“So whose turn is it for a question?” he asks.
“Mine,” I say, even though I really don’t remember. But I’d rather ask than answer.
“Okay, what’s it gonna be?”
“Do you have any brothers?” I know he doesn’t have any sisters because his grandma said she has only one granddaughter and he already told me that is his cousin.
“Yes, I have two older brothers. Samuel is twenty-three, just graduated from law school.”
“Which law school?”
“Harvard.”
Of course.
“My other brother, Lucas, is twenty and away at college.”
“Those are pretty normal names.”
“Normal?”
“No Chets or Wellingtons or anything.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Do you know any Wellingtons?”
“Of course not, but you probably do.”
“No, actually I don’t.”
“Hmm,” I say.
“Okay, my turn.”
I smile but am nervous at the same time. I really wish I got to control all the questions asked. Then I could steer clear of the ones I don’t want to answer.
“Are you wearing contacts?”
“What? That’s your question?”
“Yes.”
“No, I’m not. Why?”
“I’ve just never seen eyes as green as yours. I thought maybe they were colored contacts.”
I turn my head so he doesn’t see my smile and secretly curse him for making me feel special. “Are you?”
“Of course I’m not wearing contacts. You think I would purposefully make my eyes boring brown?”
“Those gold flecks make them look more amber.” I want to kick myself for admitting I’ve noticed, especially when his smile widens.
“Well, this is me.” I point to the old high school on my right. It was built seventy-five years ago, and although its architecture is pretty and not seen much anymore, it could definitely use some upgrades.
He takes in my school. I shift uncomfortably, wondering what he thinks of it. Wondering why I care what he thinks of it. He probably goes to one of the two private schools in town. Yes, that is how many rich people live here—enough to require two private high schools in a small beach town.
His eyes are back on me. “See you later.”
“Later as in you’re going to be here at twelve o’clock to walk me home? Because I don’t know if I can handle you twice a day.”
He sighs heavily. “And my grandmother thinks you’re sweet.” Then his brow furrows a little. “Your school gets out at noon?”
“Well, not the whole school, but yes, I get out at noon.”
“Why?”
“Um . . .” I gesture toward the shop. “Work release.”
His eyes widen. “You miss half your school day to work in the shop?”
“It’s not a big deal. . . . It was my idea. . . . It really doesn’t bother me at all to help out.” I know I’m rambling because deep down it does bother me—a lot—so I cut off my list of excuses and finish with “I better go.”
“Okay. Bye, Caymen.” He turns around and walks back toward his car without even a backward glance.
“Caymen,” Mr. Brown says as I walk into science class a few minutes late.
“Sorry, I got caught in a thorny vine and had to untangle myself from its clutches.” Which is actually sort of true.
“Although your excuses are by far the most creative, that’s not why I addressed you.”
The rest of the class had already started on a lab and I want to be doing it. It looks like there are actual chemicals involved.
Mr. Brown must’ve noted my gaze because he says, “It will only take a minute.”
I reluctantly walk to his desk.
He slides several papers across to me. “This is that college I was telling you about. It specializes in math and science.”
I grab the papers. “Oh yeah, thanks.” I learned at the beginning of the year that it’s better to just play along with teachers about college than to try to explain to them that you’re not going for a while. I shove the papers in my backpack and take a seat at my station. At the beginning of the year we had an odd number of people in class. Mr. Brown asked for a volunteer to be alone. I raised my hand. I’d much rather do lab work alone so no one else can screw it up. It’s so much easier not to have to depend on anyone else.
The next morning Xander’s waiting outside the shop again, casually leaning against a light post, like we’ve been walking to school together our whole lives. He takes a sip of my hot chocolate then hands it to me as we start walking.
I take a drink. It scalds my throat going down. This isn’t working. I need him to disappear so I can get back to my normal life of mocking people like him. So he can stop making me look forward to every morning. “So, Mr. Spence, your first brother is a lawyer; your second is going to some fancy college. What does your future hold?”
“I’m kind of like you.”
“In what universe?”
He seems to think this is a joke and laughs. “I’m expected to take over the family business.”
“What makes you think that’s the same as me?”
“You work there, you live there, you help run the place. . . . I’m pretty sure your mom thinks of you as her eventual replacement.”
I had resigned myself to the fact long ago, but hearing someone else acknowledge it triggers something in me. “I’m not going to run the doll store forever.”