THREE FIFTEEN ON A WEEKDAY and I have a choice to make. Go to work or go to work.
Which job I choose matters most. I have three, but only two pay. My nonpaying job lets me stay unnoticed in the newsroom until 5:30, sometimes 5:45, or until Mr. George chases me out. One of my paying gigs, the one I’d quit if food and tampons didn’t cost money, places me at Bea’s house every other Saturday. I scrub Bea’s toilet, dust her mom’s collection of glass owls, and tidy up the basement. While my job is to clean Bea’s home in four hours, I race to finish in three so I’m out the door before Bea and her boyfriend arrive. I can handle picking up after Bea, especially since I don’t have to clean her room (mom’s orders), but I can’t stomach hearing Bea fight with her boyfriend.
My regular job, which only pays sometimes, sends me over the hill to read with the residents of Nowhere Near Like Home nursing facility. I renamed the place because Just Like Home was a lie and I don’t like it when people lie to the elderly.
Employment choice is contingent on fatigue. The walk to the nursing home only works if I’ve slept the night before. Today I’m tired and my muscles ache.
Nowhere Near Like Home is a sweet gig on nights I’m not hanging with Seung and Ham, or when I need a couple of bucks for peanut butter crackers or peanut butter cups or peanut butter cookies from the school’s vending machine. Peanut butter’s packed with protein, and protein packs my stomach for more than eight hours.
The nursing home splits into two wings that house residents with faculties on one side and those without on the other. I used to spend a lot of time in the dementia units, but there’s no reason to now.
I’ve grown to love my rounds at Nowhere Near Like Home. The old lady who only wants me to read the newspaper—obituary section—with highlighter in hand, those who want to know what the Kardashians are up to these days, and the few who drop a Bible on my lap. It’s bizarre how every room in the nursing home houses a Bible, yet few can read the fine print. I’d much rather stick to the newspaper or grab the dinner menu from the nurse’s desk, because the Bible instigates arguments. In order to keep the peace, I read stuff the old folks really want to hear. Call it hope. Call it prayer. Call it reader protection. I try to tell my elders things that push smiles onto their shriveled faces. Things like their childhood dog is waiting for them with tail swinging. Just take a left at the gate of pearls. I tell them their loved ones who refuse to visit are on God’s shit list. The smirks on the old women’s faces are worth more than their quarters.
On a good night I leave Nowhere Near Like Home with a few extra bucks in my pocket. Old people tip well, and I’ve got that face, you know, the one any great-great-grandparent with smudged trifocals would love.
I vacate the school grounds near sundown when the janitor checks every room for warm bodies before locking doors. In the winter, when daylight shrinks or the weather’s too frigid to walk to the nursing home, I juggle between Seung’s house and Ham’s. When I beat out Bea and a book-smart girl named Kristen for the lead reporter position of our school’s blog, I gained widespread access to Mr. George’s newsroom. I needed the nonpaying job more than they did. Kristen wanted it for her college transcript. Bea just wanted it to mess with me.
Even though I beat Bea and Kristen for the head job, they accepted secondary roles. I’m technically Bea’s boss, but she never forgets she’s the true queen. The reporter gig makes me marketable to the college I’m planning to attend with Ham and Seung. It’s basically my ticket to a better life. If it weren’t for the promise I made my mother, I’d have turned down the editor job for the sake of damage control. Bea makes my life miserable. But I can’t break a promise. Especially one made to my mother. Besides, building a college résumé helps fill time slots and calendar holes. Let’s face it, when you’re homeless, free time sucks.
“Want to come over for dinner?” A finger pokes my side and I jump.
“Seung. Are you inside my head?” One. Two. Three seconds of silence. Awkward. Then, “Of course I want to come over for dinner. I mean, if it’s okay with your parents.”
I link my arm around Seung’s and watch his cheeks go pink. So much for the wink of courage in Mr. Dique’s room earlier today.
“What are we having?” I ask. “Asian or American?”
Seung hikes his backpack higher on his shoulders and clears his throat. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday, I think. Why?”
“On days starting with T we eat American food. All other nights, Korean.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now, Seung?” I lift my hands, shake my fists. “You know how much I like schedules. You know how much I love your mom’s food.”
