Saint Anything (8 page)

“See?” Layla said, smiling at me. “Great, right?”

“It’s amazing,” I said, already turning it over and prepping the next bite.

She clapped her hands, clearly thrilled. “I love a new convert to my process.”

“Welcome to the illness,” Mac said.

“Oh, don’t listen to him, he used to eat his weight in these things. And he was
barbaric
about it. Just dumped them out, covered them in ketchup, and dove in.” She shuddered. “Ugh.”

I glanced over at Mac, who was eating an apple. He saw me and rolled his eyes, and I quickly looked away. In the next beat, like always, I regretted this, but there was something about him that made me so
nervous
. From someone that good-looking, even the smallest bit of attention was like the brightest of lights focused on me.

I knew this reaction well, because I’d seen it from the other side in girls when they were around my brother. He and Mac had the same dark, intense looks, that identical way of drawing attention just by existing. But while Peyton had long been aware of it, I had the feeling Mac wasn’t. He didn’t carry himself like he knew he was attractive. And sometimes, when he did catch me watching him, he seemed surprised.

But I shouldn’t have even been thinking like this, and not just because Mac would never be interested in me in the first place. I’d only been hanging out with Layla for a week or so, but certain rules, spoken and unsaid, were already clear. You weren’t barbaric with fries. You didn’t take the bubble gum or cotton candy YumYums. And you never even thought about dating her brother. Just ask Kimmie Crandall.

I’d first heard this name during a typical fast-paced lunch conversation. It began with a discussion about milk and how people either really liked it or really didn’t: there was no in between. Then it shifted to other things that people hated, which segued into a speed round during which Layla, Eric, and Irv tried to come up with the most awful combination ever.

“Someone you truly dislike eating with their mouth open,” Eric offered. “And something gross. Like egg salad.”

“What’s wrong with egg salad?” Irv asked.

“Just play the game,” Layla told him.

Irv thought for a second. “Someone you truly dislike eating egg salad with their mouth open while wearing a sweater that smells like wet dog.”

My turn. “Um,” I said. “Someone you truly dislike eating egg salad openmouthed in a wet-dog sweater while telling a boring story with no point.”

“Nice,” Layla said appreciatively. “I hate that. You’re up, Mac.”

Mac, who was continuing his run of various fruits at lunch with a handful of blackberries, said, “Everything you guys said plus golf.”

Layla sighed. “You’re supposed to repeat the whole sentence. God, you
never
play right.”

“Then exclude me. I’ll be fine, I promise,” he said, turning another page in his chem textbook.

“Party pooper,” Irv said. Mac threw a blackberry at him, this time connecting. “Watch it, fatty.”

“Nice mouth,” Mac replied, but he hardly seemed bothered. Not to mention fat. There was a lot I wasn’t privy to yet, clearly.

Layla sat up straight, holding up her hands. “Okay. This: Kimmie Crandall, eating egg salad with her mouth full, wearing a sweater that smells like wet dog, while telling a boring story with no point about golf.”

“Sold!” Eric said. “You win!”

“Hands down,” Irv agreed. “Still the champion.”

Mac turned to look across the courtyard, adding nothing to this. I said, “Who’s Kimmie Crandall?”

Silence. Then Layla said, “Mac’s ex-girlfriend. And my former best friend.”

“Oh.” That explained the quiet. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re both
much
better off without her.”

Mac got up then, balling his lunch stuff up and starting over to the trash cans. As he walked away, Irv said, “Still too soon?”

“It’s been three months.” Layla sat back. “There has to be a statute of limitations on pretending someone doesn’t exist.”

“Maybe it’s different when that person was your girlfriend,” Eric said.

“She broke the friendship code. That means I can make fun of her whenever I want.” Turning to me, she said, “She totally started hanging out with me just to get to Mac. I was friendless and desperate and couldn’t see. Then she hooked him in, stomped on his heart, and proceeded to talk smack about us to anyone who would listen.”

“That’s awful,” I said, looking at Mac. He was walking back toward us now, running a hand through his hair. “Does she go here?”

She shook her head. “The Fountain School. She was a mean hippie. Who even knew such a thing existed? Bitch.”

This was the harshest thing I’d ever heard her say, and it stunned me into silence for a second. Obviously, for all the nagging and fruit throwing, there was a loyalty there that ran deep. Once I was aware of it, I saw proof of it again and again. I couldn’t really relate, as by the time Peyton got into dating, he was already slipping away from us. I could, however, take note. So I did.

