I put it back on the rack and move the next piece of clothing, a hideous spandex jumpsuit, in front of it.
“Oh no way,” Skye says, coming to my side and freeing the dress. “You are so getting this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why? Where would I ever wear it?”
“That’s not the point. You find something like this and you buy it. This is the kind of dress you plan an event around.”
I bite my lip. “I don’t have forty dollars.”
“I do. I’m buying it for you. It will be my I’m-sorry-you-got-screwed-over-by-a-rich-guy gift.”
I laugh a little. “I’ll pay you back.”
Skye was right. The Beach (a club that named itself way too literally) is a much bigger venue and I’m amazed by how many people have shown up to hear Crusty Toads play. The waves roll in behind the huge stage, and the salty wind only adds to the performance. It’s a great concert, but I’m already planning my early-exit strategy. It’s not like we’re going to get to talk to the band after the show with this many people vying for their attention.
Skye has made some awful flattened-toad T-shirts, and I am wearing one against my better judgment.
“Two more songs and I need to go,” I yell to Skye as Mason sings in his honey-smooth voice.
“I knew you would try to leave early so I made plans for us after the show.”
“Plans? What do you mean?”
She nods her head up to the stage. “The guys want to hang out.”
I glance up at Mason and he catches my eye. He sings right at me for two lines and I can see how girls might stalk him after something like that. My heart stutters. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
Skye giggles. “Of course you will.”
When the last song is over I expect Mason to disappear behind the stage for a while like he did after the last concert I went to. He doesn’t. He drops his microphone, jumps off the stage, and weaves through grasping hands and straight to me.
By the time he reaches me my heart is in my throat.
“Hi.” That single word is said with so much rasp and emotion that I realize why he’s such a good performer.
“Hi.”
He takes my hand and squeezes. “Don’t leave.”
“Okay.”
Then he does. He heads back to the stage and slips around it, through a line of burly men and out of sight. I watch him the entire way and then shake myself out of the trance when he’s gone.
“Told you he’s crazy about you.”
I come back to my senses and see that the little stunt drew a lot of attention. So many people are staring at me. “I need some water,” I say.
“Will you get me a soda?” she asks, and hands me a five.
I tromp through the sand in my bare feet, wondering why I didn’t just leave my shoes in the car instead of checking them in. They were going to take forever to collect. A guy sitting at the bar looks vaguely familiar. And considering he’s staring at me as I walk up, he must recognize me as well. I can’t place him, though, and my mind scans through all my classes at school. I can tell his brain is performing a similar task when finally his eyes light up with recognition. Now he has the advantage because I still can’t place him.
“Xander’s little friend, right?” His remark reeks of arrogance.
The moment he says it I realize he’s Robert from the restaurant. The one I thought had called me a stray. I’m beginning to think Xander covered for him. “Yes. Hi.” I lean into the bar and order bottled water and a soda.
When the bartender turns around to fill my order, Robert asks, “Did Xander get you in here tonight?”
I narrow my eyes. Now that Xander’s not here I don’t feel the need to be as polite. “No. I know the band. How did you get in?” I pick up my drinks from the counter.
Robert laughs and gives me a once-over. “I see the appeal. You have great . . . eyes. When Xander gets bored of slumming it with you we should get together.”
I never thought I had the dumping-soda-on-someone-purposefully instinct, but sure enough my hand reacts automatically. But he has instincts, too. Probably born from a lifetime of people wanting to dump soda on him. His hand darts out and grabs my wrist.
“Not a good idea,” he tells me, a few drops of soda spilling over the side. “This shirt cost more than your monthly rent.”
“Too bad you had to sell your soul to afford it.”
“Everything okay?” Mason comes up from behind, wrapping his arms around my waist.
I’m just about to murder someone is all. “Let’s go.”
“You get around,” Robert calls after me. It takes everything in me not to throw the glass at him, soda and all.
“Who was that?” Mason asks as we walk away.
“Nobody worth ever thinking about again.”
Only I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s Xander’s friend. Is that how Xander acts when I’m not around? I’m seething.
“Caymen?” Mason takes my bottled water from me and grabs my hand. “Do I need to beat that guy up?”
I hold on to him tightly. “No. Not worth it,” I tell myself again. But I know this isn’t about Robert anymore. And I’m trying to decide if that advice still applies.
