Still. It looks lonely. Even the mesh laundry bag is sad, only half full.
My phone vibrates once against my leg, through the backpack at my feet, signaling a text. Whoops. We’re supposed to have them turned off at school. But who’d text me now, anyway? I bend over to reach for it, and my glasses—a vintage pair that doesn’t fit well—clatter to the cement. They’ve got to be right beneath me, but I can’t see them. I can’t see anything. I hear the loud prattle of a mob of girls heading our way.
“Oh crud, oh crud, oh crud—”
Lindsey swipes up my glasses just before the girls hit. They buzz past, a swarm of perfume and laughter. “Did your vision get worse again?”
I slide them on, and the world comes back into focus. I frown. “Please. It gets worse every year. At this rate, I’ll be blind by twenty.”
She nods at my glasses. “And how many pairs do you own now?”
“Only three.” I wish they weren’t so expensive. I order them online for a discount, but they still eat up entire paychecks. My parents pay for my contacts, but I like variety. I’d prefer more variety. I peek at my phone, and I’m thrilled to find the text is from Max: saw two fallen branches in the shape of a heart. thought of you.
I grin like an idiot.
“Who was it?” Lindsey asks.
“Max!” But then I catch the look on her face. I shrug and turn off my phone. “It’s nothing. He saw . . . something.”
She flips her novel back open. “Oh.”
And then I have it: the perfect solution to her problem. Charlie is totally interested in her, Lindsey just needs someone there to guide her through those first difficult steps. She needs me there. A double date! I’M A GENIUS! I’m . . . dating Max. Who would never agree to such a thing. I glance at my best friend, who is staring through her mystery novel again. Trying to solve her own mystery. I cradle my phone in my hands and keep my mouth shut.
And I feel so disloyal to her.
I have an early shift on Saturday. I closed last night. It feels like I never leave, like I should just get it over with and put my old Disney Princess sleeping bag underneath the seventh-floor concessions counter. When I arrive at the theater, I’m surprised to find St. Clair behind the box office. Anna isn’t scheduled to work today. I’m further surprised when I notice what he’s wearing.
“What’s with the uniform?” I ask.
He shrugs. It’s a slow, full-bodied shrug that makes him seem . . . more European. “One of the managers said I spent so much time here, I ought to be working. So I am.”
“Wait. You got a job here?”
“Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” He widens his eyes, joking.
“You. Working?” St. Clair never discusses it, but everyone knows his family is rolling in it. He doesn’t need to work. Nor does he strike me as someone who’d want to.
“You don’t think I can handle ripping tickets?”
“My exhausted feet say it’s a little more than that.”
St. Clair grins, and my heart skips a beat. He really IS attractive. What’s my problem? I must be more tired than I thought. And I’m not interested in Anna’s boyfriend—he’s too short, too cocky—but the fact that I’m noticing him bothers me. I dive into work on another floor to distract myself from increasingly uncomfortable thoughts. But St. Clair approaches me a few hours later, once we’ve calmed down from a rush. “My feet feel dandy,” he says. “In fact, I’m considering forming a dance troupe. Would you be interested?”
“Oh, bite me.” I’m still irritated. The six people who complained to me about our parking garage didn’t help the situation. “Seriously, why did you get a job?”
“Because I thought it would build character.” He hops onto my concessions counter. “Because all of my teeth have fallen out, and I can’t afford dentures. Because—”
“Fine. Whatever. Be a dillhole.”
“I should be doing something productive, shouldn’t I?” St. Clair hops back down and grabs a broom from the supply closet. “All right, all right. I’m saving for our future.”
“Our future?” I give him a coy smile. “I’m flattered, really, but that’s unnecessary.”
He pokes my back with the tip of the broom.
“And is Anna aware that you’re saving for your future together ?”
“Of course.” St. Clair sweeps the fallen popcorn around my ankles while I take someone’s Diet Coke–and–soft-pretzel order. When I’m done, he continues. “Do you think I’d get a job and not discuss it with her first?”