Chapter 1
My eyes burn a hole in the page. I should know this. I can usually dissect a science equation easily, but the answer isn’t coming to me. The bell on the door dings. I quickly tuck my homework beneath the counter and look up. A guy on a cell phone walks in.
That’s new.
Not the cell phone part but the guy part. It isn’t that men don’t frequent the doll store— Okay, actually it is. Men don’t frequent the store. They are a rare sighting. When they do come in, they trail behind feminine types and look extremely self-conscious . . . or bored. This one is neither. He’s very much alone and confident. The kind of confidence only money can buy. Lots of it.
I smile a little. There are two types of people in our small beach town: the rich and the people who sell things to the rich. Apparently having money means collecting useless things like porcelain dolls (the adjective “useless” should never be used around my mother when referring to dolls). The rich are our constant entertainment.
“What do you mean you want me to pick?” Mr. Rich says into the phone. “Didn’t Grammy tell you which one she wanted?” He lets out a long sigh. “Fine. I’ll take care of it.” He pockets his phone and beckons me over. Yes. Beckons. It’s the only word I can use to describe the motion. He hadn’t even glanced my way but held up his hand and moved two fingers in his direction. His other hand rubs his chin while he studies the dolls in front of him.
I size him up as I walk over. The untrained eye might not pick up on the richness oozing off this guy, but I know rich and he reeks of it. His one outfit probably cost more than all the clothes in my tiny closet. Not that it looks expensive. It’s an outfit that’s purposefully trying to downplay how much it cost: a pair of cargo pants, a pink button-down rolled at the sleeves. But the clothes were purchased somewhere that specializes in thread count and triple stitching. It’s obvious he can buy the whole store if he wants to. Well, not him; his parents. I didn’t realize it at first because his confidence aged him, but now that I’m closer I can see he’s young. My age maybe? Seventeen. Although he could be a year older. How is someone my age already so versed at beckoning? A lifetime of privilege, obviously.
“Can I help you, sir?” Only my mom would’ve heard the sarcasm laced into that single statement.
“Yes, I need a doll.”
“Sorry, we’re all out.” A lot of people don’t get my humor. My mom calls it dry humor. I think that means “not funny,” but it also means I’m the only one who ever knows it’s a joke. Maybe if I laugh afterward, like my mom does when she’s helping customers, more people would humor me, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
“Funny,” he says, but not like he actually thinks it’s funny; more like he wishes I wouldn’t talk at all. He still hasn’t looked at me. “So which one of these do you think an older woman might like?”
“All of them.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps and then he turns toward me. For a split second I see surprise in his eyes, like he expected some old woman to be standing in front of him—I blame my voice, which is slightly deeper than average—but it doesn’t stop him from saying the sentence already spilling over his lips: “Which one do you like?”
Am I allowed to say “none”? Despite the fact it’s my inevitable future, the store is my mom’s love, not mine. “I’m partial to the eternal wailers.”
“Excuse me?”
I point to the porcelain version of a baby, his mouth open in a silent cry, his eyes squeezed shut. “I’d rather not see their eyes. Eyes can say so much. Theirs say, ‘I want to steal your soul so don’t turn your back on us.’”
I’m rewarded with a smile that takes away all the hard, arrogant edges on his face, leaving him very attractive. He should definitely make that a permanent fixture. But before I even finish the thought, the smile’s gone.
“My grammy’s birthday is coming up and I’m supposed to pick out a doll for her.”
“You can’t go wrong. If she likes porcelain dolls, she’ll like any of them.”
He looks back at the shelves of dolls. “Why the wailers? Why not the sleepers?” He’s staring at a peaceful-looking baby, a pink bow in her blond curls, her hands tucked under her cheek, her face relaxed.
I stare at her, too, and contrast her to the wailer next to her. The one whose fists are balled, its toes curled, its cheeks pink with irritation. “Because that’s my life: screaming without making a sound.” Okay, so I didn’t really say that. I thought it. What I really say after a shrug is “They both work.” Because if I’ve learned anything about customers it’s that they don’t really want your opinion. They want you to tell them their opinion is valid. So if Mr. Rich wants the sleeping baby for Grammy, who am I to stop him?
He shakes his head as if eradicating a thought and then points to a completely different shelf occupied by dolls of the soul-sucking variety. The girl he points to is dressed in a plaid school uniform and holds the leash of a black Scottish terrier. “I guess that one will work. She likes dogs.”
“Who does? Your grandma or”—I squint to read the placard in front of the doll—“Peggy?”
“It’s quite obvious Peggy likes dogs,” he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I was referring to my grandmother.”
I open the lower cupboard to find Peggy’s box. I pull it out and gently take the girl and her dog, along with her name placard, off the shelf and to the register. As I carefully pack her away, Mr. Rich points. “How come the dog isn’t named?” He reads aloud the title on the box. “‘Peggy and dog.’”