Just Another Girl (3 page)

“But it's not kinda uncool now?”

He shrugs. “I'm not so sure I care about all that anymore.”

Okay, I'm trying not to look overly stunned. I mean, people change, right? Maybe Owen Swanson is changing too. After all, we're going to be seniors in the fall . . . maybe it is about time to grow up.

“So, how about it?”

“I guess that'd be okay,” I say.

“I'll need to go home and get my bike.” He frowns. “I probably need to check the tires and mechanical stuff since it's been sitting around for a couple of years. Do you mind waiting?”

“That's fine,” I say, realizing this will buy me some time to put in a load of laundry and maybe even clean up the kitchen.

“How about I come back here around noon then?”

“Sure, that sounds good.” Now I actually smile at him, not too big though. I don't want to seem overly eager. But he smiles back at me with those straight white teeth and sparkling blue eyes, and suddenly I'm thinking that the oxygen supply to my brain has just been cut off. But I keep it chill and just wave, then turn and jog up to the front door. I don't even look back as I unlock the door.

My hands are actually shaking when I let myself in. Then I lean back against the closed door. I take in a slow, deep breath and wonder if I just imagined the whole thing. No way would Owen Swanson invite himself to go on a bike ride with me today—that is totally surreal. Maybe it was just my imagination messing with me. Just wishful thinking. A crazy daydream.

Even so, I decide to be ready. Just in case it's for real.

3

Since losing Katie to popularity, I've never had another real honest-to-goodness best friend. Not like the other girls that I see paired up around school and at malls and everywhere, acting like they're part of some secret society where I'll never belong. But Crystal is the closest thing to a best friend. And to be fair, she might even assume that I'm her best friend since she probably spends more time with me than anyone else, and that's not saying much. Oh, she picks Lily and me up to go to youth group, and sometimes we go to the mall together, but it's not like we're close. Not really. I happen to know that Lily makes Crystal uncomfortable. And if she calls and invites me to do something, then discovers that Lily will have to come, she sometimes changes her mind. And we don't go. Naturally, I don't question this. Why should I? It's not like we're real best friends.

Even so, I suddenly have this inexplicable urge to call up my “best friend” and tell her that Owen Swanson and I are going on a bike ride together and that I cannot believe it and
that is it possible he likes me? But I control myself. For one thing, I'm still not convinced that I'm not hallucinating. For another thing, he could just be playing a mean joke on me. And, finally, although I like Crystal just fine—I mean, she's great for a “casual” friend—I'm just not ready to divulge anything too personal to her. As corny as it sounds, I'm not ready for that kind of commitment.

I put myself into fast speed and throw in a load of laundry, sort out the next two, and line up the baskets so they'll be ready to go. Then I dash into the kitchen, and in record time I have the dishwasher loaded and running and the counters wiped. The sink and stove will have to wait. Then I swoop through the living room (my mother's personal pet peeve is seeing the living room trashed) and grab up miscellaneous items strewn about—mostly from Lily. And, with a full load of Lily's junk, I heave it into her room, which smells like someone put a dead fish under her bed, but I'm guessing it's her tennis shoes. I close the door and decide to deal with that later.

I do a quick cleanup in the bathroom. It's so cluttered with Rose's jewelry and makeup and hair stuff that it's nearly impossible to do a thorough job. In fact, it's no wonder her paychecks are so minimal, since I'm sure she must waste half of her earnings on this junk. Still, if I touch or move any of her things, she throws a huge hissy fit. Even Lily is afraid to touch Rose's belongings, although she does occasionally—and even more since she's getting older. Lily thinks that she should be able to wear makeup and jewelry like Rose, but Mom keeps
putting her foot down, which I think is a little unfair since both Rose and I were allowed to do pretty much what we wanted to when we were Lily's age. “But Lily is special,” Mom points out. “We don't want her to grow up too fast.”

Of course, I wonder what that's supposed to mean since, duh, it's not like she's ever going to grow up anyway. Her mental capacity is supposedly equivalent to a five-year-old. She recognizes some letters and numbers and can write her name and a few other short words like “no” and “bye” and “Mom.” But that's about it.