Chapter 26
The next night I decide I need to finish up the website I had been slowly putting together over the last few weeks. I pull the pictures up on the computer. Unfortunately for me, along with the dolls, all the photos of Xander from the hotel room photo shoot open as well. Even in a photo his smile has a softening effect on me.
I scroll through them, lingering on the ones where I had made him laugh. In that magazine picture of him with Sadie Newel he hadn’t even been smiling. She probably can’t make him laugh. I let out a frustrated grunt. Who cares, Caymen? He is with her. I try to delete the pictures of him but can’t bring myself to do it. Instead I group all the doll pictures into a file and open that so I don’t have to look at Xander’s amber eyes anymore.
I add names and prices beneath the dolls.
“Is that a new ordering site?” my mom asks, coming into the kitchen.
“No.” I smile. I had planned on surprising her when the site was all finished, but it’s getting close and I need to make up for the attitude I’ve been giving her lately. I switch from the pictures to the website layout. “I’ve been working on something for the store.”
She positions herself behind me. On the screen is a banner that says, “Dolls and More.” I had thought about taking out the “and more,” but it feels like tradition now. And maybe we could add “more” once it gets up and running. I scan down a little to where it has my mom’s name and her contact information. “I want to add a picture of you here. Maybe we can take one out front or something next to the window display.”
“What is this?” she asks.
“It’s a website I’m designing for the store.” I put my hands out to the sides and say, “Surprise,” in a false screaming voice.
“A website.” Her voice is low and even.
“It’s going to be great, Mom. It will pump up our business, get us more sales. It’s the next step to our growth.”
“No.” That’s all she says and then turns and rounds the counter into the kitchen.
I’m confused. “No?”
She pulls down a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water from the tap. “I don’t want a website.”
Even though we don’t have cable or cell phones or even a newer computer, it’s not because my mom thinks technology is the devil or anything. It’s really just because we can’t afford it. “It’s cheap, Mom. Less than twenty dollars a year for the domain name and I can run it. You could even run it once we get it going. It’s really easy and—”
“I said no, Caymen. I don’t want it.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not an answer, Mom; that’s a conversation ender.”
“Good, because this conversation has ended.” She slams the glass onto the counter and I’m surprised when it doesn’t shatter. Then she marches out of the kitchen and into her room.
I close the pages I had open on the computer, trying to remain calm. What I really want to do is shove the computer to the floor. I don’t. I turn off the screen and walk slowly downstairs and outside. Then I run. I don’t stop until my cheeks are numb and my lungs feel close to bursting and my legs ache.
By the time I get back to the store I’m dripping sweat and I need to talk this through with someone. I pick up the phone and dial Skye’s number. It goes directly to voice mail. My fingers tap an impatient rhythm on the wall and I decide not to leave a message.
I should call Mason. I don’t.
I grab the binder from beneath the counter and plop it on top of our oversize calendar. I find Mrs. Dalton’s phone number.
I almost chicken out as I listen to the phone ring.
“Hello,” Mrs. Dalton answers.
“Hi . . .” I have the wrong number. I gasp when I realize it’s past nine o’clock. Was she in bed? “Sorry to call so late. This is Caymen . . . from the doll store.”
“It’s not late at all, and I only know one Caymen,” she says. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Did I order something? I don’t remember, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t.”
“Like you’d forget if you ordered something,” I say.
“That’s true. Then you’re checking to see if I’ve died? I may look old, but I’m only sixty-seven.”
“Really? And here I thought you were in your forties.”
“Nice try.”
I take a breath. “I was hoping I could get a phone number from you. I think he would give it to me himself. . . . I guess what I mean is that I’m not trying to get it behind his back or anything. He’s even called me before. I don’t think he’d mind if I had it.”
“Take a deep breath, honey.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You would like Alex’s phone number? He is quite the charmer, isn’t he?”
“No. I mean, well, yes, he is, but we’re just friends.” And right now I need a friend.
“That’s what it sounds like.”
I laugh. Mrs. Dalton is funny.
“Yes, let me get it for you. I have this fancy phone that can store hundreds of numbers, but I still write them in my little red book.”
I realize I’m holding my breath in anticipation.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
More than ready. “Yes.” I write down the number on the calendar. “Thanks so much.”
“No problem. Tell him I said hi.”
I hang up and stare at the number for an eternity. I want to talk to him. I need to talk to him. But my insides are all twisted up. I squeeze my eyes closed, and when I open them again I dial the number quickly before I change my mind. It rings three times and I feel like minutes pass between each one.