Not After Everything (4 page)

Henry takes another sip and leans down to kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks for the coffee. I gotta get back to work. Show him the ropes? And figure out a schedule or whatever you need to do.”

And he's back to adjusting lights again.

Goth pushes past me toward the front. I guess I should follow?

“So, do I need to fill out paperwork or something?” I ask.

“Yeah. An application,” she says coldly, entering the circle of shiny concrete countertop that sits atop crisp white cabinets. She slams the divider back in place before I can follow. After digging around in a cabinet, she finally finds what she's looking for, slaps it onto the concrete countertop, and shoves it in my direction.

“Um, Henry kind of told me I didn't need to fill out—”

She slams a pen down on top of the paper and glares at me so hard I can hear it. Then she stomps back to the other side of the counter and clicks at the computer like it's done something to offend her.

I oblige and fill out the unnecessary paperwork, occasionally glancing up, trying to figure out the connection between her and Henry. He couldn't be her father or maybe her grandfather, could he? I mean, she's Asian. Although in all fairness, she could be half Asian. Actually now that I really look at her, she's definitely half Asian. She might even be pretty without all that shit on her face. She's—oh, shit. Heat shoots through my body as strong as a solar flare. I just figured out why she hates me. I
know
her.

“Jordyn?” I ask.

Her back straightens. She doesn't turn around. “You
just
figure that out?”

Here's the thing: Jordyn and I used to be friends. Until middle school, when her parents split up. We started having play dates when we were in second grade because my mom and her mom met at a back-to-school thing, and occasionally her mom would drive me home after school. Jordyn was pretty cool for a girl. She was smart and liked reading. Plus she had a trampoline in her backyard. But we lost touch after she moved.

“I thought you went to East Ridge,” I say.

“I've been at Ridge Gate since our sophomore year.” She sounds pissed.

“Really?”

She turns to face me now, cocking her head to the side. “We've even spoken.”

“We have?” I desperately search my brain for a memory of this supposed conversation.

She stalks toward me and I'm suddenly very happy about the counter being between us. “You really don't remember?”

I shake my head. “You mean the other day?” She can't possibly count that as a conversation; she didn't even acknowledge me.

She shakes her head in disgust and grabs the application off the counter, crumpling it up and throwing it in the trash. “Just go.”

I take about four steps before Henry comes strutting out from behind the red curtain.

“What'd you figure out? Because I think I need Tyler tomorrow for the Hightower family. There's about fourteen of them, and I'll need help with the setup. Actually, why don't you come at nine and Jordyn'll give you a tutorial on the books and all that crap. The Hightowers are scheduled for noon, so that'll give us plenty of setup time.”

I look to Jordyn to try to figure out what to say, but she stares at the floor. I can still see the steam pouring out of her ears, so I know I should tell him it's not a good fit for me or something. But I really need the job.

“Don't be late, Tyler Blackwell.” Henry dismisses me with a heavy pat on the shoulder.

“I won't.”

Jordyn finally makes eye contact with me. She looks like I've just killed her cat and she's plotting a very elaborate and very painful revenge. This should be fun.

I arrive early on Sunday for my first official day on the job, unsure what to expect besides outright hatred from Jordyn.

She shows up at ten till nine, wearing a long black skirt with this black leather motorcycle jacket even though it's already eighty degrees out, and walks past me to the door like I'm not there. As soon as she's unlocked it, I open it, trying to be nice. She makes a disgusted sound at the back of her throat. It's a don't-even-try-to-act-like-you're-a-decent-person-'cause-I'm-onto-you sound. I hold the door for her anyway.

“So . . . paperwork?” I ask.

She sets her bag on the counter and places her hands on either side of it, looking at me. “You better be serious about this,” she says, “because Henry's my family and I won't have you—”

“Look, I didn't even know you had anything to do with this. I didn't even know you were
you
. I'm not doing this to ruin your perfect little life.”

“How Tyler Blackwell of you,” she says.

I'll be surprised if I make it through the day.

Jordyn spends the morning explaining every detail of the appointment software she's incredibly proud of writing. It's so easy that even my dad in his drunkest state could use it, but Jordyn insists on treating me like I have the IQ of a monkey.

After she's satisfied that I'm not a total idiot, we move on to the paperwork.

“Bring your birth certificate with you tomo—”

I place my birth certificate and driver's license on the counter. “Do you want me to make a copy? Or maybe you should explain how a copier works, because I'm obviously a complete tool.”

She rolls her eyes as she heads into the back. I assume that's my cue to follow.

The copier is packed into a claustrophobic “kitchen” behind the studio space. I expect Jordyn to give me a lecture about copier safety or something, but instead she goes to the fridge and pours herself a glass of orange juice.

I open the copier, place my birth certificate and license on the glass, and hit
START
.