* * * 

Two nights later, it was my mom who had something waiting by her plate. Instead of a flyer, it was a brochure. All I could see from my seat was a picture of a beach.

“What’s this?” she said as she came in carrying a platter of roasted chicken. She set it down, but did not pick up the paper. Like it was so not for her, she shouldn’t even touch it.

“Hotel St. Clair,” my father told her, reaching for the chicken. My dad was always hungry. He was a constant nibbler, known for standing in front of the fridge for long periods, grazing, and always jumped on food as soon as it arrived. “In the St. Ivy Islands.”

“Why is it by my plate?”

“Because,” my dad said, serving himself a large helping, “I have a conference there next week, and I want you to come with me.”

Immediately, my mom’s face said
NO
. Or maybe
NO!
The little crease appeared between her eyes that Peyton had, in her earshot, once not-so-smartly referred to as Anger Canyon. “A trip? Now? Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Give me one reason why.”

She sighed, then sat down, pushing the folded paper aside to pick up her napkin. “Next weekend is visitation at Lincoln.”

“Julie, you go often enough to miss one day.”

“He counts on me to be there, Peyton.”

“We’ll make sure Ames visits, then.”

She shook her head. “And Sydney just started a new school. . . . It’s just not a good idea.”

My dad looked at me. His expression made it clear I should say
I’m fine
. So I did.

“Honey, you can’t just stay here by yourself,” she told me, sounding tired.

“I already talked to Jenn’s parents. They’d love to have her.”

I blinked, surprised. It was true I hadn’t talked to Jenn in a few days, but I was still surprised she hadn’t mentioned anything about this. She might not, I realized, even know. When my dad wanted something, he went for it.

“Julie,” he said now, “you need this.
We
need this. It’s two days on a beautiful beach, and everything’s taken care of. Just say yes.”

The
NO
was still on her face. Even so, she said, “I’ll think about it.”

My dad didn’t say anything, his expression measured, as he felt out how hard to push the issue. “Okay,” he said. “Do that.”

And with that, the subject was dropped. But clearly not forgotten, as I heard them talking about it twice more that evening: once as they watched the news while I very quietly loaded the dishwasher, and again from upstairs, as I was getting ready for bed. The next morning, as I passed the War Room, I saw she’d pulled her file labeled
TRAVEL
onto the desk, the one that contained packing lists, intricate clothes-folding diagrams, and all her guidebooks. If they went, it would be her first trip in over a year, and I wanted her to have that. Plus, a whole weekend with Jenn might help to bridge the distance that I’d recently felt creeping into our increasingly rare conversations, both on the phone and face-to-face. Maybe this would be good for all of us. But the morning they were supposed to leave, we got a phone call.

“Jenn’s sick,” my mom reported when I came downstairs for school. My dad was leaning against the fridge with his coffee. “Stomach bug. They all have it.”

“Ugh,” I said.

“Exactly. So you can’t stay there this weekend.” She looked at my dad. “What now?”

“Meredith?”

“She’s away at a meet,” I told them. “Left yesterday.”

My mom sighed. “Well, that’s that. Peyton, you go ahead, and I’ll stay here. It’s probably better this way, anyway.”

“No, no, hold on,” my dad said. “Let me think.”

“I’m seventeen,” I told them. “I can stay alone for a weekend.”

“
That’s
not happening,” my mom told me. “I think we all know well what a lack of supervision can lead to.”

Hearing this, I felt stung. I’d never done anything, not even skipped school. The last thing I deserved was to have the same old assumptions applied, but clearly, this wasn’t about me.

“Hold on,” my dad said, pulling out his phone and typing something as I got down a bowl and poured my cereal. I was just about to add milk when he said, “Done. It’s taken care of.”

I looked at him. Now I was an It. Nice. “How?”

He replied to my mom, not me. “Ames and Marla. They’ll be here at four, stay the whole weekend. He says it’s not a problem at all.”

“Oh, they don’t need to do that,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. I mean, I’ll be fine.”

“Ames and Marla?” My mom wrinkled her brow. “Oh, I hate to impose on them that way. He’s already going to Lincoln tomorrow.”

“He’s happy to do it, he says. And Marla’s got the whole weekend off.”