Seung half smiles and looks at his feet. “It’s been that way my whole life, Linden.”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays, American,” I say tapping my temple. “I’ll remember that now. And, for the record, I haven’t known you your whole life. This is only our second year together.”
Ham’s right. Some people are changing this year. For the better. And it’s impossible not to notice. If Seung weren’t my second-best friend, I’d . . . No, I wouldn’t. Seung is the guy I’d die for, not date. Just like my Ham.
“Two years of high school is the pinnacle of my life,” Seung says all dramatic-like, and I wonder if he means because that’s how long he’s truly been alive, you know, since I came into the picture.
“Should we invite Ham?”
“Well . . . I was thinking . . . maybe just . . .” Seung leans in near my ear and the tickle makes my stomach flip, then flop, in the most superb way.
On cue, Ham turns the corner. “Guys!”
“Guy and girl,” Seung says. I look at Seung. He doesn’t look back. He referred to me as a girl? He referred to me as a girl. First the winks, now this.
“Correction.” Ham points his finger at Seung and says, “Guy,” then at me, “and asshole. What are we doing tonight?”
“Dinner at Seung’s after I finish posting about Mr. Dique’s drone.” I can’t wait to spend some time in the newsroom alone with the guys.
“I’ll call my parents and meet you in the newsroom.” Ham spins around and slow-jogs out the door.
The greatest thing about having best friends who are guys is that they never ask to hang at your house or demand a Saturday-night sleepover. When it comes right down to it, they are still members of the opposite sex, and when you live at home, like Ham and Seung do, rules govern visitations. Sure, they ask to come over to my house, but they never press the issue when I refuse. With a secret like mine, the best thing to do is insert partial truths into the umbrella of lies. It helps when remembering details.
Seung knows how much I love his perfect parental units, so he doesn’t push to meet mine. Plus, he has the basement we all adore. His parents always knock, rarely barge in. Ham, on the other hand, is highly persistent in a tolerable way. He invites himself to my house all the time. Says it’s only proper to become acquainted with his best friend’s living space. Claims he wants to see where I rest my head at night. He knows more than he thinks he does.
When Ham’s father drops him off for school, he opens my front door and wipes his feet on my welcome mat. He walks the main corridor (my foyer) and turns the corner toward the lockers (my coat closet). After PE, Ham showers in the locker room (my master bath) and heads toward the cafeteria (my kitchen). As far as seeing where I sleep, well, it changes. There are nights when I huddle in a ball covered by theater curtains, other nights when I doze off in the library while studying. On unfortunate nights when I get locked out of my own house, I spend a cold five hours curled up in the baseball dugout, using plywood for a mattress and my arms as blankets. Those nights are shit.
With Seung and Ham, I won’t censor myself. I don’t have to. I leave out minor details and insert partial truths. When Ham first asked about my family, I told him my mother was dead and that my truck-driver stepfather was on the road seven days a week. Partial truths. The only time I flat-out lie is when they interrogate me about my home. If I steer the conversation, I minimize the lies. I hate misleading my friends. In the short time I’ve known them, they’ve become family to me. They’re all I have.
After thirty minutes in the newsroom, Seung asks, “Are you done yet?”
I tap the keyboard trying to get a response. Pictures of the drone upload onto the school computer.
I glance at the clock. “Five minutes. I promise.” If I don’t hurry, I’ll spend the night in the dugout. Even though the weather is still warm, plywood makes a hard and horrible bed. I must get to my locker or get locked out. I’m always planning my next move or second-guessing my last one. My mind never rests.
Seung drops his head back against his chair and stares at the ceiling. I ignore his moan, even though it’s adorable.
I proof the text one more time and hit publish, then spin around in my chair as Kristen walks in the door.
“Why are you still working?” Kristen asks, her breath huffing and puffing like she hurried to get here.
“Because I work here,” I say.
“Not for much longer.”
Seung whirls around in his chair. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, annoyance scribbled all over his face.
“Nothing.” Kristen purses her lips together, and the sides of her mouth pucker.
Seung exhales irritation.
