The Secret Side of Empty by Maria E. Andreu Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maria E. Andreu
table in front of us.
She turns to me and says, “ Gracias, mi hijita, pero es que yo no hablo mucho inglés todavía. Y tú de dónde eres? ” Where am I from, she wants to know. I don’t look like her kind to her. To her I look like Mackenzie and Cody’s kind. But that’s not what I am either.
I ignore her, my face burning. I know I’m being rude, but suddenly I have to get out of here. I heave my four-ton backpack on my back. “Cody, we’ve got to go.”
Mackenzie slips me an envelope. On the upper left-hand corner it says, “Phillips, O’Connor and Jones, P.C., Attorneys at Law,” with an address on Park Avenue in the city. Jones is her mom. Her dad owns some kind of business. I’ve never actually seen either of them. I take the cash out of the envelope on the way out, crumple the envelope up, and throw it in their recycling bin.
M ACKENZIE ’ S AND C ODY ’ S MONEY FEELS HEAVY IN MY POCKET . I don’t want to go home. My dad is working a dinner shift, which means he won’t be home until after 11:00. I told my mom I’d be at Chelsea’s until 6:00, which is now, but I don’t have any way to call her and let her know I’ll be late since our phone got cut off a week ago for nonpayment.
After Mackenzie’s and Cody’s spotless granite caverns, the thought of being in my apartment makes me almost vibrate with energy I can’t keep inside.
I pound on my bike pedals, past lawns and hills, water fountains, columns, the freaking Coliseum, Japanese sculptures, a picture-perfect wooden fort. It’s too early for most of them to be home from the city, where they all work, the owners of these homes. Their enormous homes all sit empty, except for the Martas polishing them, waiting for the owners’ return.
I pedal harder.
Finally, a right turn and a left and I’m on the strip, on the Ann Taylor side. I prop my bike up against a streetlight made to look like an old-time gaslight. I don’t have a lock since I usually only bike to people’s houses.
That’s what I’ll get, a bike lock. I know I want to save for a computer, but suddenly the thought of spending my sixty dollars feels amazing, like I’m a little lighter. A better me.
I walk into the pharmacy superstore and get a basket. There aren’t many bike lock options, but the more expensive one looks better, sturdier, so I throw that one in the basket. Next I head over to the makeup aisle. I’m not much of a makeup wearer, but maybe I need to change that. I hover around the eye shadow. They’re like paints in art class—dark, light, shiny, flat. I want them all. I settle on a shiny forest green and a sparkly beige for my eyelids. Maybe if I put on green eye shadow, my eyes will look greener. Anything would be better than my dark, small, ugly brown eyes.
And next a journal. After seeing mine in my father’s hands, all of a sudden I can’t touch it anymore. I need a new one. And not some dollar-store spiral notebook, but a real journal. Maybe even leather bound.
I wander over to that section and see what they have. Baby’s first year. Inspirational quotes. Gag. As I’m combing over the five options, I hear behind me, “Hey?”
I look up. It’s Soda Guy from the other night. He’s not quite as tall as I remember him. But his eyes are lighter. He’s in jeans and a sweatshirt.
I guess I stare too long, because he shifts his weight a little from his left leg to his right. “I’m from the other night . . . remember? The car, the dead end?”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember. You were in Brian Ferriss’s car.”
“Yeah, hi, I’m Nate,” he says.
“Hi, Nate.” I really want to say something else, but nothing is coming to mind.
“You’re Sean’s sister’s friend, right? So . . . what’s your name?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m M.T.” I brace for the joke. EMT? Mother Trucker? He spares me.
“M.T., nice to officially meet you.” He does air quotes around “officially.” He is cute when he does air quotes.
“So that was weird the
She turns to me and says, “ Gracias, mi hijita, pero es que yo no hablo mucho inglés todavía. Y tú de dónde eres? ” Where am I from, she wants to know. I don’t look like her kind to her. To her I look like Mackenzie and Cody’s kind. But that’s not what I am either.
I ignore her, my face burning. I know I’m being rude, but suddenly I have to get out of here. I heave my four-ton backpack on my back. “Cody, we’ve got to go.”
Mackenzie slips me an envelope. On the upper left-hand corner it says, “Phillips, O’Connor and Jones, P.C., Attorneys at Law,” with an address on Park Avenue in the city. Jones is her mom. Her dad owns some kind of business. I’ve never actually seen either of them. I take the cash out of the envelope on the way out, crumple the envelope up, and throw it in their recycling bin.
M ACKENZIE ’ S AND C ODY ’ S MONEY FEELS HEAVY IN MY POCKET . I don’t want to go home. My dad is working a dinner shift, which means he won’t be home until after 11:00. I told my mom I’d be at Chelsea’s until 6:00, which is now, but I don’t have any way to call her and let her know I’ll be late since our phone got cut off a week ago for nonpayment.
After Mackenzie’s and Cody’s spotless granite caverns, the thought of being in my apartment makes me almost vibrate with energy I can’t keep inside.
I pound on my bike pedals, past lawns and hills, water fountains, columns, the freaking Coliseum, Japanese sculptures, a picture-perfect wooden fort. It’s too early for most of them to be home from the city, where they all work, the owners of these homes. Their enormous homes all sit empty, except for the Martas polishing them, waiting for the owners’ return.
I pedal harder.
Finally, a right turn and a left and I’m on the strip, on the Ann Taylor side. I prop my bike up against a streetlight made to look like an old-time gaslight. I don’t have a lock since I usually only bike to people’s houses.
That’s what I’ll get, a bike lock. I know I want to save for a computer, but suddenly the thought of spending my sixty dollars feels amazing, like I’m a little lighter. A better me.
I walk into the pharmacy superstore and get a basket. There aren’t many bike lock options, but the more expensive one looks better, sturdier, so I throw that one in the basket. Next I head over to the makeup aisle. I’m not much of a makeup wearer, but maybe I need to change that. I hover around the eye shadow. They’re like paints in art class—dark, light, shiny, flat. I want them all. I settle on a shiny forest green and a sparkly beige for my eyelids. Maybe if I put on green eye shadow, my eyes will look greener. Anything would be better than my dark, small, ugly brown eyes.
And next a journal. After seeing mine in my father’s hands, all of a sudden I can’t touch it anymore. I need a new one. And not some dollar-store spiral notebook, but a real journal. Maybe even leather bound.
I wander over to that section and see what they have. Baby’s first year. Inspirational quotes. Gag. As I’m combing over the five options, I hear behind me, “Hey?”
I look up. It’s Soda Guy from the other night. He’s not quite as tall as I remember him. But his eyes are lighter. He’s in jeans and a sweatshirt.
I guess I stare too long, because he shifts his weight a little from his left leg to his right. “I’m from the other night . . . remember? The car, the dead end?”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember. You were in Brian Ferriss’s car.”
“Yeah, hi, I’m Nate,” he says.
“Hi, Nate.” I really want to say something else, but nothing is coming to mind.
“You’re Sean’s sister’s friend, right? So . . . what’s your name?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m M.T.” I brace for the joke. EMT? Mother Trucker? He spares me.
“M.T., nice to officially meet you.” He does air quotes around “officially.” He is cute when he does air quotes.
“So that was weird the