She goes over to the couch. She seems uncomfortable being in here, like she’s not supposed to be because she’s the maid, or substitute maid until her mom is back.
“So tell me what it’s like here,” I say.
“What do you want to know?”
“What do people do for fun?”
“Hang out on the beach. Surf. Go hiking. Go to movies. Nothing too exciting.”
“What about people our age? I’m guessing we’re about the same age. I’m seventeen.”
“Me too.” She smiles. “Senior?”
“Yeah. Do you go to Twisted Pine?”
She bursts out laughing. “No. That school costs more than my parents make in a year. And that’s just for one semester.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s ridiculous.” She cringes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. Pretend you didn’t hear that.”
“Why? I don’t care. I don’t know how much it costs but I’m sure itisridiculous. If I had the choice, I’d take public school over private. I’m dreading having to go there.”
“It won’t be that bad. It’s a really good school academically, or so I’ve heard.”
“What else have you heard?”
She shrugs. “Not much. I don’t hang out with those people, other than when I’m working for them.”
“But you probably hear stuff when you’re working for them, right?”
“Sometimes.” She chews on her lip, then smiles. “So what’s New York like? I’ve never been there.”
That was an abrupt change of topics. Maybe she’s not allowed to talk about the people she works for. I wish she would because I really need someone to tell me the truth about this town and the people at my school. I’m sure Shayla knows things, but for some reason, she won’t tell me.
“New York is great,” I say. “Greatest city in the world.”
“You miss it?”
“You have no idea. I’ve only been here a few hours and already want to go back.”
“So what happened? Why are you here?”
I pause, because I hate saying those words. “My mom died.”
“Oh. God, I’m really sorry.”
“Happened a few weeks ago. She didn’t feel well that morning, then later, when we were making dinner, she just collapsed. The doctors said it was an aneurysm.”
I don’t know why I’m telling her this. I usually avoid telling this story, but Shayla’s one of those people who makes you want to open up.
She comes over beside me. “I’m so sorry.”
“My only options were coming here or going to foster care. I chose here.”
“What about your dad? Why can’t you live with him?”
“He’s in rehab again.”
