Chapter Thirty-three
“Wish me luck at Chuck E. Cheese.” Mrs. Garrett sighs as she drops Jase and me off at the hardware store. “Hell on earth, with pizza and a giant talking mouse.”
It’s Jase and Tim’s shift today. Except that Tim didn’t show up to give us a ride. Mrs. Garrett, saying she didn’t need me to babysit because of a birthday party George is invited to at Chuck E. Cheese, drove us. My early afternoon free from Breakfast Ahoy, I’m thumbing idly through the SAT test prep guide Nan gave me.
Jase begins unpacking a shipment of nails. We say nothing about Tim’s absence, but I notice Jase’s eyes, under their thick dark lashes, flicking to the clock over the door, just as mine do. I don’t want Tim to screw up. But ten minutes go by, then twenty, then half an hour.
Mr. Garrett comes out of the back room to say hello. He claps Jase on the back and kisses me on the cheek, telling us there’s plenty of coffee in his office. He’s holed up back there, he says, doing the quarterly books. Jase whistles under his breath, sorting nails, scribbling amounts down on a pad. I hear a little repetitive sound coming from Mr. Garrett’s office. I flip pages in the prep guide, trying to identify the sound.
Click-click-click-click-click.
I look over at Jase inquiringly.
“Pen cap,” he explains. “My dad says clicking it always helps him add—or, in our case, subtract.” He opens a bag of bullet-head nails, letting them clatter into the clear plastic drawer in front of him.
“No better—the finances?” I come up to stretch my arms around his back, resting my cheek against his shoulder blade. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt today and I inhale the Jase smell.
“But no worse,” he responds with a grin, turning to face me, cupping the heel of his hand to the back of my neck, smiling as he pulls me closer.
“You look beat.” I trace the dark bluish shadow under his eye with a slow finger.
“Yup. I am. That feels good, Sam.”
“Are you burning the midnight oil? Doing what?”
“I guess I’m burning the daylight oil, but it sure doesn’t feel like daylight at four in the morning.”
His eyes are still shut. I smooth my finger down his cheek, then slide it back up to the other eye.
“You’re getting up at four in the morning? Why?”
“Don’t laugh.”
Why does that phrase always bring out a smile? He opens his eyes and grins back at me.
I school my face into a somber expression. “I won’t.”
“I’m a paperboy now.”
“What?”
“I’m delivering papers for the Stony Bay Sentinel. Starting at four, six days a week.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Two weeks. I didn’t think it would be quite this bad. You never see paperboys in movies chugging down Red Bull and No-Doz.”
“Probably because they’re usually ten. Couldn’t Duff do it?” His hand slides up to tangle in my hair, to pull out my elastic, because that’s what he always does.
“Duff doesn’t hope to go to college next year. I do. Even though it’s damn unlikely, the way things are going. Hell, I shouldn’t have bought that car. I just wanted it…so badly. And it’s nearly running now. With more money poured in, that is.” I bite my lip. I never have to worry about money. “Don’t look so sad, Sam. It’ll be okay. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“I brought it up,” I remind him. “I’m your girlfriend. You’re supposed to be able to talk about this stuff with me. It’s not just about me making free with your hot body, you know.”
“Though that completely works for me,” Jase says, twisting his fingers in my hair and pulling me closer.
“Oh hell. Not more of this PDA crap.”
We turn toward the door as Tim stalks in, wearing his gray Impress Grace Reed suit and looking crumpled and extremely pissed off.
“Mason,” Jase greets, not letting go of me. “You okay?” He indicates the clock with a hitch of his shoulder.
“That would depend on what ‘okay’ is.” Tim yanks off his jacket and shoves it onto a coat hook. He untwines his tie as though it’s a boa constrictor with a chokehold around his neck. “Which I wouldn’t frickin’ know, would I?” Stalking over, he takes his place beside Jase, who surreptitiously checks his pupils and sniffs his breath. I can’t smell anything. I hope Jase doesn’t. Tim doesn’t look high…just furious.
“What’s up?” Jase hands him his time card.
Tim bends over to scribble the time in black marker. “Samantha? How the fuck much do you know about that Clay Tucker?”