Devoted (20 page)

I'm scarlet when she walks in, even though I manage a quick “Hi!” and quickly start sweeping the crumbs into my hand and taking the apple cores to the garbage can in the corner. “I'm really sorry. I was eating, and … I just…”

“Rachel,” Diane says, plopping a stack of manila file folders on the kitchen table, “didn't I tell you that you could get something to eat? Please don't apologize.”

“I know, but I was reading and I…”

Diane raises an eyebrow slightly. “Sweetheart. Listen. It's all right.”

“Thank you. But I'll just put this back,” I say, holding the book up. I scoot down the hall and slide it next to its friends on the bookshelf. Page thirty-two is where I stopped, but I probably shouldn't try reading on my break again. Diane is just being nice.

Should I go back to the kitchen where she's waiting or go back to her office? I press a hand to my right cheek. Still warm from blushing. How stupid I am.

“Come in here! Let me pay you for your work today,” Diane calls from the kitchen, so I go back to find Diane counting out several bills from her wallet. “Here's thirty for today,” she says.

“But I spent the last thirty minutes reading,” I tell her. Maybe it was even forty minutes.

Diane tosses her head back and laughs. It's more of a hoot, actually.

“Can I hire you to teach my son how to be even half as conscientious as you are?” she says. “Honey, I meant what I said about you taking a break to eat. I'm not running a sweatshop here. I offer paid lunches, all right?” She takes a carefully manicured hand—even her fingernails are plum—and pushes her long, thick hair back behind her shoulder.

I nod. I haven't been caught. To Diane, I was just eating lunch and flipping through a novel. That's all. Nothing more.

I slip my money inside my skirt pocket, relaxing a little. Grateful. “I just want to say,” I start, trying to speak up, “that I truly appreciate you giving me this job, Mrs. Treats … Diane.”

“Of course,” Diane says. “What about setting up a regular deal? Mondays through Thursdays from nine until noon? Maybe Fridays if I decide to be a real taskmaster? Does that sound good to you?”

“Sure,” I say, thinking about page thirty-two and all the money I could earn. I'd be so independent, Lauren really wouldn't mind keeping me around.

“I'll walk you out,” she says, and we head toward the front door.

I grab my purse to leave, and Diane puts her hand on the doorknob as if she's about to open it. But she doesn't. Instead, she pauses and looks at me.

“Rachel,” she starts, “I'm sure Lauren's told you that we've sort of, well, looked out for her a bit. Made sure she had a job and could get started on her own here when she needed to. She's such a sweet girl, and a hard worker, too. And I'm sure you know that Lauren has shared with us some of what's going on with you. And with your family. I want you to know that I'm sorry for what you're going through.” Her voice drops down to almost a whisper, no longer big and theatrical. As soft and lilting as she sounds, I bet she could put Isaac to sleep with just one reading of
Goodnight, Moon
. The thought of Isaac's sweet baby face makes my throat tighten, and I try to focus on Diane's words.

“I admit there's a little part of me that worries that you're still technically a minor,” she continues.

“I turn eighteen in a few weeks,” I say, my voice soft. I wonder if this means she wants to call my parents. I tense up at the idea.

“You know, when I was eighteen I was putting myself through community college,” Diane says. “My father thought I was a little bit touched in the head for that,” she says, tapping at her temple.

I must look confused because Diane smiles. “Did you know I was Miss Teen Lake O' the Pines 1988? Of course you wouldn't know, but that's a beauty pageant, and I won it. And I was first runner up for Miss Texas Teen the very same year.”

“Oh,” I say. “Congratulations.” I think that's the right thing to say.

Diane grins and shakes her head a little at the memory. “Congratulations for what? Standing around in a one-piece bathing suit with spray glue on my tush while I talked about how children are the future? Please.” She pauses and peeks over her right shoulder, then looks back at me with a frown. “Although I must confess, my tush certainly looked a lot better back then than it does now. But what can you do?”

“Oh,” I say again because it's all I can think to say.