Still, what would it hurt if she was allowed a little lip gloss and blush if she wants it? And yet this is a battle I'm not willing to fight. If Mom wants to keep Lily as her little girl forever, that's her choice. The problem is that Mom doesn't seem to notice that, despite Lily's stunted mental capacity, her body is growing up. But there's a lot that Mom doesn't seem to notice.

Anyway, I don't want to think about that now. I don't want to think about Lily or Rose or Mom. I want to be selfish and think only about me, me, me.

I stare at my image in the bathroom mirror, wondering what I might possibly do to enhance my appearance. Okay, that probably seems stupid in light of the fact that I caught Owen's eye without enhancing a single thing. Still . . . I can't help that I care, can I? I mean, I'm a girl. I'm almost seventeen. One of the coolest guys seems to be looking my way. And I know what my competition looks like. Not that I can compete. I'm pretty sure I can't. But I can't just give in either.

I realize there's not much that can be done with my hair on such short notice. Rose has suggested numerous times that I should get it highlighted and cut into layers to calm down the thickness and natural waves, but I'm not sure that would really be an improvement. Plus I'd have to fuss with it and style it—and in my opinion, that's a waste of time, energy, and money. One time I tallied up all the time that Rose spends on her hair, and it was more than five hundred hours a year. I have no idea how much she spends on hair products and salon visits.

My hair, which most people call red, I call auburn. I like to imagine that it's the color of mahogany. It's not really that dark, but I hope it will be someday. And today it's pulled back in a messy ponytail that goes midway to my back. I take it down and spend about five minutes attempting to tame my mane, which is not happening. In fact, it's actually getting worse. Finally I give up completely and simply put it back in the ponytail, which I realize looked better before I messed with it. In fact, that's just what it needs—to be messy again. So I take my hair down and shake it around and mess it up, then I quickly put the ponytail back in. Better.

Next I examine my face. Fortunately, my freckles have faded a bit. When I was little, kids used to accuse me of having the measles. Now my freckles sort of blend together and almost look like a tan. But my lips, as usual, are too pale. It's the curse of redheads to have overly pale lips. So I decide to “borrow” some of Rose's latest beauty discovery—a gloss that's supposed
to plump your lips. I apply a generous coat of peony and watch to see if my lips get bigger. Actually, I don't think they need to be any bigger, but it's fun to see if anything happens. The lip gloss actually tingles a bit, but the color is kind of nice. Then I carefully put the tube of gloss back exactly where I got it.

Now I look at my eyes. My mom says they're just like my dad's. Of course, when she says this she's usually frowning, and I know she doesn't mean it as a compliment. What she's really saying is, “You remind me of your father, and he's not someone I want to be reminded of, so why don't you make yourself scarce?” And that's what I usually do.

Anyway, my eyes are hazel, which to me looks like a mix of muddy colors. Like when I'm painting with watercolors and am too impatient to wait for the paint to dry before I apply another color, so the painting becomes muddy and ruined. Or like God couldn't decide, so he threw in some leftover green and brown and blue and even some flecks of gold. Rose, who has beautiful blue eyes, told me that I should get tinted contacts. “Green,” she recommended after studying me carefully. “That would be the right color for you.” But the thought of putting something in my eye is too freaky.

Still, I decide that some brown mascara on my pale lashes (another curse of the redhead) won't hurt. But after that, I don't really see what else I can do in the makeup department without ending up looking like a clown. I've been down that road before, and today, if Owen does show up, I do not want to go down it again. I still remember the time when Rose “fixed
me up” for the homecoming dance when I was a sophomore. Crystal and I had decided to go, and Rose, who was a senior then, insisted we should “dress up.” So we did.

