Paige Rewritten (10 page)

I would just look ridiculous, like when I caught the end of the unfortunate stirrup pant craze in late elementary school.

I have told my mother to burn those pictures.

“She might come work for me, buddy.” Rick whacks Tyler with a friendly but painful-looking thump to the shoulder.

Boys are weird. If I greeted a girl like that, I'd get sued. Or written in some awful slam book.

These days, I'm not sure what's worse.

“Are you really?” Tyler asks me.

“Now, now. What's that tone?” Rick says.

“No tone. I'm just surprised. I thought you were hoping to get promoted to counselor someday,” Tyler says to me.

“That day is looking bleaker,” I say.

“Did they hire someone else?”

“No, but they offered me a raise.” I sigh. I still haven't taken it. I just try to avoid the subject when I am talking with Mark.

Part of me thinks that taking the raise is the smart thing to do. I could start building up my savings again. I'd have more spending money, which means I could finally start looking at some of the cute summer clothes in all the stores, and I could stop eating cheese sticks for dinner.

The other part of me is just depressed to think of spending my life answering the phone.

No one prepares you for this stage in life. Someday, very far in the future, I'd ideally like to get married and hopefully have kids. Then I'd fit back into our church. There's youth group. There's college group. There's young marrieds and then the family circles.

Nothing for the out-of-college working single who doesn't quite know what she wants out of life yet. SINGLE AND CONFUSED CLASS. I haven't seen that sign on any of the classroom doors yet.

Which is why I am here. Back in high school.

I look around and grab another Nutter Butter. Might as well enjoy being here.

Chapter

8

L
ayla calls me at nine o'clock on Saturday morning.

“French Cottage or Sparrow Eggshell?” she asks, not bothering with a hello.

I rub my eyes, having trouble focusing on the coffeemaker in front of me while I'm spooning the dark grounds in, much less what Layla has just asked.

“What?”

“Paint, Paige. Which one?”

“What are you painting?” Layla lives in an apartment. As far as I know, her management would not look kindly on Layla repainting the walls.

“Wake up, Paige! Remember that armoire I found on the side of the road?”

I do not remember Layla ever saying the word
armoire
to me, much less picking one up on the side of the road. I don't have any trouble believing her, though. Ever since she started reading some trash-to-treasure blog a few weeks back, she's been waking up early, going to garage sales, and picking up the weirdest things.

Two weeks ago, she brought home an entire box filled with old, empty Chef Boyardee cans.

“So you are painting the armoire,” I say slowly back to her.

She sighs. “Yes, Paige.”

“With paint.”

“You just got up, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Making coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It's a beautiful morning and you are missing it.”

Says the woman who used to sleep until eleven and tell me that a.m. stood for “absolute morons,” as in only absolute morons got up when the clock still said a.m.

“What is the color difference? I don't memorize paint samples, you know,” I tell her, turning on the coffeemaker.

“So the French Cottage is more of a rustic, creamy color like what that brown sweater I have looks like on the outside edge of that bleach spot I accidentally got on it. And the Sparrow Eggshell is almost the same color but maybe with a slight bluish tinge to it.”

“Sorry about that sweater,” I say.

“Yeah. I really wish that blog had mentioned not to wear dark clothing when using bleach. Oh well. I'm repurposing the sweater.”

“Repurposing” is going to become my least-favorite word that Layla says. I just know it.

“Um. What are you doing to the sweater?” I ask, a little scared to hear the answer.

“I'm cutting it. Making mittens. Don't worry, I saw a whole thing on how to do it step by step. I've just got to find a sewing machine.” She says the last sentence suggestively, and I know what she is hoping I'll offer.

Just solely my opinion, but I don't think Layla should be around anything that involves a fast-moving needle. However, I keep my lips shut and don't mention that she could use mine.

I will not partake in the bloodshed of my best friend.

“I'm going with the French Cottage,” she says.

“Okay.”