Oh, great. I’d heard Marla say a total of about ten words in the months I’d known her. Having her here would be no different, really, than Ames and I alone. I said, “Um, I actually have this new friend, Layla. I’m sure I could stay with her.”

They both looked at me. “A new friend? You haven’t mentioned that.”

“Well, I just met her. But—”

“I’m not sending you to stay with a family I don’t know at all, Sydney,” my mom said, shaking her head. “That could even be worse than staying by yourself.”

“Then I’ll just do that.”

“Ames and Marla are coming,” my dad said. His tone made it clear this negotiation was over. “Now, Sydney, eat your breakfast. You’re going to be late.”

Helpless, I sat down at the table as my dad walked over and kissed my mom on the forehead, then said something quietly to her that I couldn’t hear. She smiled, reluctantly, and I realized how long it had been since I’d seen her anything but barely coping or outright sad. And what would I tell her, anyway? That this person whom you count on and totally adore gives me the creeps—for no reason I could specifically say—and his girlfriend wouldn’t help matters? I’d sound crazy. Maybe I was.

“Sydney?” she asked me suddenly. I looked up. “Everything okay?”

I met her eyes, saying nothing but wishing she would. That somehow, in the midst of all her grief and distraction, she might be able to finally see me, if not hear the words I couldn’t speak aloud.

A beat passed, then another. She was starting to look worried, the canyon finding its way onto her face again. From the open doorway, my dad was watching me, too.

“Yeah,” I told them. “I’m fine.”

CHAPTER
7

THIS TIME
at Seaside, I was sure of it. The music playing was bluegrass.

“You want another slice?”

I shook my head. Layla slid out from the booth where we were sitting, taking her plate with her. As she ducked behind the counter, grabbing a second piece to heat up, I walked over to the jukebox. It was the vintage kind, with actual typed titles and a slot to put in coins. Each selection was a quarter. The song currently playing was called “Rope Swing.”

“We call that thing the Dinosaur,” Layla said from behind me. A moment later, she was leaning on the glass. “My dad bought it at a flea market when he took over this place from my grandfather.”

“So pizza runs in the family,” I said.

“Not exactly. My mom’s the Italian one. Daddy’s family is from the mountains,” she said. “But when he married in, it was understood he’d take over Seaside eventually. He wanted to make it more his own, though; hence the Dinosaur. That’s when the music rule started.”

“Music rule?”

“Nothing but bluegrass during business hours.” She shook her head. “We have tried everything to talk reason into him. I mean, this place is called Seaside Pizza. Bluegrass is mountain music. It’s totally incongruous.”

“It’s pretty, though,” I said as “Rope Swing” went into another chorus.

“Oh, it’s great. I mean, it’s the first thing I learned to play. It’s just not exactly what teenagers want to listen to after school. And since we’re always trying to get more business, it’s kind of ridiculous.”

“You play music?”

She nodded, still looking at the song choices. “It’s the only thing my dad’s into other than cars and work. He taught me the banjo when I was seven.”

“You play
banjo
?”

“You say it like I said I do brain surgery or castrate elephants,” she said, and laughed.

“It’s just pretty impressive.”

She shrugged. “I like singing better. But Rosie’s the one with the voice.”

With this, she turned on her heel, going back behind the counter. Mac was back there as well, working some dough in his hands with one of his textbooks open on the counter in front of him, while his dad chopped peppers, facing the window. It was only my third time or so after school at Seaside, but I’d already learned enough of the routine to feel comfortable there. Which was why I’d made a point of coming today. I planned to stay as long as I possibly could.

I’d gone to school at seven forty-five that morning. At lunch, I checked my voice mail to find a message my mom had left as she and my dad drove to the airport an hour or so earlier. She told me their flight was on time, that she’d have her phone with her all weekend, and I should call if I needed anything at all. But I didn’t know what I needed, only what I absolutely did not: to be stuck with Ames (and silent, shrinking Marla) for the entire weekend.

I’d had a pit in my stomach all day, trying to figure out how to be gone as long as possible. There was school, at least, and then I’d go meet Layla at Seaside, where she went every day after the final bell until deliveries starting coming in and Mac could drop her at home. I could stay until at least six or so, getting home with only a couple of hours left before I could reasonably go to bed. Saturday, I planned to slip out early and stay gone all day, using an excuse I hadn’t formulated yet. That was as far as I’d gotten.