“Spill it,” I say, pointing at Kristen. “You’re about to combust.”
Kristen picks a piece of fuzz from her sweater and sighs. But with minimal prodding, she overshares at a high rate of speed. “Principal Falls, I mean Falsetto, was talking about Linden with her sister.”
“So?” Seung and I snap at the same time. We look at each other, then turn our heads and smile at our feet.
“You think it’s funny?” Kristen says. She spins in a circle, one hand on her hip, the other pledging allegiance to an invisible flag. “Why are you smiling? You think I’m funny?”
“Settle down,” Seung says. “We think you’re great. You’re Kristen the Great. Wisest of the wise. Royalest of royals.”
Seung’s slight sarcasm, misinterpreted by Kristen, relaxes her shoulders and stance. Her hand falls from her hip.
“I’m just saying, they were talking about you, Linden. Her sister is a reporter or journalist or something. She works at station K-O-something, something. She was asking questions. About you.”
“What kind of questions?”
“For one, your name,” she says. “For another, your address.”
I nibble my lip. I don’t like people asking questions. They might get answers.
“Probably acknowledging what a great job Linden does on Hinderwood High’s blog,” Seung says. “Falsetto raves about you all the time, Linden. Probably bragging to her sister about that big piece you did last year.” Seung leans forward and teeters on his elbow. His voice is breathy, his words slow. “That really was a sexy read on tardiness.”
I wave away Seung’s whispers, even though they summon swarms of butterflies, deep in my gut. “Yeah, maybe.” I make a mental note to ask Mr. George what he knows about Falsetto’s journalist sister. “What’d she look like, anyway?” If I see her, I’ll talk to her myself.
“Blond. Bountiful highlights. Bouncy hair. A whole lot of lipstick.”
I wonder what I’d say if I saw her. I hope Seung’s right, because there is only one reason anyone ever asks for my address. They want to know where I live. “Maybe I’ll Google the letters to the news station tonight. Check out her street cred, or something.”
Seung stares. “Thought you didn’t have internet?”
I gulp. “I don’t. Didn’t say I’d look at home. Did I?”
Ham bursts into the newsroom from his third bathroom break, holding his nose and giggling at something Drama Jarrell is whispering over his shoulder. He pats Jarrell’s chest, and Jarrell catches Ham’s hand and holds it for a second.
I glance at Seung to see if he’s witnessing this peculiar yet lovable exchange, but his eyes are fixed on his phone.
“Do not go down the senior hall,” Ham says, tugging his hand from Jarrell’s shirt and stuffing it deep into his pocket.
“Get another ass kicking?” Seung asks without looking up from his phone.
Ham rolls his eyes and flatly says, “No, Seung. My ass is perfection.” He turns to the side and squeezes a handful, skillfully showing us that his butt remains intact.
Jarrell coughs and Seung says, “C’mon,” in full groan. “Nobody’s interested in your ass.”
“Agree to disagree.” Ham grins. “And since nobody asked, Toby Patters and Reed Clemmings are fighting in front of the row C lockers. It’s causing quite a scene.”
“Again?” I ask.
“Who cares?” Seung flicks a chunk of paper off his desk chair and looks annoyed.
“I care,” Ham says. “Especially when Bea is in the middle. I don’t want her to get hurt again. Right, Linden?”
I scoff and drop my arms on Seung’s desk. He jerks back against his seat. “Relax,” I say.
Seung stares at my hands folded on his desk.
“I don’t get why Bea dumped Reed for that buffoon we affectionately call Asswipe,” Ham says.
Seung groans, then sighs. My signal to proceed without caution.
“Bea doesn’t discriminate when it comes to guys,” I snap. “Why else do you think she dumped Reed for his best friend, Asswipe? She refuses to cut the leash. Maybe she enjoys them both barking at her heels. But remind me again why we waste precious minutes of our lives discussing Bea?”
“Bea doesn’t know what’s good for her,” Seung says.
Now it’s my turn to stare. Ham perks up, too.
“I suppose Seung Rhee knows what’s good for her,” Ham says.
I watch Seung’s face for sudden movement. A twitch. A smirk. Nothing. He’s stoic.