Rose, who had just started working at Delilah's, used this opportunity to turn us into her personal guinea pigs. Of course, I didn't realize this at the time. I actually thought it was sweet that she was giving us so much time and attention. And, being fifteen and not too experienced in the world of makeup and fashion, I let Rose do her thing. So did Crystal. Like guinea pigs being led to the slaughter, we stupidly let her turn us into clowns. Then she drove us to the dance—a dance she was “too mature” to go to herself. But when we got inside, we knew it was a mistake. No one else was dressed up like we were. And no one had makeup that looked anything like ours. I'm sure Rose laughed all the way home. I'm also sure that we would've been a hit on the rundown section of Main Street, but at Jackson High, we were losers.

“Don't think about things like that!” I say sharply to myself. “Owen might be here in less than twenty minutes.” I only talk to myself like this when I'm feeling desperate and when I know I'm home alone. I make a quick run to the laundry room and put the wet clothes in the dryer, then start the next load in the washer. Not bad. I'm also done with my chores, and it's not even noon yet. Maybe I should do housework on fast speed all the time.

I run back to the hallway mirror and look at my whole reflection, wondering if I should change my clothes. But wouldn't
that look weird? Or like I was trying too hard? Besides, this Gap T-shirt looks good on me. And what's better than these khaki shorts for riding a bike? Of course, the flip-flops won't do. Flip-flops on a bike is like a wreck waiting to happen.

I stand there just looking at myself now. I grew nearly three inches this past year. My mom thought I already had my height—a neat five foot seven just like her. And then, wham, I sprouted to almost five foot ten in just a few months. “It's all in your legs,” Mom pointed out. “You could probably get a job modeling at O'Leary's with those legs, Aster.” Of course, this had aggravated Rose to no end. She's the one who wants to be a professional model, but she's only five foot six.

Not that she or anyone else particularly cares to model at O'Leary's. That's the clothing store that our mother has managed for as long as I can remember. We call it “the old lady store” because of the kind of stuff they carry. They have seasonal fashion shows that all the old ladies in town faithfully attend. Thankfully, I've never had to model for any of them. They mostly use mature women to show off their fine threads.

I'm still standing in front of the hallway mirror daydreaming when I hear the doorbell ring. Hoping that it's Owen, I kick off my flip-flops, grab a pair of white (or once-white) Adidas shoes, and race for the front door. But then I wonder what I should do—invite him in? Ugh, I don't want him to see our old, worn furniture. But then I realize, what difference does it make? I mean, it's not like I can pretend I'm something I'm not.

“Hey,” I say calmly as I open the door. “You're early.”

“Yeah.” He nods back to where his bike is parked on the sidewalk in front of his pickup. “The old bike was in better shape than I expected.”

“It's a mountain bike,” I say, as if he doesn't already know this.

“Yeah, but it's okay for streets too.” He looks slightly embarrassed. “I mean, it's not that fast, but I used to like to ride trails and—”

“Mine is a mountain bike too,” I say quickly. “I used to ride trails too.”

“Cool.” He looks relieved.

I'm biting my lower lip now, still caught in the shall-I-invite-him-in-or-not dilemma. “How about if I meet you in front,” I say. “My bike's still in the garage.”

“Great.”

So I lock the front door and hurry out to the garage, but then I realize I'll have to open the garage door and reveal the disaster that's in there. Still, there is no getting the bike out without doing that. Too bad I didn't consider it earlier. I could've had my bike out front and ready to roll.

I run back inside and into the garage, holding my breath as I push the garage door opener. I watch as the old door slowly rattles and cranks up, like it too knows that embarrassment is in store.

“This garage is a total mess,” I announce to Owen as I roll out my bike and park it in the driveway. Like he can't see that
for himself. Not to mention it smells horrid in there. I wonder if there's a dead animal tucked in a corner somewhere.

I see him staring back into the dim shadows of scary-looking boxes and plastic bags and all kinds of junk that everyone in my household seems to think is acceptable to toss back here and forget. “I'm supposed to clean it out this summer, but I just haven't gotten to it yet.” I kind of laugh as I go back to close the door. “It's not like I'm looking forward to it.”

“It must be rough not having a dad around,” he says as I push the automatic button, then leap out over the infrared beam.