Wreath (16 page)

One of the boys had just let go of the basketball, and she was squarely between it and the intended receiver. The ball flew toward her, and she froze, with a split second to decide whether to drop the bike, duck her head, or hope that the overheated parking lot might split and swallow her whole.

“Look out,” one of the boys yelled and launched himself at the ball, grabbing it and smashing into Wreath. Wreath, the bike, the ball, and the boy all hit the ground.

“Freak,” one of the other boys muttered, grabbing the basketball as it rolled across the playground.

“Are you okay?” the boy sprawled next to her on the parking lot asked, gasping for breath.

“I think so.” Wreath winced and tried to get up off the ground with an ounce of pride, gravel stinging her knees. When her scraped hands touched the hot pavement, she gasped and sat with legs stretched out, her best pair of shorts torn and blood trickling from her elbow.

“You didn’t mention you’re a motocross rider,” the boy said, and Wreath shielded her eyes from the sun and looked into Law’s flushed face. The boy from the park.

“You didn’t mention you hang out with maniacs,” she said. She never knew someone who had just gotten smashed could feel so good about it.

“Hey, we weren’t the ones riding a bike seventy miles an hour in the parking lot,” one of the group, a teen wearing expensive athletic shoes, shorts, and no shirt, said.

“Give her a break, man,” Law said. “She wasn’t doing a mile over sixty.”

“Whatever. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“Wreath, you sure you’re all right? Mr. Charm here has a car. He can take you to the doctor if you need to go.”

“Doctor? No way. I’m fine.” Wreath scrambled to her feet, ignoring aches that seemed isolated to her head, arms, and legs … and her neck and feet.

“You know this chick?” She turned her stiff neck and saw that the question came from the guy who had called her a freak. He was good-looking in a preppie sort of way.

“Wreath, this is Mitchell Durham. Mitch, this is Wreath, that girl from the park I told you about.” The name woke Wreath’s stunned brain with the clarity of an alarm clock set for an early school day.

“Durham?” The word came out practically in a gasp. She glanced at her watch, the face scratched. “I’m late for work.” She got on the bike, amazed at how much her body hurt, her knees aching when she tried to pedal.

“She’s cute,” Mitch said, walking away. “But she acts like a dork.”

Law looked at Wreath and rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who nearly hit her in the head with the basketball,” Law said.

“You’re the one who knocked her off her bike,” Mitch said.

Wreath decided this was as good a time as any to flee and rolled forward until she built momentum.

“I hope she’s not hurt,” she heard Law say.

Chapter 16

F
aye stepped outside for the third time in ten minutes, looked at her watch, and frowned, mad at Wreath for not showing up and at herself for caring.

In the first days of Wreath’s employment, she’d half expected the girl not to make it to work. But in the more than two months the teenager had been working for her, the girl had always been early.

Rubbing her arm down the sleeve of her linen jacket, Faye could feel the sweat pouring off of her. Most of her outfits were those she had once worn to fund-raising teas or down to Lafayette to shop. Putting them on for work made her feel like she was wearing a costume, but casual clothes would reveal a weakness, a reminder that they didn’t even make Oldsmobiles anymore, that her country club membership had been one of the first budget cuts, and her expensive clothes were looking dated.

She pretended not to notice J. D., the hardware store owner and a leader at her church, waving. In his blue jeans and work shirt, he looked more like a field hand than a merchant. She had to admit he was nice-looking in a blue-collar sort of way, but everything about him was too casual, even his name. What kind of name was J. D. for a grown man?

She leaned over and picked up a piece of litter, refusing to admit she still hoped the girl would show up. “Anything I can do for you, Faye?”

She jumped at the sound and whirled around to see J. D. standing at the edge of the street. “I’ve got time on my hands. There’s only so many times I can sweep my store and straighten my shelves, if you know what I mean.” He laughed, as though sharing an inside joke.

“I can manage.” Faye turned to walk back into the store. “I was looking for my helper. She’s late today.”

“Your business must be a lot better than mine if you can afford to pay that girl.”

She thought at first he was mocking her. He saw how few customers came into her store, and he had to know she sold scarcely anything in a given week. But he smiled, and she realized he was making small talk, something she’d never been very good at.

“Business is passable, and I thought I’d give a teenager a summer job,” Faye said. “But she hasn’t shown up today. You know how kids today are. Unreliable.”

“I’ve seen her waiting for you a handful of times,” J. D. said. “I hope she didn’t run into trouble.”

“She quit once,” Faye said. “She’s probably decided she doesn’t want to work after all.” The words pricked at her conscience in a way that nothing had since Billy died. Wreath never slacked off, and truth was, Faye was worried about the girl. But she knew so little about her that she wasn’t sure where to start looking.

“You’d be doing me a big favor if you came up with an odd job for me every now and then,” J. D. said. “It gets pretty boring after lunch. Most people come by in the morning. I’ve read nearly every one of the new releases at the library.”