“While I rarely entertain drama,” Kristen says, sliding a pencil behind her ear and gazing at the ceiling, “I can’t help but remember that time in class when Bea and Beth referred to Seung as One of Two.”
“One of who?” I ask, an eye fixed on Seung.
“I was there,” Jarrell says. “I heard that, too.”
Kristen takes a breath. “Apparently there are two guys Bea and Beth wouldn’t mind hooking up with. Although I’m not sure they meant hooking up with at the same time. I mean, it is Bea and Beth we’re talking about. They do everything together.” Kristen smiles as if she’s proud of her comment. “I didn’t catch the other guy’s name, though—only Seung’s. Your name stood out.” Kristen smiles at Seung and tucks her hair behind her penciled ear.
“Me,” Jarrell says, tapping his chest. “I’m the other guy.”
Ham’s face scrunches like he’s tasted lemon. He clears his throat and says, “And how do you feel about that, Jarrell?” in his best TV psychiatrist voice.
Jarrell shrugs and stretches his arms above his head. A one-inch band of stomach peeks between his T-shirt and jeans. Ham’s jaw hits the floor, but he quickly looks away.
I glance at Seung as his eyebrows shoot up. There’s that arch I was looking for. As hard as I try, I never get used to Seung’s eyebrows. All fluffy and unkempt. Seung shakes his head, trying to act unflattered, but his cheeks blush, so his false humility is impossible to buy.
“Bea said you were hot,” Kristen clears her throat. “I mean, I get why she said those things.” Her face flushes and she twists the toe of her shoe on the tile.
“Ohmygod,” I snap.
“Whatever,” Seung says, brushing his hair back, then forward. “Bea’s not my type. She’s Ham’s type. Right?”
I wish I believed him. And from Kristen’s soured face, she’s wishing on the same shooting star. “More like Ham’s obsession,” I mumble.
“Who’s Ham’s obsession?” Ham asks, unwinding his arm from the headlock he twisted Jarrell into.
“Bea, something-something a threesome, something-something Seung.” Seung tap-kicks my shin. “Ouch.”
I smile and he looks away.
Seung’s always refused to look me directly in the eye, and as a result I always snag a really good look at him. Sometimes at night, when I wake from a nightmare brought on by my reality, I imagine Seung asleep in his cozy bed. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve memorized every feature of his face. Full cheeks, boxy jaw, single freckle on the bridge of his nose.
It isn’t until we all reach the main corridor (my foyer) that I remember my locker and the door I need to position for tonight’s sneak-in ritual. I never really forget, but this afternoon I’m distracted.
“Guys,” I say. “I forgot something in my locker. I’ll meet you at Seung’s car.”
I run down the hall but turn and jog backward to see if anyone is protesting. Seung kicks the door open, and Kristen passes him as they walk outside. Wind whirls and orange leaves float inside the corridor. Ham squeezes Jarrell’s arms and says, “Good-bye, friend.” Jarrell ruffles Ham’s hair. Those two are more chummy than usual. Ham, always a love-stuffed volcano, usually oozes his attention onto Seung or me. I guess with Seung’s sudden annoyances when Ham’s near, it’s only natural for him to direct his affection elsewhere.
“Be right back!” I shout.
Here’s me, waving and grinning while running backward. When I hit my turn I sprint, then skid to a stop at my locker.
I spin the lock and it opens first try. I lift two books on Shakespeare and a copy of Smart Girl’s Guide to Money Management that I borrowed from the library last night because I’d hit my checkout limit. They are tonight’s reading if my flashlight batteries don’t die, and if I make it back into the school in time.
I feel beneath the books and find the wedge of wood I use to jam in the fire-escape door. I slip the wood into my pocket, lock my locker, and race the back way toward the gym.
Here’s me, running. Always rushing. Sliding. Stopping. Peeking. Listening.
There’s silence, so I sprint again.
At the sophomore hall, I creep around the corner by the computer lab. The darkness means Mr. Ryckman finished cleanup. Mr. Ryckman’s on schedule tonight even with a pile of puke to clean. The janitor complicates my life yet makes it cleaner, brighter. Ridiculous joke, I know, but the little things I think about at night help when I’m alone in the dark, and they’re better than thinking about why I’m alone.
