“Who was that?”
“The gym teacher.”
“My life is over,” I said, a sudden ringing in my ears. I breathed in panicked gulps. “I’m gonna be expelled!”
“Relax,” Bee said, shouldering her backpack. “Worst-case scenario? He maybe smelled some weed. They can’t kick you out over a smell.”
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely,” Bee said. “Probably. Maybe? It’s last bell now anyway. Let’s get burgers.”
* * *
We had to wait until Bee sobered up enough to drive, and I was so hungry by the time we pulled into the Krystal parking lot that I almost forgot to be anxious. Bee hopped out of the truck and strode in ahead of me. I took my time, hands in my pockets, listening to the swollen absence of the cicadas and feeling the cool touch of the fall wind on my skin. Inside, Bee was mid-conversation with a thin, prematurely balding guy in a red polo and visor.
“What do you want?” she said, turning to me. “It’s on me, since I probably ruined your Harvard plans or whatever.” I opened my mouth to tell her, but a movement in the kitchen caught my eye. The cook, also dressed in a red shirt and visor, seemed familiar to me, but his back was facing us. Just then he turned around and I saw Grant’s face, grease-stained and wide-eyed, staring out at me from beneath that red visor. His hair was lank with sweat and his shoulders sagged with fatigue. His cheeks flashed suddenly red and he broke eye contact with me after a moment.
I rushed outside and leaned against Bee’s car, my heart pounding. Was this what Grant had been hiding from me? That he had an after-school job? Why hide that? And if it was such a big secret, what would happen now that I had seen him like this? When I saw him coming around the corner, his visor around his neck and his apron missing, my heart pounded even harder.
“Walk with me?” he said.
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
“Nah,” Grant said, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking off slowly down the highway. I followed him, my legs feeling clammy and rubbery. “I’ve covered like a million shifts for Greg. He owes me.”
“Jeez,” I said. “How many hours a week do you work?”
“At this job?” Grant said. “Or all of ’em together?” I raised my eyebrows and gave him a blank stare. “Yeah,” he said slowly, chewing his lip. “Confession time, I guess. Let’s see.” His mouth moved silently and he stared at the sky as he counted his fingertips. “It’s twenty hours here, ten hours doing odd jobs for Chloe’s family farm in the fall and summer, and ten hours washing dishes at Hungry Dan’s. So forty hours, I guess—give or take, depending on when I’m covering shifts.”
“Is that legal?” I said, dumbfounded.
“Never really thought about it,” he said. “I guess so now, since I’m eighteen, but probably not before then, no. Krystal’s the only place that gives me a check though, so it always worked out.”
“When do you find time for football?” I said. “Or parties? Or homework? Or … you know, me?”
“I don’t get a lot of sleep,” he said, “and I don’t really do homework, a lot of the time. My grades are terrible. I cover shifts a bunch, especially in the summer. That way I can call in favors whenever a certain girl wants my attention.” He winked at me and I laughed.
I reached out to touch his shoulder. “Why were you hiding all this from me?”
“I’m not a very public person in general,” he said.
I nodded.
“Anyway, I’m sorry if I was weird about stuff. I just … I was afraid you’d see me differently. That and I didn’t want you to feel bad about the extra shifts I work so we can go out.”
“I do see you differently,” I said.
He gave me an embarrassed look.
I shook my head and smiled. “I can add ‘hardworking’ to your list of virtues.”
“Jeez,” he said, with a sheepish grin. “Can this count toward the honesty game?”
“Sure,” I said, “but only if this can count as mine.” I hugged his arm and brought my mouth inches from his ear. “I’ll probably be expelled on Monday, and I’m really, really high right now.” I planted a kiss on his cheek before he could respond.
Now it was Grant’s turn to laugh.
“Amanda Hardy,” he said, “you might be the most interesting person I ever met.”
JANUARY, SIX YEARS AGO
Their fighting woke me up at four thirty. I turned my back to my bedroom door and listened as Mom and Dad screamed at each other. Each swearword, each sharp, barking yell made me flinch as though I were being physically slapped. I stared at my reflection in my bedroom window, lined in orange by a nearby streetlight. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t drown out their voices.
“He’s coming home with bruises once a week for Christ’s sake!” Dad said. “We have to do something!”
“So you wanna throw my baby to the goddamn wolves?” Mom said, ice in her voice.
“Jesus, Bonnie,” Dad said, “it’s the Boy Scouts, not fucking Oz. The kid can’t even throw a ball for Christ’s sake.”
It went back and forth like that. I listened but not closely, because this was an old argument. Dad wanted me to play sports, join the scouts, go camping with him and his navy buddies, do whatever it took to “toughen me up.” He asked me to play catch with him once a week. The nights we didn’t, he still looked disappointed, but the nights we did were in some ways worse because I had to watch the frustration grow in his eyes. He said it was for my safety, but Mom said putting me closer to the people who were bullying me would just get me bullied more, and I agreed. I had just started slipping back to sleep when their argument stopped being typical.