“Thanks for your help, Paige!”

“I didn't do anything.”

“That's true. Well, since you haven't helped so far, want to come help me paint it today?”

“Not really,” I answer truthfully. Layla is anything but crafty. She tries hard, but she just doesn't have the touch, sort of like me with gardening.

I feel like watching her try to paint this dresser would be like watching a train hurtling right toward a cute little bunny and not having any way to warn the rabbit of approaching danger.

“Oh come on, Paige. It will be fun! And we haven't hung out in ages and I miss you and I'll buy Panda Express for lunch.”

Orange chicken suddenly makes the bunny look more like a cockroach and I sigh, pouring myself a cup of coffee and accepting defeat. “Okay.”

“Okay! I will see you, Paige Alder, in twenty minutes! Bring paint clothes!”

“I'll just wear your brown sweater.”

“I don't want to get paint spatters on my new mittens.”

I just laugh.

I drink my coffee and decide that a shower is pointless if I'm going to go watch Layla paint, because watching Layla paint is equal to me painting the dresser while Layla directs.

I really like orange chicken.

I find a pair of old, paint- and Super Glue–flecked shorts in my closet and pull them on. My craft shorts. I dig through to the back of the closet and come out with an old T-shirt from high school and grab my oldest pair of sneakers and a rubber band for my hair.

I dab some mascara on and walk out the door. Painting or not, I always wear mascara.

I find Layla in her assigned parking space of her apartment complex, car moved, staring at a beat-up, oak-colored armoire that looks exactly like one my grandparents had in the sixties.

“Wow,” I say, climbing out of my car and walking over.

“I know. Isn't it great? I just can't believe someone left this on the side of the road!”

Right then the right bottom drawer front falls off and clatters with an empty
whomp
that basically shouts, “I am made out of particle board and Super Glue!”

“That keeps happening but I figure we can definitely fix that,” Layla says. “They just don't make quality furniture like this nowadays.”

“Mm-hmm.” It's the safest thing I can think of to say.

“Well!” She looks at me with an excited smile and hands on her hips. She's got her shoulder-length brown curly hair up in a curly mess of a ponytail on the top of her head, faded sweatpants, a white tank top, and gardening gloves.

I love Layla.

“Let's begin!” She grabs the paint can and shakes it.

It would be easier for her to just pop the top open and stir it, and it probably is fairly well mixed already, seeing as how she just came from the paint store, but I don't say anything. This is Layla's project. I will let her craft.

She finally sets the can down and pulls a paint can opener from her pocket, cranking open the lid. The color inside is pretty, but looking at the armoire, I'm going to guess we'll need at least two coats.

Maybe three. That oak is looking awfully thirsty. I would imagine forty-plus years and getting kicked to the side of the road would do that to you, though.

Layla hands me a brand-new brush, grabs another one for herself, and starts swiping the paint on, leaving the drawers and everything still in the dresser. And I highly doubt that she sanded it or prepped it or even cleaned it, but somehow that doesn't seem like the biggest issue at the moment.

“Um … Layla?”

“Gosh, this is so fun!”

“You might want to take the drawers out.”

“Why?” She swashes a thick and bubble-crested glob of paint along the top of the dresser. “They'll be easier to paint right there.” She points with the paint-dripping brush.

I almost hold my tongue. But I decide this is a matter I need to speak up on. “Yeah, but then you'll never be able to open them.”

“How come?”

“The paint will dry.”

“That's what I want it to do.”

Maybe with Layla it's better to let her live and learn. Except I know that I will be the one prying open the paint-sealed drawers with a utility knife, so I take a deep breath and explain it again. “The paint will settle in the cracks, Layla. So you won't be able to open the drawers when it dries.”

“Oh. Why didn't you say so?” She plunges the paintbrush up to the handle into the paint, steps back, yanks all six drawers out, and sets them beside the dresser. “I may not use the drawers, but I guess it's better to have them working.”

“Probably.”