Nothing.

I read the little bluish screen; everything seems in order, so I push
START
again.

Again nothing.

Well, damn. I just played right into that, didn't I.

Sure enough, when I turn, she's wearing a shit-eating grin so big, I have to remind myself how much I need this job.

She shoves me out of the way, punches in some numbers, and hits
START
. This time the floor beneath my feet vibrates as the copier roars to life. When it spits out the sheet, Jordyn snatches it and shoves it into my chest. “The code's 10086, douchebag.”

I follow her back to the front, where I have the privilege of filling out all my paperwork as she gloats. The most messed-up thing is that it's kind of nice to interact with someone who doesn't pussyfoot around my shit.

“What?” Jordyn snaps at me.

I didn't realize I was staring. “Nothing. It's just . . . What happened to you?”

Her dark, purple-rimmed eyes narrow. She takes a breath and parts her dark red lips to, I'm sure, tell me off—

The little door chime rings. Henry hums an atonal melody as he passes us, heading through the red curtain.

Jordyn and I stare each other down until the air in the room is so thick, I'm surprised it's breathable.

“Tyler Blackwell, I need your muscles back here!” Henry's voice booms from behind the curtain, declaring our staring contest a draw. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch up, then I shrug and saunter back to help my
actual
boss. I'm almost surprised nothing comes flying at the back of my head.

Henry explains the technical aspects of lighting and staging as I move various couches in and out of the studio until he “feels” which one is perfect for the Hightowers. I try my best to follow along but find myself distracted by Jordyn. I can see her up front. She's on the phone, obviously talking about me. She keeps glaring back at me past the curtain and gesturing my way.

The door chimes again, announcing the arrival of a herd of denim-clad blond people. Jordyn quickly hangs up and becomes this bubbly, animated freak, which is hysterical in contrast to her vampiric appearance. “Mrs. Hightower. It's so lovely to meet you in person.”

Jordyn, in her long black skirt and black shirt with billowing translucent sleeves, with her purple-rimmed eyes, and lips such a dark shade of red they're almost black, rounds the counter to greet the woman with a handshake.

Mrs. Hightower looks horrified at the sight of this little half-Malaysian vampire, but she doesn't want to be rude, so she offers Jordyn the tips of her fingers—the fuck-you of handshakes. If this offends Jordyn, she doesn't let it show.

“Have a seat. Henry will be with you shortly. He's just putting some finishing touches on the backdrop.”

Mrs. Hightower opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind.

“Why don't you head out and see if anyone wants a drink or something. And close the curtain, will you?” Henry instructs me.

After I struggle with the curtain for an uncomfortable moment, Jordyn comes to my aid, but not without an air of smug superiority. How was I supposed to know there's a trick to unsticking the curtain involving some choreographed arm twist?

“Can I get anyone a refreshment?” I ask the room.

Mrs. Hightower perks up. “Hello there, dear. I'm Helena. What's your name?”

“Tyler.”

“What a lovely name. Tyler, do you think you can do me a little favor?”

I glance at Jordyn expecting her to be seething at me for overstepping, but she just smiles at Mrs. Hightower.

Mrs. Hightower places her hand on my arm and gets real close, lowering her voice. “I was told that we would get a few options for the backdrop. But the girl tells me it's already set up.”

I know Jordyn can hear this. I can't believe how well she's holding it together. I mean,
I
want to tell this lady where she can stick it.

“Um. I can find out for you,” I say, looking over at Jordyn for help. She pretends she's busy at the computer. “Can I get you some water in the meantime?”

“That would be wonderful. Thanks so much,” says Mrs. Hightower.

“How many?” I turn toward the room full of blond kids of various ages who are just
sitting
there. Not one of them is on a cell phone or playing a video game. It's creepy.

When two of the younger and one of the older kids raise their hands in unison, I decide that they are, in fact, the Children of the Corn. They're probably going to kill us all by the end of the session. I glance at Jordyn, who happens to be looking at me, and she stifles a laugh.

“I'll be right back,” I say.

“I'll give you a hand,” Jordyn adds. “Children of the fucking Corn,” she mutters, following me into the kitchen.

“Right?” I say a little louder than I should.

She's smiling and I'm almost laughing and I'm reminded of when we used to be friends a million years ago.

“And what's with asking me about stuff when she's been talking to you on the phone?”

“It's the makeup. Some people are small-minded.”

“Well, then why don't you—”

“Don't.” She gives me an unreadable look, grabs an armful of waters from the fridge, and pushes past me, ignoring my offer to help.

I give up.

“The mom is out there asking about backdrops,” I say to Henry as he fiddles with the flash umbrellas. “She says she wanted a choice.”