I slid back into the booth opposite Layla, who was now digging into her second slice. Unlike fries, her pizza she consumed in a somewhat normal way, folding it in half like a taco and proceeding from tip to crust. For such a small, lithe person, she could eat a lot, I was noticing. In contrast, I’d never seen Mac sample a single thing at Seaside, which had to require a huge amount of self-control. The only reason I’d turned down a second slice was that dread was taking up much of my stomach.

As I thought this, my phone beeped. I pulled it out of my purse. The text was from Ames, whose number my mom had insisted I add to my contacts before leaving for school that morning.

Just got here. What’s your ETA? Cooking you dinner!

“What’s up?”

I looked up at Layla. She was dabbing her mouth with a napkin, half the slice already devoured. “Nothing. Just a text from . . . My parents are out of town.”

“So they’re checking in?”

“Yeah.”

She went back to eating, and I wondered why I didn’t tell her what was going on. Nothing had surprised her so far; this probably wouldn’t, either. But I liked Layla, and felt lucky that learning about Peyton hadn’t changed how she felt about me. Adding on another layer of weirdness, though, might do just that.

An hour or so
, I wrote back.
You don’t have to cook.

I hit
SEND
. In seconds, he’d replied.

I want to.

I stuffed my phone back in my bag, turning off the ringer. As I did, I felt a rush of new anger toward my brother. There had been so many ripple effects of his bad choices, but this one was mine alone to deal with. Thanks a lot.

I swallowed, then looked over at the register. Mac was tossing the crust now, using both hands to shape and thin it. I watched him, drawing something like comfort from the repetitive movements, and then he suddenly looked at me. For once I stared back, if only for a second, before turning away.

At five thirty, the phone started ringing and business started to pick up. The bluegrass, which apparently played nonstop whether anyone inserted coins or not, went from clearly audible to faint to silenced as more people came in. By quarter of six, when Layla and I gathered up our stuff and vacated the booth, there was a line at the counter, the evening shift guys had come on, and Mac was zipping pizza boxes into warmers, getting ready for deliveries.

“I guess you’re going?” I said to Layla as he headed to the truck, parked outside at the curb.

She glanced at the counter, where her dad was making change for someone. “Looks pretty busy, so I’ll probably stick around until Mac’s heading in my direction.”

“I can take you home,” I offered.

“Nah, my dad probably wants me to take orders. But thanks. I
do
want to ride in your car sometime. I bet it’s amazing.”

I was so desperate to avoid what awaited me, I almost offered the car to her, just to stall. But she was already heading back behind the counter. “I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, pulling my bag over my shoulder. “See you then.”

As I pushed out the door to the parking lot, Mac was piling the warmers into the truck. As I crossed in front of him, he called out, “Be safe.”

I turned, looking back at him. This was what you said to someone getting into a car or leaving for the night. It carried no great meaning or symbolic importance. But even so, hearing him say it, I felt tears prick my eyes.

“Thanks,” I replied. “You too.”

He nodded, then went back to what he was doing. I got into my car, buckled up, and started the engine. Like the first time I’d come to Seaside, I ended up behind him at the light, and for two blocks, then three. At the next intersection, he put on his right blinker and turned. As he did, he waved to me out his window. Just a flutter of fingers, an acknowledgment. I was on my own now.

* * * 

When I walked in my house, the first thing I saw were the candles. They were the ones my mom only pulled out for special occasions, like Christmas and Thanksgiving, kept stored in the sideboard behind the liquor. If you didn’t know this, you’d have to search for them. They sat on the table, not yet lit.

“Hey there,” Ames said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing a button-down shirt, jeans, and sneakers, and holding one of our wooden spoons. “How was school?”

It was all just so
weird
, the juxtaposition of this question, which my mom asked me every day, and the candles, which indicated something almost romantic.

“Where’s Marla?” I asked. It wasn’t like she had a presence that filled a room or anything, but I could just feel there were only two of us there.

“Sick,” he replied. “Stomach flu. Poor kid. Sucks, right?”

By the way he turned, walking back into the kitchen, I could tell he expected me to follow him. But I stayed where I was, feeling my face grow flushed. Marla wasn’t coming? At all?

“You didn’t have to cook,” I said.

