Tastes Like Winter (2 page)

What Genna fails to realize is that I don’t want her to ask. I try to
distract her with talk of babysitting or the television show I’m watching. When
that doesn’t work and she insists I share some deep, dark feeling about my
parents’ nightly battles, I eventually give in, more for her sake, so she knows
she is being a good friend, than mine. I’ve taken to grunting out some dismissive
answer of the day—enough to shut her up and get her talking again.

“So, your mom seems good…” She opens up our first face-to-face
conversation about the affair since it all began.

“Yeah, I guess. Though unfortunately she has sort of latched on to me
now. I love my mother, and it kills me to see her acting this way.”

To see her fade away like this. All those fake smiles hiding a world
of hurt inside her. I pretend not to notice, but I know she’s hurting and trying
to hide it. Like me.

That last part I keep to myself.

Genna says nothing as she drives, waiting for me to continue as if she
thinks she will have more luck drawing me out of my shell now that we are
together in person. The hope twinkling in her eyes forces me to continue and
throw her a couple more bones despite my reluctance.

“I’m not sure if this is the attention she showed Dad now redirected
at me, or simply a desperate clinging… Either way, I feel like I’m choking.
It’s like—”

I cut myself off and turn my head to look out the back window. I can
no longer see my block, let alone my house, but I have a sudden feeling that my
mother is still there, in view and able to hear my confession. I shake my head
to release the sensation and turn to look at Genna, who is nodding in
understanding.

“It’ll get better,” she states with complete assurance.

I try to muffle my frustration at her words, the same frustration that
has been growing in me each time we discuss my current home situation. This is
the reason I don’t like talking about it with her. I should ignore it as the
simple innocent and ignorant comment it is, but I can’t help but wonder how the
hell she would know.

Her parents are the perfect couple. The worst thing they argue about
is whose turn it is to clean the breakfast dishes or take out the trash. They
are the couple that grosses us kids out by kissing too much and dancing in the
kitchen while we finish our plates at the table. They even have a standing
Friday Date Night. I know this because I spent most Friday nights at her house,
growing up. Her parents would dress up for dinner or a show, while Genna and I had
our own night of raw chocolate chip cookie dough and movies with the
babysitter.

Her dad has never committed adultery. She has never had to console her
sobbing mother at midnight while her father still wasn’t home from the office.
She will never have to live through her parents battling the way mine have, or
living with the constant sense of doom as her family heads towards divorce and dismantling.
I’m not sure Genna understands anything about any of this. But I grit my teeth
and let it slide, because I love her and I know she means well.

Before I realize it, we are pulling into the crowded school parking
lot. Driving is quicker than taking the bus like I’m used to. Because of the
small lot size, only seniors are allowed to drive, which is a complete injustice,
since I got my license and car this summer, too. Genna is the youngest in her
grade, while I’m the oldest in mine, making her one school year but only a few
actual months older than me. However, unlike Genna’s pride and joy, my car
won’t be making any headlines because it’s a hand-me-down from my mother, her used
Toyota Corolla, i.e. old news.

To my benefit, I get to avoid another year of torture riding the bus
and mooch off the perks of having an older best friend. The downside is that she
will be leaving me to go off to college at the end of the year. Her busy
schedule plus the issues I have been dealing with at home have already begun
creating distance between us. Actual distance between us, when she moves
hundreds of miles away, is something I would rather not think about.

I cringe and push the thought from my head as Genna expertly pulls
into a spot at the front of the senior lot. Not surprisingly, she is able to
nab a decent spot despite the traffic. Some girls have all the luck.

We get out of the car, and I immediately spot a crowd of field hockey players
gathered nearby. I nudge Genna, directing her attention to the group, and we
head over to them. We meet up in time to walk into the towering, brick building
together, exchanging the usual, obligatory first-day greetings as we go.

While I’m not friends with these girls, per se, I do know them all
through Genna or sharing classes with some of the juniors on the team. They have
spent the past few months with Genna at practice and after-hours team social
events, but since it is our first time seeing each other, we talk about what
happened this summer. I already know all about their escapades from my
beautiful, gossip-queen best friend, but they are not aware of my intimate
knowledge of their various hookups and breakups, so I pretend ignorance.

The warning bell rings loudly, calling us to class, and I say good-bye
to Genna and the rest of the group as I head off towards homeroom. I spot various
groups of kids and say “hi”, dipping my head in greeting and waving hello and
feeling the buzz of our first school day of the year. I stop outside of my
classroom to talk to Mary, a girl I have shared homeroom with since
kindergarten because her name comes after mine in the alphabet. We compare
schedules and confirm that we are in five of the same classes again this year,
plus a shared lunch. Being on the Advanced Placement track means that the
majority of my schedule has been shared with the exact same people since the seventh
grade. This is broken up by the two elective classes we get each year. Mary has
chosen Psychology and Spanish II, while I am taking French and Art.

Genna is my best friend, but the truth is that she is also my only real
friend. I know most of the kids in my class and have no problem interacting
with them during the day, but I am a bit of a homebody and introvert. Because
of that I have not continued my relationship with any of the other kids in my
class outside school hours. Everyone likes me well enough, and I could probably
assert myself as real friends with many of them if I tried, but I’ve never felt
the need. I prefer to spend the evening hours that aren’t with Genna home alone
with music or books to keep me company.

Mrs.
Bloomquist
, who is both my homeroom and
AP Biology teacher this year, ushers Mary and me into the classroom as the
final bell rings.

“In we go, girls! Time to start class.”

And with that, my school day officially begins in much the same manner
as it has every day for the past several years, with me sliding into my place
amongst the familiar faces.