I squeeze the gym doors shut and race for the stairs behind the locker rooms. Tonight is shower night. I can already feel the sandpaper concrete massaging the cracks on the bottoms of my feet. The ones screaming for lotion that hasn’t been watered down to make it stretch for another week.
Living homeless teaches me to lengthen and stretch all my possessions. Stretch my bra one more wear. Stretch my sweatshirt over my hair. Stretch the theater curtains to cover my feet, keeping my body full of heat. Stretch the canned chili two more bites. Stretch my hope one more night. My life now a doleful poem. But I have no time to lose hope.
I jump the stairs two at a time. Turn. Listen. Crack the door and wedge the wood into the gap.
I wait.
One. Two. Three. Four seconds.
The door holds and I exhale. Big and loud.
I backtrack toward the front of the school and slip into the theater to unlatch the back door. Double protection against sleeping outside tonight. I’m nose down, tapping the cracked screen on my pay-as-you-go phone, when I round the last turn toward the main corridor. Reed Clemmings jumps in front of me and blocks my exit.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he says, arms spread against the doorframe.
“Home,” I snap, and stare straight into his eyes. Reed doesn’t look away. Instead, he repeats my word.
“Home,” he says, and I nod, breaking the spell.
“If you could please . . .” I flick my fingers and motion for him to step aside. He won’t budge. He’s staring, but looking through me.
My heart pounds. Cheeks heat. Not from Reed, but the race I just won. The clock I beat.
I lift my eyebrows and he answers back by raising his.
We stare at each other for a few awkward seconds, until he says, “You work in the newsroom with Bea, right? Have you seen her?” His chin drops, and when he looks up with only his eyes, they’re filled with tears, or maybe they’re glassy. Either way, awkward.
“Nope. I haven’t.”
“You sure?” He squeezes one eye shut.
“Absolutely sure.”
“Well, then.”
“Well, then.”
Reed shifts to the side and extends his arm as if giving me permission to pass. I’d rather have permission to wipe the tear from his cheek, but that could be misconstrued as overdoing it. I mean, Reed is incredibly beautiful, especially close up, but it takes more than good looks, good hair, good body. Shit.
I will my hands not to move toward his face, then half smile, half nod, and head for the front doors. I feel his stares, but I’m not worried he saw me hide the wedge of wood in the door. He obviously has more on his mind than me. If he and Asswipe were fighting, Reed triumphed. He didn’t look beat up. If anything, he seemed beaten down, hurt. I almost feel sorry for him.
I pause at the door and glance behind me. He’s gone.
If I were Bea, and I most certainly am not, I would run from Toby and beeline back to Reed. Actually, I’d sprint toward Seung and tackle him. But let’s hope Bea won’t ever do that.
I push the doors and breathe in fresh mountain air, side-scoop my hair, and wait for Seung to park his car beneath the awning. He’s driving extra slow due to weather conditions. A slight breeze, light drizzle. That’s Seung. King of Safety.
The delay gives me thirty seconds to catch my breath. I shut my eyes right there in the doorway. All this waiting, listening, hiding. In such a short time, it’s become a part of me, who I am.
Linden. Stay in the closet. Nobody hurts you when they don’t know you exist.
Yes, Mama.
I snap open my eyes. The drop-drop-splat of rain taps the tin roof. I squeeze my eyes shut again and force a fresh image, with less hurt, more victory. I muster up a picture of Seung pulling up in a decade-old limo, picking me up for a dance. He reaches for the door, but I bump him out of the way and open it myself. He tells me I look beautiful, and of course, I agree. My hair’s blown out and my lips are lined in pink. My body’s wrapped in a snug-fit dress and I’m moving, comfortably, like water, not struggling to breathe.
These thoughts nourish me, push me forward on shitty days. Hope stops my arms from tossing in the towel and giving up. Hope keeps the smile on my face even after a cold night’s sleep. Hope refuses to let me surrender.
“Hey, asshole. What’d you forget?” Ham’s affectionate greeting jolts me back where I belong. Right here, in reality.