And at work, it isn’t much different.
Most of the time, people only see me when they need my help. And even then, they treat me like I’m only halfway human, a rung or two beneath them. There are copious amounts of Annette Townsends out there and while it’s a shame, it’s also par for the course.
It doesn’t bother me half as much as it used to though. I learned quickly and early on not to give miserable people an ounce of my energy, and somewhere around age thirty I stopped wallowing in my own pity every time I felt left out or extraordinarily friendless.
I have my crazy mother and my crazy-loyal boyfriend, a job that I love, and a place of my own.
I don’t need to be seen to be happy anymore.
I don’t need a robust social life and a million fake friends who only text when they want something.
“I’m sorry for intervening earlier with your customer,” she says. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable. It’s just that it’s difficult for me to stand by and let someone treat someone else like—”
“Oh my goodness. Do not apologize. I’m over it. Honestly.”
Over the years, I’ve become good at compartmentalizing, at taking unpleasant experiences and shoving them out of my mind, almost to the point where it’s as if they didn’t happen.
An advertisement-wrapped tourist bus carrying a bunch of retirees whooshes passed us, leaving a plume of diesel stench in its wake. I hold my breath until the air clears.
“Can I take you to lunch?” she asks.
I’m certain I’ve misheard her. “I’m sorry?”
Odessa offers an unhurried, gracious smile, hands clasped in front of her chest as if she’s begging. “I’d like to take you to lunch. That is, if you’re free. I just feel awful about earlier.”
There’s a glimmer in her brilliant gaze, as if she’s half kidding about the guilt, half not.
“Oh.” I lift my brows, glancing around. Normally Tuesdays are when I catch up on laundry, visit my mother for a bit, and run miscellaneous errands before binge-watching some shitty TV show and taking a two-hour, candlelit bubble bath with my ear pods in.
My routine is sacred.
Not even Sean has been able to charm his way into one of my priceless Tuesday afternoons.
“If you’re busy, I understand. We could always do it another time.”
“I just …” I bite my lower lip. I don’t want to offend Odessa. I also don’t want to risk pissing off my employers should they catch wind of me fraternizing with clients. “I sort of … I already had plans …”
She smiles though her eyes turn glassy. “No worries, Cate. Totally understand. Another time?”
“Of course,” I lie, burying my guilt into a tiny compartment until I no longer feel it.
While I appreciate Odessa’s kind offer, I’m getting the impression she wants to be friends—and I don’t do the friend thing. Not anymore. I haven’t for some time and I’ve found my life has been better for it.
Or that’s what I’ve managed to convince myself anyway.
“Wonderful.” She digs into her bag and retrieves a key fob, pointing at the jet-black Maserati sedan behind her. “Why don’t I give you my number? And you can just get a hold of me whenever you’re free?”
We exchange numbers and go our separate ways, the ball firmly, regrettably in my court.
I leave Palm Shores and head over the bridge to the land of less glitz and glamour, all the while wondering … what if?
Maybe one lunch with Odessa DuVernay wouldn’t be so bad.
She seems perfectly harmless.
What’s the worst that could happen?
4
Zsofia
“Are you going to tell my mother?” Aviana worries the inside of her lip as I crumple a cellophane snack cake wrapper in my hand, one I found wedged between the wall and the back of her bed when I was turning down her bedsheets for the night.
She’s bingeing again.
I imagine if I were to scour her room, I’d find boxes of chocolate cupcakes shoved in the back of her closet, bags of sour candies and sour cream and onion potato chips stowed beneath sweaters in her dresser drawers, and carefully concealed cans of non-diet root beer in her bathroom vanity.
“Of course not.” I wouldn’t dream of it.
She rakes her silky, russet-brown hair into a loose top knot and secures it with a hair tie from her wrist before climbing into bed. Her pajamas—a polka-dotted button-down with matching shorts, are almost bursting at the seams.
Aviana is beautiful—a near spitting image of her father right down to the striking gaze that can’t decide if it wants to be blue or hazel. But Mrs. DuVernay has her convinced otherwise. If it were up to her, Aviana would be thirty pounds lighter and three years away from her first nose job. Not only that, but she has Aviana convinced her hair is too fine, her feet are too wide, and her eyes are too close together—the sorts of things that can’t be fixed by a plastic surgeon.
It kills Mrs. DuVernay that Aviana is nothing like her.
Not even their personalities share a single commonality.
Mrs. DuVernay is harsh, cunning, and calculating.
Aviva is sweet, innocent, and inclusive.
Yin and yang, those two.
“Is something bothering you lately?” I ask because I know she tends to binge more when she’s stressed. When something eats away at her, she copes by consuming copious amounts of contraband. I’ll make sure to dispose of the evidence in my apartment trash, where Mrs. DuVernay won’t see it.
Aviana shrugs, picking at a loose thread in the blanket bunched up in her lap.
I take that as a yes.
“I’m failing pre-chem,” she says. “Like … really failing it.” Her lower lip trembles. “If my mom finds out …”
“Can you talk to your teacher? Get some extra help? Find a tutor?”
“School’s out in eight weeks. Even if I got straight A’s on everything the rest of the semester, I’d only come out with a D and I’d have to retake the class again next year. With a bunch of freshmen. Which will be humiliating. And I have to have at least a C in order to get into Chadwick.”
I take her hands in mine, drawing in a long, deep breath as I gather my thoughts. “You’re only fifteen. You should be enjoying this time in your life, not stressing over the future. You’ll get into Chadwick. I know you will. And if you have to retake chemistry, then so be it. You won’t be the first person to have to do that and you won’t be the last.”
Aviana’s eyes water.
There’s something else.
It’s not just pre-chem.
“What? What is it?” I give her soft hands a reassuring squeeze.
“Remember Braden?” she asks, referring to the boy she’s been crushing on since seventh grade.
“Of course.”
“He’s dating Alyssa now.” A thick tear slides down her rosy cheek. She swipes it away before I can hand her a tissue from the nightstand. “That traitor whore.”
My chest tightens and aches for her. Alyssa and Aviana have been best friends since elementary school, close as sisters. The emotional anguish she’s experiencing must be torrential.