***

As the first day winds down, I begin to
get both nervous and excited to start my new job. Classes are mostly filled
with introductions and summer catch-ups, giving me plenty of time to wonder
about what is in store for me. When my mom ran into Betsy Addler in the
supermarket last week, she mentioned that she was looking for help at her
bookstore. She asked if my mother knew of anyone in need of a part-time job.

Mom is the go-to person to ask because in addition to being very
involved at home, she is also a staple in the High Beach community. She knows
everyone in town from growing up here, as well as from her participation in everything
from bake sales for the PTA to visiting at the local retirement home. She even
volunteers to help man the concession stand at school sports events that I have
never participated in, nor will I. I prefer to give my mind the workout and let
my body rest. The older and more independent I’ve grown, the more desperate she’s
become, desperate to feel like she still has purpose and keep her from having
idle hands. She channeled her energies to the town’s benefit.

When my mom mentioned bumping into Betsy at dinner that night, I jumped
on the opportunity. Get paid to be around books? Heck, yeah! I asked for her
phone number and excused myself from the table to call. Betsy was very happy to
hear from me. Not surprisingly, Mom left out the part during our dinner
conversation where she already volunteered me for the job. Wonderful! Thanks,
Mom. I guess she knows me well enough to know I’d be interested.

Betsy asked me to stop by the next day for an interview, the sole
purpose of which was so we could meet and she could show me the shop. High
Street Books is a small independent bookstore that hasn’t been killed off yet
by the mega chains. I buy a lot of my books there already, but seeing it
through the eyes of an employee and meeting Betsy personally gave me a new take
on the store.

The space consists of one large open room, divided into genres, with
shelving chest-high in the center and floor-to-ceiling along the walls. Tables
are scattered about, showcasing bestsellers, new arrivals, and small gift
items. A long, rustic oak counter holds two registers and sits in front of a large
bay window, giving the store a homey atmosphere. Several more windows up front overlook
the shop’s small parking lot, bringing in added light and creating a natural
spotlight on the sales table. From a shopper’s point of view, I always thought
that table looked heavenly, but I assumed it was my passion for books and not a
trick of the light.

After my tour, I filled out the necessary tax paperwork and got my
first month’s schedule. I would be working afternoons after school, a few
weekend days, and extra hours during holidays if I had the time and it didn’t
interfere with schoolwork. Betsy was adamant that I never sacrifice my grades. If
I ever had a conflict, I was to let her know and she would get it sorted out. High
Street is a family business and only Betsy, her daughter, her nephew, and me
would be working there. But since the store got local-only traffic, that would
be enough. She was interested in hiring me to spread around the extra hours
when she couldn’t make it in herself.

At our initial meeting, Betsy was very sweet and motherly, not that I was
seeking any more of that these days. The atmosphere of the store came across as
very laid back, so I assume the nervousness I’ve been feeling all day is merely
first day jitters.

Since Genna has practice after school, I am left on my own to get to
work. I hadn’t thought of her continued sports schedule when I jumped at her
offer of taxi services, but I suppose that is something I will have to sort out
later. Luckily, the weather is nice today, and the bookstore is not far, so I
decide to walk. By the time I reach the shop, I have a slight sheen from the
still-warm September sun. The place is nicely cooled, and I sigh with relief as
I step inside and shut the door behind me. Betsy greets me at the door beaming
ear to ear, and I begin to relax.

“There she is!” she chimes, and she pulls me to her side in a half
hug. She smells of jasmine and baby powder, and my nerves instantly settle.
“How was your first day at school? Sam seemed excited, but I never can tell
these days. It’s hard to get much out of her besides grunts and whines.” Sam, I
gathered, was Betsy’s daughter.

“It was good. Not much happened aside from teacher introductions and
discussing class schedules. The day went by quickly,” I reply, using my words
and showing Betsy teenagers are capable of conversation.

“Well, I’ll take it easy on you today, too. No pop quizzes on day
one.” She throws me another grin, her lips almost reaching her eyes. “First, I’ll
show you how to conquer the money monster.” She leads me behind the counter. “It
can be a little testy, but I’m sure you’ll catch on fast and tame it in no
time.”

And that is how we spend the afternoon together.

Betsy is very helpful, showing me the ropes and getting me set up on
learning the cash register and filing system. I am grateful because I haven’t
had a job outside of babysitting before and I’m unsure of myself. When I
stumble over the keys and accidently enter a sale for the wrong amount, Betsy
gently corrects me.

By the end of the shift, I am more confident, and by the end of the
week, I’m a pro.

***

That Saturday, I awake to an empty house and take advantage of the
rare quiet by eating a bowl of cereal while laid out on the living room couch,
watching the Discovery Channel. The screen flashes with images of glaciers and
swelling rivers as a voice-over discusses the impact of global warming around
the world and its impending threat on civilization. My gaze remains trained on
the screen and the moving images there, but I am half listening.

When I stumbled downstairs in my pajamas earlier, I was greeted by two
separate notes. The first was from my mom, explaining how she was out running various
errands and would be home around three. The second note was from my dad —
At work, be home late
. — written
in his small, precise writing. With them both out, I at least had some peace.
However, it was fleeting, and I was tired, and the quiet was hard to enjoy no
matter how much I wished I could.

They got into another argument last night during dinner. It was a
long, painful meal of cheesy lasagna and passive aggression. It erupted with a
raised voice from my mother and lowered, tense growls from my father, causing
me to excuse myself from the table and seek refuge upstairs as soon as I was
able to clean my plate.