Diane and I stand in silence for a moment and then she starts up again, her words coming out in a rush, her voice still quiet. “My father once said to me, ‘Diane, sweetheart, with that face you won't have to work a day in your life.' My father was a bit of a peckerwood, to tell you the truth. But you know what, Rachel? My life was for me just like your life is for you, and you've got to live it like you want to, and that's why God gave it to you. Now you may look like you wouldn't bite a biscuit, but I know a girl who goes after what she wants. And you're that kind of girl, I think. Remember that. All right, I've talked your ear off, so go on and I'll see you next time.”

And with that, she turns the doorknob and opens the door, a wave of summer heat hitting us both.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Bye, sweetie,” she answers, her voice back to its usual charged self.

I slide into Lauren's red Honda. A girl who goes after what she wants. I admit I like the sound of it, but the problem is, I'm still not sure what on Earth I should be wanting.

*   *   *

The next day is Friday, and Diane doesn't need me to come in. I sleep in—it's odd how I have so much less work and yet the week feels so long and exhausting somehow.

Still, I almost wish I could go to work at Diane's. Not just for the money but so I could have something to do to distract myself. There are only so many times I can tidy up Lauren's apartment before my mind is tugged back to life at my parents' house. I'm sure my mother and father expected me to come home by now, my lesson learned. But if I'm gone long enough, maybe they'll take me more seriously. Maybe they'll let me come back without making me go to Journey of Faith.

I drag a paper towel slowly across Lauren's bathroom mirror and stare intently at my reflection.

“Don't be ridiculous, Rachel,” I reprimand myself. “You know you would still have to go.” I frown and scrub extra hard at some nonexistent stain on the mirror. Diane said I was a girl who could go after what she wants. But I look just as I did when I left home. Same long dark curls, same unremarkable face. Same girl.

After work, Lauren comes home with a small paper bag. In it is a bottle. She serves herself some of whatever's inside it in a little juice glass covered with flowers.

“I need to take the edge off this day,” she says, collapsing into her pink chair.

I tuck my knees under my chin and set aside the book I'm reading—Lauren doesn't have the same selection the Treats have, but she has a nice set of Agatha Christie mysteries that I'm working through at a pretty quick pace. So far, I've been able to figure out the ending to each one before actually finishing the book—something that fills me with some small pride, one that I'm allowing myself to enjoy.

“Red wine, I've missed you,” Lauren announces, taking a sip from her glass.

Romans says it's better not to drink wine in case it makes your brother stumble. No one at Calvary drinks. But the same verse says it's better not to eat meat—something almost everyone at Calvary does anyway. Lauren doesn't eat meat, but she does drink wine, apparently. So is she just as good—or just as wrong—as the people at church? Since moving out of my house, I've noticed how many contradictions there are to question, but I'm still not sure how a person goes about deciding which side of the contradiction is right.

“Did you have a bad day?” I ask. Sometimes she has to help put an animal down. I know she hates those days the most.

“Work was fine,” she says. “It's just that … sometimes I have these days when I just. I don't know.”

“I think I know what you mean,” I say.

Lauren smiles, nods, and takes another gulp of wine.

“Do you want me to get you some supper? I made spaghetti. I already ate, though.”

“Maybe later,” she answers. “Thanks, anyway.” She picks at a loose thread on the chair and scowls. “That guy Bryce texted me today and asked me if I want to go out again, but I said no. I don't know why.”

“You didn't like him?” I ask. “You said he was nice.”

“Too nice, I guess. I don't know. I keep thinking about Jeremy.”

“Is he the one you have in the picture in your bedroom?”

The kissing picture. The boy with the black hair.

“Yeah,” says Lauren, sighing. “He's the one.”

“What happened?” I ask. The way Lauren is bringing him up, I think it's safe to ask.

“He started off super nice, you know?” Lauren says. “Gentle. Funny. He loved animals like I did. He had this big pit bull named Johnny who would sleep in bed with us.”

This is the closest Lauren's ever come to telling me she's had intercourse, and I'm shocked by it. I suppose I knew she had, but hearing her say it out loud makes her suddenly seem so worldly, sitting there with her glass of wine. So apart. So different. And she's my friend, too. I mean, I think she is. My brain works that contradiction over a few times before I can manage to speak again.

“What happened?” I ask.

