“Yeah,”I say on a long exhale, “I’m going to be insomuch trouble for being here with you.”
“Not sticking around for that. I’ve already filled my drama quotient for the day.”
“Wait!” I whisper loudly to his back as he turns to leave. “What about our payment arrangement? This doesn’t change anything.”
He turns his head toward me briefly, eyes cast downward. “I need to think about it.”
Before I can respond, he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and takes off down the hall. When he passes my mom and the young ginger-haired guy she’s with, he says something briefly, a stiff nod of his head, and then he’s gone, disappearing around a corner.
Dammit. None of this is going right.
Now I have to deal with my Mom, strutting in here on the arm of some young-and-pretty dude in topsiders and a pastel polo shirt, in front of God and everyone.… It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know he’s the reason she wasn’t answering her phone this afternoon.
So, yeah. Think I’ve filled my drama quotient too. Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of walking away from my supremely messed-up family.
Not yet, anyway.
NO SENIOR DISCOUNTS—YOU SHOULD HAVE THE MONEY BY NOW: Handwritten sign in the window of the kitschy and beloved Revolutionary Doughnuts in the South Harbor district. The always-packed doughnut shop is popular with both locals and tourists.(Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 9
My mom’s ginger-haired boy toy turned out to be a real estate agent named Hayden Harwood. After Lucky left the hospital, Mom was too worried about extracting Evie from the public restrooms to question pesky details, like why I was dressed up and carrying my portfolio. Or why the person I was specifically forbidden to hang around was very much hanging around the hospital when she arrived. You know … stuff like that.
When we got ourselves sorted, Hayden carted us girls all back into town in his insanely big, insanely expensive SUV and dropped us off at Mom’s car … which was stuck in a hotel parking garage, because Mom couldn’t find her parking ticket?
Okay …
Their story was patchy, at best. Hayden’s awholelot younger than Mom, cockier than he should be, and not at all uncomfortable with the elephant in the room—the fact that he was Mom’s so-called “afternoon errand.” Honestly, I don’t even care. Evie’snot speaking to me, and I’m too stressed about that. So when we finally get the Pink Panther out of the garage and end up going our separate ways at home—Evie to rest in her room and me to develop film in the bookshop’s stockroom—I’m happy not to discuss the matter with Mom. I’m sure she’s relieved too, because every time she tries to talk to me, I politely find a way to excuse myself and thereby avoid any kind ofHey, kid. Sorry I wasn’t there when you girls needed mespeech.
What’s the point of apologizing if you’re just going to keep doing it? Besides, if she apologizes to me, then she’ll be able to ask me aboutmyelephant in the room: Lucky Karras.
And I can lie about why he was at the hospital. I guess I’ll have to. But if she doesn’t ask me, then I won’t have to say anything. Which would be easiest for both us. I mean, after all, that’s what she’s taught me, right? If you pretend it never happened, it’s not really a lie.
That’s what she tells herself.
So that’s what I tell myself, too.
The next day, the mood atla Maison de Saint-Martinis still strained but getting better. Evie is talking to me, but she’s prickly and a little reserved. Not her usualI’d Like to Haunt a Gothic Castlereserved; she’s definitely still holding a grudge. For the first time, I realize that maybe it’s not just me that she’s mad at. I think Evie and her friend Vanessa are fighting about the wreck. Maybe Vanessa hates Adrian too; if so, I like her a little more.
Mom puts on an extra-bright pink lipstick and a fake cheeryface, trying to ignore the weird vibes. I can’t do that. I know what Evie tried to do for Lucky in going to talk to Adrian. What she tried to dofor me.Now she’s not only physically bruised from a car accident, Adrian has messed up his rowing season at Harvard and totaled an expensive car. I mean, just look at the cost of this lie. I’m leaving a path of total destruction around my family and this community.
I’m a walking tornado.
I can’t repair that damage right now. But Icantry to make up with Evie.
Revolutionary Doughnuts sits across the street from us, about a block down. I definitely don’t need to pass by Nick’s Boatyard to get there, but when I check the usual spots for signs of Lucky’s red Superhawk motorcycle and don’t see it parked—he must be working at the department store—I find my feet heading in that direction anyway and slowly stroll down the sidewalk in front of the boatyard’s front offices.
I’m not even sure why. From the sidewalk, I see his mom working at the front desk, smiling and talking with another dark-haired girl. A cousin, maybe? A toddler is running around the desk, chasing a tiny black dog, who is chasing the black cat—the one that sleeps in the window and that’s tattooed on Lucky’s hand—and they’re all laughing as both the cat and dog make a break for a door that leads into the bays out back facing the harbor. Their laughter is so boisterous, I can hear it through the window.
Sometimes when I was little, I used to fantasize about what things would have been like if Mom and Henry had stayed together, and we’d been a family—pipe dreams that every kid has. Funny, but I never once imagined us laughing like that. Now I’m almost sorry I witnessed that scene with the dog and cat and cousins, because it’s one more thing I’ll never have.
It’s easier when you don’t know.
A short walk away from the laughter of the boatyard, the doughnut shop comes into view. It’s known for having a lot of special flavors—toffee butter crunch, apple cider angels, and some puffy Greek doughnuts they call honey dippers, which are Evie’s favorite thing in the world … and the reason I’m here.
The shop is alsosuperpopular with locals, so it’s always busy, especially now, when everyone’s scrambling to buy up what remains. Once they sell out, it’s gone. They don’t keep making them all day like a chain. Hopefully I’m not too late. I head around a wooden clapboard sign painted with cartoon Revolutionary War figures fighting a battle with doughnuts instead of guns and cannons, and step inside.
I inhale the intoxicating scents of yeasty dough and sweet lemon zest as I queue up in a long line that snakes around the tiny shop. Quite a few folks stand ahead of me, so I scroll through articles about photography gear on my phone, and as I shuffle along, a girl in sandals and white shorts backs into me.
