Something heavy slams onto the countertop and my hand slips, the needle piercing my forefinger. Blood wells. I pop my finger in my mouth and glance at the cardboard box of food—our weekly delivery. But when I peer around the box, whatever semblance of a smile I might’ve had slips away.
Beckett Porter stares at me expectantly from the opposite side of the register behind a curtain of soft brown curls.
I blink once, twice, three times. How much blood did I lose from that needle prick? I must’ve passed out because there’s no way this is reality. A hallucination is more likely, because Beckett hasn’t stepped foot in Bigmouth’s since sophomore year.
When I make no move to acknowledge him, he mimes headphone removal, eyebrows raised in expectation. And that’s all it takes for my surprise to morph into annoyance. More than anything, I want to return to my dress as if I never laid eyes on him. But Dad expects a certain level of professionalism at work.
“Beckett.” I say his name lightly, but those two syllables are laced with distaste. “I’d say I’m happy to see you, but we both know that’d be a lie.”
“Always a pleasure, Chuck.” He points to the Schulman’s Delivery logo on his polo’s breast pocket. “Schulman’s put me on your route.” Since I’ve lost the ability to read him, I can’t tell what he’s thinking right now. Or what he’s doing here.
Until this very moment, there was only one place I had to avoid Beckett Porter. With a school as large as Castelli High, it was no problem. But Bigmouth’s? What am I supposed to do? Duck and cover beneath the counter whenever he has a delivery?
Schulman’s has delivered Bigmouth’s food supplies since before I was born, and I had no idea he worked for them. How—and why—he finagled his way into this situation is beyond me. We’re not friends anymore. We don’t talk. And we certainly aren’t going to interact on a weekly basis when he drops off deliveries.
Beckett taps the cardboard box with a pen. “So, yeah, I have a delivery. Can you sign?”
“Nope.” Only Dad can sign off. I’ve been forbidden from signing off on any deliveries after being held responsible for a missing shipment years ago. My free hand is full of sunshine-colored gossamer, and I flick my fingers toward the office.
Beckett sighs and his cinnamony coffee breath hits me in the face. “Mind walking me back? I don’t want to get lost.”
Lost? Yeah right.
I roll my eyes so hard my ocular muscles cramp. In another life, he used to spend as much time here as I did. What is this? A weird attempt at inconveniencing me? I round the register and snatch the signature clipboard from him.
He trails behind me as I stroll across Bigmouth’s lobby. Our feet smack on the red-and-white checkered flooring, and the air is heavy with Febreze and stale fried food. We pass framed photos of my grandpa on opening day in the seventies, stills from tournaments and parties: days when, you know, bowling was a sport.
Beckett smacks his gum between his teeth. “Excited for spring break?”
I glance sideways at him. What’s up with the small talk? “No. Working.”
Roughly a hundred things bother me about Beckett Porter, but one of my top annoyances is how he’s never, ever upset or disgruntled. Once, I liked this about him. He was mellow and easygoing. The direct opposite of my reactive personality. You could force the guy to greet the Queen of England in the nude, and he’d grin the entire time.
Mental face-palm. Do not think of Beckett Porter naked. Because unfortunately, while Beckett’s a pain in my ass, he’s a mildly attractive pain in my ass. Except I’m not attracted to him. I’ve forced myself to become immune to Beckett Dylan Porter. But the heat in my cheeks begs to differ.
Beckett wears a delivery uniform—short-sleeved collared shirt, faded jeans, loafers—and his tawny-brown curls hit his narrow shoulders. I hate to admit it, even in my head, but since he grew his curls out, he has ridiculously nice hair. My hair isn’t that nice, and I maintain it. He probably rolls out of bed looking like that.
When he’s not watching, I discreetly flare my nostrils, sniffing for a familiar drugstore brand. Something to prove Beckett doesn’t come by luscious curls naturally. Nothing. A year ago, he never used conditioner, and it’s unlikely things have changed. I doubt he knows what conditioner is, let alone applies weekly keratin masks.
I rap my knuckles against the door with the metal nameplate marked OFFICE and lean my hip against the wall.
Beckett clicks and unclicks the pen over and over. “What were you working on back there?”
I look him in his steel-gray eyes and lift an eyebrow.
“Just trying to be polite.” He sighs audibly and shoves the pen into his pocket. Huh. Maybe he’s not so unflappable after all.
“Well, knock it off.” I push open the office door, but Dad’s nowhere to be seen. The accounting books are splayed across the desk. “He’s probably out back.”
When Dad meets with Art Jesset, Bigmouth’s landlord, it’s usually in his office. But judging from Dad’s twitching hands, he was dying for a cigarette. I ease the hallway’s emergency exit open and stick my head into the alleyway alongside Bigmouth’s. Whatever sunlight we had this afternoon is gone. The fog this city is so famous for hangs heavy in the air. If you watch closely, it moves across the pavement, disembodied and a little ghostly.
“There he—” I stop. Dad’s talking to a slender guy with smooth blond hair. Jesset. From their gestures and spiking voices, I can tell the conversation is heated. I rock onto my heels. Do I interrupt? Walk away? Eavesdrop?
Beckett pauses behind me, the heat of his body narrowing the half foot of space between us. He drops his voice to a whisper. “Are we spying on your dad?”