“He smoked a lot of pot,” she says. “Pot's a drug. An illegal drug. I mean, not like a crazy bad drug like cocaine or whatever, but it kind of made him broke all the time and sort of, like, not that motivated to do stuff. Which honestly didn't bother me that much because he was sweet and fun to hang out with. But one night at a party I caught him messing around with another girl.” Lauren's voice is matter-of-fact. Detached. “He was kissing this girl named Mary Beth who hung out in our group. She thought she was so punk rock or whatever because she was in a band that sometimes played in Austin. Whatever. Anyway, they were kissing, like, in the bathroom. Isn't that gross? Who kisses someone in the bathroom?” Maybe she's trying to joke again, but her voice is empty. She doesn't smirk at her own humor like she normally does. She just stares out into space and takes another sip of wine.

I'm sad for Lauren, and I try to make sure my face registers that instead of stunned surprise. The entire time I'm listening to her speak, I'm also trying to keep a list in my head of things to look up or mull over later. Like punk rock. And kissing in bathrooms. But I also wonder how any boy would be so cruel. Sometimes Paul is as irritating as a leaky faucet in the middle of the night, but he would never do something like that to Faith, that's for sure.

“I'm sorry that happened to you, Lauren,” I tell her when she's finished with her story.

“Yeah, well,” Lauren answers with a shrug, like it's nothing. “It turns out it wasn't the first time. I don't know. Maybe he and Mary Beth are together now. She smoked pot, too.”

Lauren and I only ever hugged that one time, the night she got back from her date. Part of me wants to hug her now, but Ruth's the only person I've ever really felt like I could hug without worrying if it was all right first.

“You're looking at me like I have cancer,” Lauren says. “Or leprosy.” This time she smirks for real.

“No, I'm not,” I say, cracking a smile. “I'm just sorry that happened to you is all.” And I am sorry. But I'm also still marveling at Lauren's story. She could have been telling me about hiking through the Amazon rain forest she sounded so exotic and strange.

“Yeah, well, in the grand scheme of things that have happened to me, it's just one more shitty thing,” she says.

For the first time since I've come here, I feel like Lauren needs me. If only to listen. Somehow, even though Lauren's story was strange to hear, I now feel sort of more relaxed around her.

Lauren is relaxed, too, but I think it might be from the wine. She gulps down what she has and pours herself another glass, then peels off her uniform top and flings it in a corner. Her bra is blue, like her hair.

Lauren never minds getting changed in front of me. At home, Ruth and I would get changed in the closet or the bathroom because we were so concerned with modesty. But Lauren stretches her arms over her head and pulls an oversized T-shirt with a cat on it that says PURRFECT IN EVERY WAY out of the laundry basket in the corner. She slides it on, unhooks her bra and pulls it out through one of the sleeves, and turns on the television. Then she starts sipping her wine again.

When it gets late and I start yawning, Lauren sends me to her bed to sleep and tells me she'll take the couch tonight—she wants to stay up late and watch more TV. By now she's on her third glass of wine and she's laughing at the strangest things, like commercials for fabric softener and the way Mitzi the cat cleans herself.

“You're sure you're okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, just go to sleep. I don't want to keep you up.”

Lauren's bed smells like Nag Champa incense and cat, but I'm so tired I don't care. I drift off, thinking of how much I wish I could cuddle with Ruth in this bed and whisper about what's on my mind. But maybe what's on my mind now would be too much for Ruth.

When I wake up the next morning, Lauren is sitting on the couch, her hair in tangles around her face and her skin the color of chalk.

“Never. Drinking. Again.” The bottle of wine, almost empty, sits on the floor.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Yes, but I'm sorry you had to see me go full Janis Joplin last night,” she says.

“Who's Janis Joplin?”

Lauren sighs and rubs at her eyes. “I keep forgetting you don't get any of my references. Sometimes when you drink too much, the next day you're … It's called being hungover. And you feel sick. And Janis Joplin was this bad girl from like a million years ago and she was, like, Queen of the Hangovers. Because she was a bad girl. A rule breaker. Let me put it this way. You saw me go full Delilah last night. Full Jezebel.”