“It’s fine.” I shrug, and Sunday gives me a dirty look. “I like her,” I admit, unable to defend myself from the glare. “A lot.”
“It’s in two weeks, on the thirteenth,” Sunday says, like she’s ready with the information. “She hates her birthday, though, she spends them cleaning up after her siblings in that stupid fucking house where her Mom rarely remembers, and when Gabe does, he makes fucking pasta. Do you know how much Rhea hates pasta?”
“She hates pasta?”
She had eaten two bowls that night with a smile on her face and let Gabepack her leftovers for her lunch the rest of the week. Actually, every time she comes back to the apartment, there's a container of pasta in the fridge the next morning.But now that I think about it… She never touches it. It goes bad, and I throw it out a week later.
“Listen, Bri, birthdays sting for Rhea.” The severity of the situation is driven home by the tone in Sunday’s voice when she stops moving and stares me down.
“It’s on your employee form,” I lie, and her brows furrow.
“No, it’s not,” she says as the line moves. “I put a different date every time I apply for a job.”
“Isn’t that illegal?" I shake my head at her.
“Maybe,” she muses. We’re only a few bodies back from the main counter now. “Which one of thelittle shitssnitched on me?” She teases, and the memory of that night floods back in.
“Day,” I laugh, directing her focus. “Go pick your shirts." I lift her chin with a finger so she makes eye contact, "and pick two.”
I’m wandering down the hallway at school when I hear a commotion coming from Mr. Disson’s class. I slow my steps and tuck my papers under my arm, intending to help, but it’s Riona who barrels out of the classroom. Her hair hangs in blonde waves around her sharp features.
“Oh,” I open my mouth and shut it again.
“Ms. Drake,” Riona inhales slowly, righting herself.
“Are you alright?” I ask, against my better judgment. I don’t know how much she knows about everything, and I’m nervous that her opinion of me has changed. But her expression shifts, and it’s clear she’s overwhelmed.
“No,” she swallows.
“The art room is empty,” I say, pointing back to my room, and Riona takes a second but follows me. As we enter, I shut the door behind us, and she sets her bag down on the desk. “Mr.Dickson can be a real prick.”
“That’s a good name for him,” she compliments. “And yes, he is a prick.”
“Are you here about Daisy?” I question as she wanders around the art room, taking it all in.
“Did you do all this?” she asks about the paintings that decorate the walls instead of answering me.
“No, students,” I answer honestly.
“Freedom to express is important at this age. It fosters emotional independence,” Riona says, laughing at one of the paintings that Lori has done. It’s a polar bear in a Speedo.
“So I’ve heard,” I say, and she looks over her shoulder at me. “Daisy says stuff like that all the time; it’s pretty obvious she doesn’t get that emotional independence from her dad.”
This makes her laugh, genuinely, her shoulders relax a bit, but I can tell she’s still on guard.
“She’s been doing well, if that’s why you’re here. Although she’s been spending a lot more time in the music room.” I tell her.
“Auggie.” Riona swallows tightly. “If someone told me fourteen years ago my daughter would crush on Silas Shore’s son, I’d have throat-punched them.” Silas Shore is a retired Hornet’s baseball player, his father is Charles Shore. A filthy rich idiot currently on trial for a lot of fraud, tax evasion and money laundering. The connection to Riona is a little rattling. I didn’t take her for the bat bunny type.
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Don’t judge me,” she laughs, “he was a work of art back then.”
“I was going to say you have good taste in men.” I give her a look, and she rolls her eyes.
“I had. I think I'm sick of athletes.” She corrects me.
"You're being liberal calling Brighton an athlete," I tease and she laughs gently with a small nod.
