He laughed. “Oh, wow, you’re really starting with the basics.”
“Yep. I said I knew everything. That’s part of everything.” The truth was, I wasn’t sure I did know everything about Braden. As Gage’s best friend, he was as familiar to me as a brother, but in some ways, he was a mystery to me. But I assumed I was the same for him, so I had confidence that I knew him at least as well as he knew me.
“Swampy? Really? You make them sound nasty.”
“Yes, they are swampy.” His eyes were awesome—brown interlaced with green. It was like they couldn’t quite decide which color team they wanted to play for. “Your turn.”
“Fine. You have steel-gray eyes.”
“Oh, I see how you are. Stealing my facts.”
“Yeah, we should be able to match the other person’s fact. If I didn’t know your eye color and you knew mine, I should’ve lost right there. So now you have to match my fact.”
I nodded. “Okay. I get it. Evolving rules. So you’re up then.”
“Right. You suck at math.”
I gasped in mock offense. “Rude . . . but true.” Okay, so I needed to think of a subject in school Braden was bad in. Problem. Braden was an excellent student. So my match could’ve been that he didn’t suck at any subject, but I didn’t want to praise him after he just slammed me. “Oh! Got it. You suck at choir. Supporting evidence: You volunteer for the solo in the seventh grade Christmas program. You forget the song. You sing the few words you remember completely off-key.” I laughed, remembering the cringe-worthy moment. “I think we still have that on home video somewhere.”
“Ouch.” He probably grabbed his chest then, but he had at least half a smile on his face. Braden was good at crooked smiles. “For the record, your brother volunteered me for that solo when I was absent and I beat him for it after the fact. But yes, I suck at choir.”
“My turn,” I said, conjuring up a mental picture of Braden so I could think of my next fact. I almost said he had a scar through his right eyebrow, but that suddenly seemed so personal. Maybe I shouldn’t know that about him. Especially since it was barely noticeable. “You hate to lose.”
“That’s a wash.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, so do you, so those facts cancel each other out. Well, actually, you really don’t like to lose and I just sort of don’t like to lose, so you’re probably right. I should probably think of something you just sort of don’t like.”
“Whatever, punk! You know you hate to lose as much as I do. And the proof of that will come when I beat you at this game and you cry like a baby.”
The arguing renewed in his house and we both fell silent. He sighed. “I guess I should probably go back inside and try to steer him toward sleep.”
“Does that work?”
“Sometimes.”
“Good luck.”
“Yeah.” After he walked a few shuffling steps away, I heard him whisper, “This isn’t over. I will beat you.”
“Never,” I said with a smile.
The next morning when Braden walked in the back door and through the kitchen, where I sat eating breakfast, we both pretended the night before hadn’t happened. I picked up the basketball I had been propping my feet on and threw it at the back of his head as he walked by. He turned around and walked back to where I sat at the bar. He smeared his finger across the top of my peanut butter toast and then stuck the big glob in his mouth as he walked away.
“Gross,” I called after him. I wasn’t sure why we’d both decided to pretend it didn’t happen, but I was relieved he didn’t mention the late-night chat by the fence. It almost made it seem like it took place in a different reality.
Chapter 8
Saturday morning at work was busier than I would’ve liked, but I didn’t see anyone I knew, so that was good. Linda taught me to use the register, and by Tuesday she had the nerve to leave me alone for an hour while she had dinner. I told her if I gave away all the money in the register it was all on her. She told me she trusted me and my math abilities. I didn’t mention that I sucked at math.
Thirty minutes into my alone time with the register, Skye came running in from the back. Her hair was now platinum blond with streaks of green. She had on a flowy, robelike shirt, much like one of the shirts Linda had me buy that I hadn’t dared to wear yet, and was holding a pair of boots in her hand, calling, “Mama Lou!” She slid to a stop on the hardwood floor and looked at me. “Hi, Charlie. Where’s Linda?”
“Eating.”
Her shoulders slumped. She held up one of the boots. “Do you see that?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted me to see. I obviously saw the big black boot she held up, so there must’ve been some detail about it I was supposed to notice, but for the life of me I didn’t see anything but a boot. “Uh . . . no?”
“I tried on the left boot at the thrift store. This is the right boot. I didn’t even notice it was missing two lace hooks right in the middle. A total rookie mistake.”
I smiled at her use of a sports analogy.
“You don’t know how to fix it, do you?”
I still didn’t even know what she was talking about. “Duct tape?”
She laughed.
“Linda can fix shoes?”
“I don’t know. She always has some creative solution for my problems. How long has she been gone?”
“About thirty minutes.”
“Maybe I’ll wait.” She wandered over to a hutch and started squirting herself with a glass bottle that I thought was just for show.
I straightened some hanging shirts. “I think I saw you the other day, walking with someone holding a guitar case.”
“Henry. My boyfriend. He plays for a local band. Well, I shouldn’t call them local anymore—they’re getting some statewide gigs. It’s pretty amazing. They still play here sometimes, though.” She picked up a different glass bottle and walked over to me. “Can I use your arm? I don’t want to mix scents.”
I held up my arm and she twisted it, palm up, then sprayed a small amount on my wrist.
She put her arm next to mine. “You’re tan.”
“My mother was Mexican.” I bit down on my tongue, hoping she didn’t catch the was I threw in there. I didn’t want to have to explain that word. Especially not when I kind of told Linda my mother was alive.