Page 21 of People Like Us

I sniffed once. “No.”

“Your dad?” His voice climbed just a notch, the two syllables hanging in the air as if he might actually do something with them.

I sat up straighter, pressing both palms to the desktop. “He bought orange dish soap.” My words caught in my throat. “I’m only allergic to one thing—one fucking thing in the whole world—and he can’t remember to grab any other scent the damn Wal-Mart carries that won’t close his daughter’s esophagus.”

Mr. Hayward’s red pen paused mid-air. He offered me a sad, understanding smile before returning his gaze to the essay in his grasp. “You’ve only got a few more months until you graduate,” he said softly, almost to himself.

I huffed, rolling my shoulders. “Then what? I still have until next fall before college starts. If I even get in anywhere.”

He lifted his thick eyebrows behind the lenses of his glasses. “You could move out before then. You’re eighteen.”

“With what money?” I laughed, but it came out hollow. “I’ve saved every penny I’ve earned hoping I’ll get into college, and I’ll still have to take out loans.”

He didn’t glance up. “You could move in with me after you graduate.” I stared at the age lines framing his face, searching for any hint of a joke in the gentle set of his mouth, but Mr. Hayward didn’t joke.

“Linda and I would love to have you,” he added when I remained silent.

“Shouldn’t you check with her first?” My voice was small.

He set the essay aside and finally fixed his attention on me. “Do you think I’d invite a teenage girl to live with me without asking my wife first?”

A real smile tugged at my lips. “You mean it?”

He nodded slowly, tight lipped. “Just for the summer, until you go to college—which you will get into.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, my chest tight with relief. I wanted to hug him, bury my face in his old-man cologne, but I knew he’d recoil.

He lifted the essay again, as if our conversation never happened. “Mrs. Deal told me you passed your quiz last week.” He sounded pleased, though his gaze was fixed on the paper. “I assume that means the tutoring is going well?”

“Yeah,” I said, but the word felt fragile.

“Good. Keep it up.” He returned to grading just as the bell clanged, shattering the quiet and signaling the end of lunch period.

I gathered my bag, hefting it over one shoulder, and offered him a final word. “Thanks, Mr. Hayward.”

He nodded once, slight and solemn, as though he didn’t realize he’d just given me the best news I’d ever gotten. I stepped into the crowded hallway, jostled by lockers slamming and voices rising, and headed toward the library with a newfound lightness in my step.

Chapter Nine

For fourth period I interned in the library, helping Mrs. Morgan reshelve books and make copies of worksheets for other teachers. The quiet work felt like a nice breather before I had to go home. Especially on Wednesdays.

I sat on the counter with the laminator humming warmly against my hip as I fed a poster of the food pyramid for the girls locker room through it when I heard a deep voice behind me.

“Hey, baby.” Andy leaned against the door frame of the media room with a yellow pocket folder loose in one hand, his Letterman jacket unzipped over a white T-shirt.

I smiled at him. “Hi, handsome.” I crossed the small room to kiss his cheek. His skin was cool from outside. “Did you need me to do something with this?” I asked, pointing to the folder.

He held it out. “Yeah, Mr. Hayward sent me down here with it. He said he needed fifty copies and would pick them up after school.”

I nodded, undoing the brad on the front. When I peeked inside I had to press my lips together.

“It’s empty, isn’t it?” he guessed.

“Yes,” I breathed.

He tilted his head, voice softening as he played with the ends of my hair. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”