I put the money back into the tin, clamped the lid shut, and shoved it into the cabinet—not a moment too soon. Marsha’s car pulled into the driveway. She walked into the house, her hands rustling with plastic bags, and let the door bang shut behind her. “Hi, Darcy. Did you have a good day?”
Had I? Even I didn’t know the answer to that question. “It was okay.”
“Well, I am dog-tired.” Marsha plopped down on the couch and propped her feet on the coffee table. She was still wearing her name tag from the bargain clothing store where she worked as an assistant manager. “I think we both deserve a treat.” She dug through one of the bags and pulled out a pack of multicolored chocolate-covered marshmallows. She ripped it open and offered it.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“Go on, have a pink one. I love the pink ones.”
“It’s just dye. They all taste the same.”
“I know. But the pink cheers me up.” She wriggled her fingers above the marshmallows and picked out her favorite. “Are you working at the Jumping Bean tonight?”
“Yes.” I sighed.
“Keep interested in your career,” she said. “However humble.”
Marsha enjoyed quoting from a plaque that hung above the toilet in her bathroom. It was inscribed with a letter called “Desiderata,” which means “Desired Things.” It’s full of impossible advice, such as the idea that you could get along with everybody without giving up pieces of yourself, and that even a minimum wage job should be thought of as a worthy “career.”
“Here.” She handed me a plastic bag. “This is for you.”
Inside was something soft: a ruby cardigan. “Marsha, you didn’t have to—”
“I sure did. You look like you’re going to a funeral. I want to see you wearing something other than black, black, and black. Go ahead, put it on. It’s part cashmere.”
Even though the sun was going down, it was still shaping up to be a steamy evening. “But—”
“No buts. It was on sale, plus I got my employee’s discount. And that itty-bitty thing isn’t going to fit me.”
I touched the red sweater. It had been a long time since I’d received a gift. “Thank you.”
“You’ll look pretty in it,” she said.
Would I? Could a red sweater change so much?
It was as if she’d read my mind. “You’re the artist, Darcy. Don’t you think a little color packs some punch?”
I smiled, not only because it would please her, but also because I wanted to. Then I took a pink marshmallow, pulled on the cardigan, and left for work.
At the coffeehouse, I focused on cappuccinos, lattes, and double-shot espressos. My hands steamed milk and ground beans. I paused only for enough time to peel off the red cardigan. It was too hot. More than that—wearing the sweater felt too hopeful. Like I wanted to look pretty for someone, and that someone wasn’t Marsha.
Inside, I recited my poem and matched its beat to the rhythm of my work:
I will not think of Conn McCrea.
Easier said than done.
When I locked up the café, I looked out at the dark parking lot, reminding myself that Conn was already liked. Already adored. And I was a misfit.
That’s right, a voice whispered inside. You don’t fit in. You don’t belong in this world.
I frowned. That was a weird thought. I didn’t belong in this world?
It wasn’t like there was any other one.
6
It took me a couple of weeks to wear the sweater to school. I kept blaming the heat for this, but then one day, in that schizo way Chicagoland weather has, it was suddenly autumn. The air was apple-crisp, and I had run out of excuses.
Lily’s jaw dropped when she saw me wearing the cardigan. She whirled us into the girls’ bathroom, demanded I put on her lipstick, and swept the loose hair off my face. She produced a handful of bobby pins as if by magic.
“Lily, what are you doing?”
“Finishing what you started.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “This is the first time you look as if you’re not trying to disappear.” She swiftly did something complicated with my hair. “There. Now everyone can see what a lovely, slender throat you have.”
I tightened my mouth. “They can see this.” I pointed to the scar at the base of my neck, where the skin sloped toward my shoulder. It was an old, white slash.
Lily lost her imperious air. “You still don’t remember how you got that?”
I looked at her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
I shrugged. It wasn’t her fault I was a messed-up amnesiac.
“Well, what’re you going to do, hide it forever?” She gave me a gentle push out the bathroom door. “Go.”
Luckily, the boys made little comment on my new and supposedly improved appearance. Jims just said “Ooh la la” when he passed me in the hall, and Raphael gave me an incredulous stare in Pre-Calc. I tried not to take offense, since Raphael was fizzing with anxiety and barely able to pass for a normally functioning human being. Auditions for the fall play were that afternoon.
In English class, I did something different. That moment of walking through the door was always agonizing, always the best and worst part of my day. So over the past week, I had developed a ritual. It was a simple one: eyes down, feet steady. Walk.
And don’t look at him.
But that day, I did.
The effect was instantaneous. Conn’s eyes were on me. His mask of boredom slipped away, and it was only then that I knew that it was a mask, that it had to be, it had to be fake, because what I saw underneath was too real. His face was fierce, filled with something hot and strange.
And resentful.
I slunk to my seat. I had to get to English earlier, I thought shakily. He always beat me there. He always sat in the middle, so that if I sat anywhere else than in the back I’d feel like a target in his line of sight. Even sitting in the back wasn’t the perfect solution, because I had to push myself past him. Every day.
I ignored most of the lesson, at least until Ms. Goldberg said, “‘I am no Prince Hamlet.’” She was reading from her book. “What does J. Alfred mean? Why does he say he’s ‘an attendant lord, one that will do / To swell a progress, start a scene or two’?”
I had a pretty good guess, but I sure wasn’t going to raise my hand. I already felt enough like a fool.