crap.”
“Tasty.”
“Yeah. Oh, and I also stopped at Myrna’s to pick up paint. I’m starting the coral this afternoon.”
“Cool,” Mo says, sounding bored.
I pretend not to hear it and launch into an explanation of how Myrna’s Country Craft had the exact shades I need for my ocean mural—seaweed lime, midnight magenta, burnt tangerine. Deep down he cares.
And it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t thrill Mo, because it thrills me. It took a year of begging before my parents finally agreed to let me paint my bedroom walls, and now the ocean is seeping its way in, one drop at a time. I work slowly. Two whole months ago I pried the lid off the first can of paint, and I’ve only just finished the background. But rushing through—what would be the point in that?
The water was tricky, but I think it’s nearly perfect now. I’ve got ribbons of nine different blues, each about six inches thick, weaving in and out of each other but never ending, so they’re flowing continuously around the entire room. I wanted the shades to be separate but twisted, distinct, like strips of fabric swirled into one fluid whole. And they are. Standing in the center of the room and turning a slow circle feels like being caught in a whirlpool.
“So after the coral I’ll do anemones and then start the fish,” I say. “The library book I found has over two hundred different species, and at first I was just going to pick a dozen or so, but don’t you think it’d be cool if I had one of every single kind? Mo?”
I fiddle with the Bluetooth in my ear. First Mom insists no cell while I’m driving, then Dad goes and buys me the earpiece—it’s schizophrenic parenting at its worst. Or best.
“I don’t know. When do I get to see it?”
“Nobody sees it until it’s done.”
“Nobody? Not even your parents?”
“They respect my need for artistic privacy.”
He snorts.
“And maybe they don’t care,” I add. “So I’m torn, because if I draw fish in schools like they are in the ocean, I’m limited to fewer species, but if I make every fish different, it isn’t accurate.”
“Since when does art have to be accurate?”
“Exactly,” I say. “Occasionally you say the right thing, and then everything makes sense.”
“Occasionally? I always say the right thing.” His keyboard clicks in the background again. “And I say screw accuracy and go for a million different species.”
“Two hundred, and I think I will. Hey, how was the lab?”
“I’m filing. It’s so boring, I spent most of the day wondering if I could slit my wrists with paper.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “That might be classified as a call for help, as opposed to a genuine suicide attempt.”
“Maybe. So are you ready to kill yourself over at Herr Twister’s yet?”
“No.”
“Maybe I should get a job there too.”
“Ha.”
“We could wear frilly aprons together,” he says, “and have minimarshmallow fights and drink free bubble- gum-flavored milk shakes.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think they’d hire me?” he asks.
“I don’t think you can be nice to people all day long.”
“I can be nice.”
“
“You’re right. I can’t do that.”
“I know,” I say.
“I’m kind of stressing out here as it is.”
“About Bryce bailing on you?”
“No. My dad is acting weird.”
“What does acting weird mean?”
“I don’t know. Tense. Distracted.”
I swallow. The Husseins make me nervous.
Mrs. Hussein wears heels to the grocery store and carries a slim alligator-skin clutch. Her moisturizer is French and comes in an exotic gold tube the size of my thumb (so maybe I’ve done a little bathroom snooping), and I can’t even pronounce the name, but it smells expensive. Like spicy flowers.
She doesn’t try to fit in. She must see that the other women here wear heels to church and church only. And they carry purses big enough to hold an umbrella, a can of Mace, and a Bible. It’s economy-size Lubriderm for all their moisturizing needs, and when they go to Applebee’s for girls’ night out, they don’t invite women who smell like France.
As for Mr. Hussein, the man is granite. I’d be surprised if he’s had a feeling in the last decade. I don’t even think he knows my name, but I’m pretty sure he hates me.
“What do you think he’s worried about?” I ask.
“No clue. It’s weird. We talk all the time, but it’s only about school and next year and college, and he’s the only one who gets to ask questions. Forget it. So, is your boss nice?”
I readjust my bracelets, and they jangle against the steering wheel. “Yeah. His name’s Phil, but everyone calls him Soup.”
“As in chicken noodle?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird.”
“I know. But he’s nice. I dripped butterscotch all over the floor today, and he didn’t get mad at me.”
“Did he recognize your last name?”
The question startles me, and it takes me a second to realize I’m supposed to answer it. I have to release my breath to speak. “No. He hasn’t been managing the place for very long, though. He’s only lived in E-town a couple of years, I think. Whatever. Hey, question for you: Is it weird to friend someone on Facebook that you barely know? Like someone you just met and see all the time, but don’t actually know?”
Mo is silent, and I hear more clicking computer keys. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“A guy at work. I don’t want him to think I like him or anything. And it’s not like we’re friends or like he even actually talks to me, but—”
“So then why do you want to friend him?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know. I guess I just . . .”
“Got it. Summer. Custard. Love is in the air.”
“It’s not like that.”
He laughs. “Sure it isn’t.”
“Never mind,” I mutter.
“Now I want to see this guy. What did you say his name was? Chicken Noodle?”
“No, Soup is the manager, and he’s like thirty and married and balding. It’s just another employee.”
“Name?”
I pause. “Reed.”
“Reed? Like the plant? What’s his last name?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m logging into your Facebook right now so I can friend him for you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Last name?”
“Mo, no.”
“Because you don’t know his last name, or you don’t want me knowing his last name?”
“Because I don’t want you making fun of him before I decide you’re allowed to make fun of him.”