Faye shoved on the front door, eager to escape his kindness, and had to throw her shoulder into it to get it to open. “Door’s stuck, swollen up with this humidity,” she muttered.

“Let me work on it. I can fix just about anything, and you’re all dressed up. You look too nice to be messing with that old door.”

She wasn’t sure if her face flushed from pushing on the stubborn door or from the compliment. “I like to look professional,” she said. Faye glanced down at the name-brand suit, hose, and pumps. “The customers expect it.”

“You look a lot classier than I do, that’s for sure,” he said. “I’ll wear jeans to my funeral if I get the chance.”

At the word
funeral
, he paused. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful to Billy. I’ll grab my toolbox and be right back.”

“What about your store?” Faye asked.

“I can watch it from here,” he said. “This little project won’t take ten minutes.”

As he walked off, Faye thought that while he might not look classy, he was a handsome man in his own rugged way. Just as the thought registered, she looked up to see a blur approaching the curb, and a red-faced Wreath slammed on the brakes and hopped off the old bike, flinching as she did so.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Mrs. Durham. It won’t happen again. Please don’t fire me.”

Faye looked at the agitated face in front of her and then at the blood oozing from both elbows. “What in the world happened to you?”

“I won’t be late again, I promise.” The girl straightened her hair and grabbed her pack. She was clearly trying not to cry, her bottom lip trembling as she stepped onto the store’s porch.

“Stop fretting, Wreath,” Faye said. “This is the first time you’ve been late. There’s an old first-aid kit in the workroom. I’ll find it while you get a drink of water. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

When Faye came into the showroom with a blue and white plastic box, Wreath was straightening furniture. J. D. had the door propped open, planing the bottom of it so it wouldn’t stick. One of Faye’s favorite singers was on the radio, belting out words of love.

For a moment, she felt like she’d walked into the wrong place.

Every bone in Wreath’s body hurt as she walked over to one of her favorite tables, running her hand across the smooth wood, trying to get rid of a speck of dust. The bike wreck had hurt badly, but she didn’t want to let Faye know.

She would show no weakness. Not to Mrs. Durham. Not to anyone.

“Come over here,” her boss called, and Wreath nearly cried again when she realized the woman had walked up nearby without being heard.

Wreath tried hard not to let a tear squeeze out, but she was sore and scared. She needed this job.

“Sit down.” The woman motioned to one of the nice, soft chairs on the edge of the showroom. A first-aid kit sat open on the desk, a hodgepodge of bandages and tape inside it. A tube of cream that looked like something from Wreath’s grandma’s medicine cabinet lay on the desk, a tiny bit of brownish gel oozing out the top.

Wreath sat as directed and then jumped up, moaning a bit with the pain of the movement. “I shouldn’t sit on the good chair. I’ll get it dirty.”

“Good point.” The woman looked almost surprised. “Move over here.”

“Over here” was a kitchen chair covered in yellow vinyl, and Wreath sat down. She felt like she needed to say something, but she didn’t know what, so she kept quiet.

“Wipe off with this rag. It’s clean.” With a jerky motion, almost like she didn’t know how to hand someone something, Mrs. Durham gave her an old washcloth, in much better shape than the ones she and Frankie had had back at home.

“I’m sorry I was late.”

“So you said.”

“I guess I’m a little out of practice riding a bike after all. I used to have a pink bike with training wheels….” The words stuck in Wreath’s throat. She had a vague memory of Frankie clapping as she wobbled off when they took those wheels from the bike.

“They say once you learn to ride one, you never forget, but I guess that’s not true after all,” Faye said.

Wreath was surprised at the creaky chuckle that escaped from Mrs. Durham’s mouth. “I’ve had a couple of wrecks lately,” she said.

“I haven’t been on a bike in years,” Faye said. “Must not be as easy as I recall.”

“It’s not so hard, but you need to watch where you’re going.”

“I do remember that.” Faye took the cloth from her and gently wiped the scrapes and cuts again. “Let’s put ointment on these. You won’t be able to work if those cuts get infected.”

Wreath felt like a little girl again. She wanted to take the supplies from the woman and take care of herself, but it felt good to have someone mother her. At the thought, she jerked back. “I can do that. I don’t want to keep you from doing something important.”

If the woman wasn’t cranky most of the time, Wreath would have thought the words hurt her feelings. A puzzled look crossed Faye’s face, and she pushed the kit toward Wreath. “Hurry up, then, and get to work.”

“Thank you for helping me,” Wreath said. “Do you have anything extra you want me to do today?”

“Extra?”

“Besides sweeping, dusting, and handling the trash.” Wreath pointed to her pack. “I can do more.”

“J. D.’s fixing the front door.” Faye nodded her head in the direction where the older guy was down on his hands and knees, inspecting the bottom of the heavy door. “The glass will probably need cleaning after that.”

“Will do.” Wreath smiled. More work. Maybe she could gradually convince Mrs. Durham to give her even more, adding Saturdays after school started.