“She asked
you,
did she?” he says, mostly to himself with a bit of a chuckle. “Tell 'em I'm ready for 'em. They can ask me directly.”

I nod and head back out to get the family. The door chimes once again, and the tired-looking, gray-haired husband enters with their two freshly groomed chocolate Labs wearing denim handkerchiefs around their necks. Why not?

“Good timing,” I say. “Henry's ready for you. Right this way.” I hold the curtain back and gesture for everyone to enter.

“Oh, thank you, Tyler. You've been such a help,” Mrs. Hightower says. The unnerving children—there are six of them—get up without making a noise and head back behind the curtain. The oldest, a girl close to my age, offers a vacant smile as she passes. The dad sighs, following with the two dogs.

Henry arranges the Hightowers so they look like the perfection I imagine they strive to present at all times. Then he clicks away while Jordyn and I stand back and watch.

I say quietly, “I didn't mean to tell you that you should change the way—”

“It's fine.” Jordyn heads over to Henry, producing a handkerchief from her pocket. Henry takes it with a warm smile and mops his forehead. And suddenly, I need a sugar fix.

Jordyn enters the kitchen as I pull a Coke from the fridge and gestures for me to toss it over. I do.

“You and Henry seem close.” I kick the fridge closed and pop my can open. “He's your stepdad?”

“He and my mom aren't married.”

“Oh. I just assumed.”

“Everyone does. My mom just kind of lost all faith in marriage after the divorce, you know? And Henry doesn't really care either way. Even with a fifteen-year age difference, they just . . . work.”

“What about your dad? Or if that's too—”

“No, it's fine. Do you remember him? He was having an affair and he married his mistress, like, as soon as the ink dried. She looks eerily like my mom even. I guess he has a thing for pretty, petite white women. The crazy thing is that she and my mom are really close now.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“How does that work?”

“My mom's happy. My dad set her free so she'd be able to find love, so she's grateful. They're friends too.”

“Your divorced parents are friends.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She sips her Coke.

“You get two families, and I don't even have one.”

I can tell my attempt at a joke has failed when Jordyn's face drains of all color. Well, more than usual.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .” she says.

“It's . . . fine.” I try to sound as “no big deal” as I can. I really wasn't trying to make her feel bad.

After an awkward pause where neither of us knows what to do, I head back out to the studio. Just in time to receive instructions about which couch and backdrop to use for the next setup.

“Can you handle that while I do the outdoor shots?” Henry asks.

I nod.

“Jordyn, bring the reflectors,” Henry bellows.

She scoots past me to grab several gold and silver things that look like the shades you put in the car to keep the sun out. She purposefully doesn't look at me. Damn it. The one person who didn't tiptoe is tiptoeing. What the hell was I thinking?

• • •

Henry and the others return shortly, and then the Hightowers take turns changing clothes in the small dressing room. They're going to do a Christmas photo to send to all their friends and family. That's something my mom always wanted to do but my dad never allowed. He said we weren't a family, we were a punishment. As if he blamed us instead of the alcohol for ruining his life—her for getting pregnant, and me for not being aborted or stillborn. It used to really hurt when he said shit like that, and I'd try my best to hide that I was crying, but my stupid little snotty nose and red eyes always gave me away and he'd call me a pussy, until I finally realized he wasn't ever going to stop, and I learned to turn my hurt into anger and eventually aggression and use it on the field. Mom never figured out how to manage it, and it finally killed her.

Once the Hightowers' session is over, Henry sends me to Starbucks for all of us. His treat.

The oldest Child of the Corn, the last to finish changing out of her Christmas outfit, is headed outside, so I hold the door open. I didn't really notice her, aside from the creepy, vacant smile she flashed earlier. But now that she's changed into jeans and a button-down shirt that's straining against her ample chest, I realize she's hot. As we round the corner toward Starbucks, she steps in my path, pulls a marker out of her purse, takes my hand, and writes her number across my palm. Then she takes my index finger in her mouth and
sucks
on it. I glance around to make sure her family isn't seeing this, because I'm pretty sure they'd press charges.

“Call me,” she says, raising her eyebrows, before heading toward her mother's voice coming from around the corner.

She's hot in that all-American, girl-next-door kind of way. And if that little finger-sucking display is any indication of how fun she might be, perhaps I
will
call her. I glance down at the ink on my hand. Ali. With a heart above the
i
.

• • •

“Thanks for getting the door,” I grunt as Jordyn watches me struggle with the coffees. I set the drinks on the counter, hand hers over, and go to take Henry his, when she grabs my hand and flips it over.

“Ali? There's no Ali at this Starbucks.”

I smirk. “Hightower.”

“Too bad you have a girlfriend,” she says.

“So?” I pull my hand away and take Henry his coffee.

Jordyn doesn't really talk to me for the rest of the day. Whatever.