“I know. But you haven’t lived until you’ve had my spaghetti with meat sauce. I’d be doing you a disservice not letting you experience it.”

“I’m actually not that hungry,” I said.

At this, he turned, a flicker of irritation on his face. As quickly as it appeared, though, it was gone. “Just have a taste, then. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

Everywhere I turned, I was stuck. I wasn’t prone to panicking, but suddenly I could feel my heart beating. “I’m, um, going to go put my stuff away.”

“Okay,” he said. “Don’t be too long. I want to catch up. It’s been a while.”

I took the stairs two at a time, like someone was chasing me, then ducked into my room, shutting the door behind me. I sat down on my bed, pulling out my phone, and tried to think. A moment later, I heard music drifting upstairs, and somehow, I knew he’d now lit the candles. That was when I looked up a number and dialed it.

A man answered. “Seaside Pizza. Can you hold?”

I’d been expecting Layla. Now I didn’t know what to do. “Yes.”

A click, and then silence. I thought about hanging up, but before I could, he was back. “Thanks for holding. Can I help you?”

Shit. “Um . . . I want to place a delivery order?”

I could hear talking in the background, but none were a girl’s voice. “Go ahead.”

“Large half pepperoni, half deluxe,” I said.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Address?”

I took a breath. “It’s 4102 Incline—”

There was a clanging noise in the background. “Sorry, can you hold another minute?”

“Sure,” I said. Downstairs, the song had changed, and I could smell garlic, wafting up under my closed door.

“Sorry about that,” a voice said on the other end of the line. It was a girl. Oh, my God. “So that’s a half pepperoni, half deluxe, large? What’s the name?”

“Layla?”

A pause. “Yeah?”

“It’s Sydney.”

“Oh, hey!” She sounded so pleased to hear my voice that I almost burst into tears. “What’s up? Regretting you only had one slice this afternoon?”

“Do you want to spend the night tonight?”

I literally blurted this; I doubted she’d even made it out. But again, she surprised me. “Sure. Let me just ask.”

There was a clank as she put the phone down. As I sat there, listening to the register beep and some other muffled conversation, I realized I was holding my breath. When she came back, I still didn’t exhale.

“I’m in,” she said cheerfully. “Mac can bring me with the pizza. In, like, twenty minutes or so?”

“Great,” I said, entirely too enthusiastically. “Thank you.”

“Sure. Just give me your address and a phone number, okay?”

I did, and then we hung up. I went into the bathroom and washed my face, telling myself I could handle anything for twenty minutes. Then I went downstairs.

Ames was at the stove when I walked in, his back to me. “Ready to eat? I’ve got the table set.”

I glanced into the dining room: sure enough, the candles were lit, two plates laid out with silverware and folded paper napkins. “I actually, um, have a friend coming over. She’s bringing a pizza.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he turned around to face me. “I told you I was cooking.”

“I know, but—”

“Your mom didn’t mention anything to me about a friend visiting,” he told me.

She also thought Marla was going to be here
, I thought.

“It’s not very polite, Sydney, to make other plans when a person has gone out of their way to do something for you.”

I didn’t ask you to do anything
. “I’m sorry . . . I guess signals got crossed.”

He looked at me for a long moment, not even trying to hide his irritation. Then, slowly, he turned back around. “You can at least have a taste. Since I’ve gone to all this trouble.”

“Okay,” I said. It was weird to see an adult pout. “Sure.”

At the table, he served us both, then picked up his glass of cola, holding it up. “To good friends,” he said.

I clinked my drink against his, then took an obligatory sip as he watched me over the rim of his glass. I glanced at my watch. It had been ten minutes.

“So I rented a couple of movies,” he said, twirling some noodles around his fork. “Thought we’d settle in on the couch, have some popcorn. Hope you’re a fan of heavy butter. Or else we can’t be buds anymore.”

If only it were that easy. “Yeah. Sure.”

He smiled at me then, in a forgiving way. Like I’d earned another chance or something. Everything was wrong here.

Twelve minutes.

“This is good,” I said, forcing myself to try the pasta. “Thanks for cooking.”

“Of course.” He smiled, clearly pleased. “It’s the least I can do, since you’re stuck with me all weekend. Speaking of which, what are you up to tomorrow? I’m heading to see Peyton in the morning, but I’ll be free all afternoon. I was thinking we could hit a movie or go bowling, then have dinner out somewhere.”