“Moving a little fast, aren’t we?” he asks with a grin.
She yanks her hand away from his. “Ugh. Give it.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll consider not breaking your hand off and using your own middle finger to flip you the bird.”
A smirk from Cal as he hands her the notebook. “You’re coming around to me.”
“Not even a little,” Amelia says, walking back to our table. Cal watches her go.
She plops the notebook down in front of me. “Thanks,” I say, a little more curtly than I intend. I try to push my irrational jealousy aside and focus on ripping my homework out. Amelia holds out a hand, a silent offer to return the rest of the notes to Cal.
I sniff. “I can do it.” She shrugs, so I turn and walk over to him and smile. “Hey, Cal. Sorry about that,” I say, making my voice soft. “Here you go.”
“Finally. Someone who treats me right,” Cal says flirtatiously.
It makes me feel good, until I notice that he’s not actually looking at me; he’s still looking over at Amelia. I sigh, walk back to my seat, and wish I were her.
Chapter Three
Sometimes being at work is a nice retreat from my life.
I don’t do anything particularly exciting—mostly filing, sorting mail, scheduling meetings, that kind of thing—but I actually find the work oddly soothing. There’s something rewarding about organizing, about anticipating others’ needs. The group of people I work with are great, too. It’s mostly women—even the big boss, Nancy—although many of the higher positions belong to men (of course).
Even though sixteen-year-old-me is the baby by a lot, almost everyone treats me with respect and appreciates what I do. It’s nice. Here, I can just be good at my job, and not worry so much about whether I’m cute or pretty or thin or popular or any of those things I wish I didn’t worry about but do.
Nancy—who launched this company on her own and made it a success—has even told me she sees potential in me, so she’s always trying to give me jobs with more responsibility. Whenever Sheryl is out, Nancy asks me to sit at her desk and answer phones. Nancy also knows I like to write, so sometimes she tasks me with writing projects, too. I can’t help but like her.
I don’t like Sheryl, who’s always really snotty and makes passive-aggressive comments about me sitting at her desk when she’s not in, but it’s like, if you weren’t out so much, I wouldn’t be in your space.
Then there’s Tish and Dora and Tammy, and they’re really, really sweet. They ask me about school and my home life and they think I’m cool even though I’m absolutely not. That’s nice, too.
“Any big plans for the weekend?” Dora asks as I’m doing some filing. She asks me this every week. And every week, I make something up so that I sound more interesting than I am. I feel a little bad about it, but less bad than I’d feel admitting I mostly do nothing with no one.
“Probably going to the movies with my friends,” I say.
“Will that boy you like be there?” Dora thinks things with Cal have progressed into us hanging out. I may have implied that once, and now there’s no going back.
“Yes! He’ll probably be there. It should be fun,” I lie. “What about you?”
“I’m taking the boys go-kart racing.” Dora has seven-year-old twins who she says keep her on her toes.
“You’re going go-kart racing?!”
Dora laughs. “No, no. Not me. I’ll be watching from the sidelines. Just the boys. And my husband, of course. He’ll be riding.”
For some reason, the idea of her husband go-karting with the kids while Dora watches from the sidelines makes me sad. She’s fat like me, and I can’t help but think that’s what makes her unwilling to ride. It sounds like something I’d do, hanging back because I’m too scared that the seat belt won’t buckle or something.
“You should do it with them,” I say. “I think the boys would like that.”
“Oh, no.” Dora laughs again. “I’m too old for that.” But she’s conveniently ignoring the fact that her husband is even older.
“Charlie?” Nancy calls from her office.
I hurry over. “Hi, Nance. What can I help you with?”
“Dave needs some help preparing packages for a big shipment to St. Francis. Think you’re up for it?” she asks, with a look in her eye that shows she already knows I’ll say yes. Nancy, all of five feet tall, with piercing brown eyes and cinnamon-colored hair that’s been cut into a blunt bob, is as commanding and assured as she is kind and soft-spoken—a pretty badass combination, if you ask me.
I smile at her. “Yeah, I think I could do that.” I’ve been asked to do this kind of thing before, so I walk back to the warehouse, where Dave is already waiting. Dave is nice, but sometimes he thinks he’s more important than he is. He’s Nancy’s son, so he kind of feels like he’s the boss of everyone, despite Nancy making it very clear that he’s not.
“Hey, little lady,” Dave says.
Oh, yeah. And he calls me little lady.
“Hey, Dave. Your mom said you need help out here?” I like to remind him that we all know he’s related to Nancy.
“Yes. Over there. I need you to help Brian pack and organize a few shipments,” Dave says, pointing at a young guy—who, apparently, I’m supposed to know is Brian—before disappearing into his office.
As I get closer to Brian, I realize I do actually know him.
He’s in my art class. He’s one of those people I’ve gone to school with for a while and know of but don’t really know. I had no idea he even worked here.
But when you go to the same school in the same town with the same people in the same corner of Connecticut for your whole life, you tend to have at least some opinion about everybody. So if you asked me about Brian, I would probably say he’s quiet, nice, a little nerdy, and pretty cute (because hello, I’m not blind). He’s stocky, with a bit of a belly, and tall—like, maybe even a good six inches taller than me—which is never a bad thing.
“Hi,” I say, adjusting my glasses. Being around boys tends to make me nervous, especially if they’re good-looking.
Brian looks up from the paperwork he’s reading and smiles, and suddenly he’s even cuter. He’s got high cheekbones, his grin is a little crooked, and his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. My stomach does a little whirly-loop because I’m a hormonal teenager and this guy is looking right at me as if he’s known me forever and already thinks I’m great.
“Hey,” he says, holding out a hand. “Charlie, right?”
We shake hands. He has a nice handshake—firm, but he’s not squeezing my fingers to pulp like a lot of dudes do.
“Yeah, hi. I think we both go to George Washington High,” I say, even though I know we do.
“Yes! Same art class. I’m Brian Park.”
“That’s a good name.”
He laughs at that. “Is it?”
“Yeah. Names are one of those things you have no control over, but they can change everything. Imagine being, like, Atticus Mortimer the Third? You’re rich, even if you’re not. That’s just how it is.”