Then she resumes swishing the paint around.

Paint flecks are all over the asphalt at this point. Management may not look kindly on this crafty adventure.

But I keep my mouth shut. And I start on the back of the dresser.

“Use more paint, Paige. I only want to have to go over it once.”

“I just don't want it to drip.”

“It's supposed to look like that.”

I backhand my hair off my forehead and look around the dresser at her. “Drippy?”

“I'm going for a specific look here, Paige.”

“Drippy.”

“Raw,” she says, overannunciating the word. “I'm looking for
raw
.”

“Who are you, the next design star?”

She shrugs, totally serious. “I could get into this.”

I hide my smirk behind the dresser. This is classic Layla. She's forever going through crushes. A few weeks ago, she was trying to take up cooking.

A pan of gelatinous scalloped potatoes fixed that one.

Then she got caught up in her parents' anniversary party. Now she's restoring furniture.

I am a little scared to see what happens next.

At twelve thirty, Layla declares it's time to let the paint continue to drip dry and we should go get Panda Express.

“What about the dresser?” I ask.

“What about it?”

“Are we just going to leave it in the parking lot?”

She shrugs. “It's in my space.”

“You don't think anyone will mess with it?” This is Layla's apartment complex we are talking about here. I've seen three sketchy-looking men walk by in the last twenty minutes, two who had huge tattoos covering their entire visible flesh.

Say what you will about tattoos being the new in thing, I was raised to irrationally fear all people who had one.

Which now includes my sister, apparently.

My fear of her is officially justified.

“Hmm,” Layla says. “Good point. Okay. I'll go get Panda. You stay here and guard the dresser. And no fixing the drips, Miss Perfectionist. It's supposed to be — ”

“Raw,” I say along with her. “Yeah. I get it.”

“Okay. I'll be back.” She jogs across the parking lot to her car and leaves a minute later, waving at me as I sit on the curb next to her parking space.

Another man wearing a sleeveless shirt showcasing a huge dragon crawling up his arm and eating his shoulder walks by, glancing at me.

Forget the dresser. Now I'm worried about my personal safety.

Layla really needs to move.

My dad once told me that when I'm in a situation where things could get dicey, I need to be paying 112 percent attention to my surroundings. “Nothing should distract you,” Dad always said. “You live in a constant state of caution, you understand?”

I happen to disagree on one thing. I think a girl on a cell phone is a lot more intimidating because then at least someone, even though the person isn't physically there, knows that I've been kidnapped and sold to Russian carpet thieves.

“Hey, Paige.”

“Hi,” I say into my phone, looking furtively around me, trying to watch out for potential kidnappers. A girl walking her dog gives me a weird look.

“You okay?” Tyler asks.

“Fine. Why? Do you think I'm not okay?”

“What?”

“What?” I ask back.

“You're just talking weird, like you're standing in line to rob a bank or something. Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine. I'm at Layla's. Babysitting a dresser. In the parking lot.”

“Where's Layla?”

“She went to get Panda Express for us.”

“There's a shock.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “So correct me if I'm wrong, but you're sitting in the parking lot with a dresser?”

“Next to it, if you want to be precise.”

“You're just sitting there?”

“No, I'm trying very hard not to get kidnapped.”

He snorts. “In broad daylight?”

“I'm sure it's happened before.”

“Well, what's the dresser look like?”

“It's raw,” I tell him.

“Raw,” he repeats.

“Right.”

“Like rah, rah, sis boom bah?”

“No, like, hey these carrots in this salad are raw.”

He laughs. “What on earth does that mean? It's bare? It's a naked dresser?”

“No, but that makes more sense. Apparently it means that it dries in drips all over the place.”

“Huh. Do you sand them off?”

“I'm afraid to ask Layla.” The guy with the dragon gnawing on his shoulder is back. He strolls by, looking at the speckled-with-drips dresser, then at me, then at my phone, and climbs into a greasy-looking sedan.