Saint Anything(21)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“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.