Saturday

Saturday

Ricci crunches her granola steadily. "You look weird," she says. Pearly drops of milk slide down her chin.

I toss a napkin at her and pour cold brew coffee from the fridge into a big mug. I take a huge gulp. My head throbs and my eyes burn. "Shut up. I have a headache."

Ricci looks down at her bowl, stirring her granola. Her spoon clinks gently on the inside of the bowl.

I've hurt her feelings. "Sorry," I mumble.

"You're really mean sometimes lately," Ricci says softly.

"Well, sometimes you're really annoy—"

My mom wanders into the kitchen then, rubbing her face. "I'm so tired. I was up so late. Grilled Cheese Jesus is very complicated, let me tell you." She puts the kettle on for tea and looks at Ricci.

"Did you pack your backpack for Dad's?" she asks. "I'm taking you over in an hour or so."

My hands tighten around my coffee mug. I forgot we go to Dad's today.

Ricci sighs and blows a milk bubble. "Yeeeessss."

My mother looks at me. "How about you?"

"I have to work tonight. I'll go over after. I need to finish a group project for art class with some kids at the library first, because one of the guys was out sick and the teacher gave us an extension. It's due Monday."

"Are you going to get graded down because it's late? That doesn't seem like it should be your fault, if another student was sick. You don't look so great yourself."

She moves toward me like she's going to put her hand on my forehead. I back away.

She looks at me. "Geez, somebody's touchy."

"Just don't," I say. "I'm fine."

"Well, you should ask the teacher to extend—"

I cut her off. "Please don't start—"

But she's starting. I'm gripping the mug so hard I feel like it might break.

"Did you write your draft for the lit essay yet? You don't want to wait until the last minute. You always do. And then what happens? You start to panic. Your grades are shaky at the moment—"

I grit my teeth. My mother is obsessed with my grades. What makes it worse is that parents can look at this online school portal to keep tabs on what assignments are missing or late and see grades in real time, and honestly, I'm already anxious about school, I don't need my mother's anxiety on top of my own. I mean, what is so bad about getting a B in a class? Or a C? My mother didn't even go to an actual school for a long time. Laurel lived in an artists collective in the woods in Upstate New York for years before she moved them to the city. The parents took turns teaching the kids in a yurt. Sometimes a whole day of learning meant baking bread from scratch. Weeks might be devoted to putting on Romeo and Juliet, right down to sewing the costumes, painting the scenery, and building a stage and set out of cardboard, drywall, and scavenged wood. If you ask me, that sounds better than endless percentage points and advanced-this-and-that and everything pointing to this faraway, mythical dream of college.

"I have my book. I have notes. I'm set. I'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

"Is your dad picking you up after work? You know I don't like you taking the bus that late by yourself."

I swirl the cold coffee in my cup with my forefinger, trying not to smirk. My mother is worried about me riding the bus at night when I stand on the sidewalk outside sketchy liquor stores and ask literal strangers to buy us vodka.

"Yes, we texted about it." Actually, I think I forgot that, too.

I can feel things starting to pile up inside me: essay, art project, Dad, work.

My mother keeps pressing. "And did he respond to the text? You know, if he doesn't respond, it means he might not have read it, or—"

"He responded. " I make a mental note to see if he did, or if I even texted him.

"What did he say, exactly? You told him what time, right? That means he'll have to keep Ricci up later, and that's not good for her—"

"He said, ‘Cool, ten o'clock, see you then, no problem.' Do you actually need to read the text? And it's Saturday. She can stay up and watch a movie. She's not a baby."

I have to lie to get her to stop, but my voice is too loud. It makes my head hurt even worse.

"Bella, your tone—" my mom starts.

"My tone is fine. I mean, my god, climb off my back, Mom. You're making me late and I need to shower," I say, getting up. "I'll check Ricci's bag before I leave and make sure she has herstuff."

And I'm out of the kitchen before my mother can say anymore.

—

My hair wet and flapping in my face, I frantically search for my work shirt in my room. My headache hasn't gone away and my mouth is really dry. I find a bottle of water on the desk and take a long guzzle. I finally locate my shirt under a pile of clothes on my desk chair and give it a sniff. Not too bad, but there's a stain in the middle, which will irritate Patty. Maybe I can wear my apron higher tonight to cover it. I have two shirts, but one is at Dad's, and I don't want to go there before I have to, and who knows if he did the laundry anyway. There are so many things involved in living at two places. Like what clothes are where, whether you forgot your charger at this house or the other, remembering to pack school folders, who's picking you up and when. It's exhausting. Not to mention that Dad's way of parenting seems specifically designed to flip the bird at my mother: Ricci stays up too late, even on school nights, because he doesn't want to be the "mean" one; he doesn't give me a curfew, because he feels that "restricts a normal level of adolescent exploration"; there's no place to do homework except at the tiny table in the kitchen, which barely fits the three of us; dinners are mostly takeout or frozen pizza. And then there's Vanessa, which is a whole other thing entirely.

My head hurts so bad I can hardly think as I shove my school stuff in my backpack, make sure I have a couple of my favorite shirts and pairs of jeans, my makeup, and some tampons, because I'm trying to stockpile some at Dad's. He's not very good at remembering that sort of stuff.

I check Ricci's backpack, too. Like I thought, she lied to my mom, probably hoping that if she forgot something, my mom would bring it over, and then Ricci would have a meltdown and want to go back with Mom and not stay with Dad, which happens more often than not. She does it to both of them, in fact.

I shove in her green homework folder, her tablet and headphones, and a couple of shirts, socks, pants, and clean underwear. Done.

My mom and Ricci are in the living room, searching for Ricci's sneakers. They have the couch cushions pulled out and everything.

I hand my mom Ricci's backpack.

"You were very rude to me, Bella," she says, her eyes pinned to my face.

I sigh. "Fine. I'm sorry. Okay? Her sneakers are in the bathroom cabinet. She likes to hide them there, remember?"

My mom is flustered. "Ricci! You did that again?"

Ricci covers her mouth with her hands so we can't see her devious smile.

"I'm off. See you in a week, I guess," I say. Then I wait.

My mom doesn't notice. She's heading to the bathroom, muttering to herself.

"Okay then," I say softly.

There was a time after the divorce when my mom made a point of hugging me when she knew I'd be at my dad's for the week. "Let me get my love in. I'm gonna miss you," she'd say. She'd even do it before we got in the car to go to school on days Dad was scheduled to pick us up, because she knew I'd be embarrassed if kids saw my mom giving me a giant hug by the curb in the drop-off line. I love her, but I don't need to display that to my classmates.

She's been forgetting the hug a lot lately.

I look at my sister.

"See you later, Ricci. Be good."

But she's not paying attention to me now, either. She's making a fort with the couch cushions.

—

I stop by Grandma's house and fill up the Sprodka bottle and dump out a water bottle and fill that up, too. I'm going to need sustenance at Dad's. His is a beer-only house, and the few times I've tried to sneak one, he's figured it out. He might be lackadaisical about some things, but he's quite particular about his beer. I wash down a couple of ibuprofen with a can of Coke.

Outside, I slide my headphones on. It's a good fifteen-minute walk to the library. Hopefully, my headache will ease up by then.

—

I will not stop and sip from the bottle. I will not stop and sip from the bottle. I will not stop and sip from the bottle. I have to do this project. I have to go to work. I will not miss Dylan. I will not stop and sip from this bottle. I will not. I will not. I will not.

—

I find my group in the back of the library at one of the teen study tables. Like I thought, my group doesn't have any books out or laptops opened. I swear to god I've managed most of this project so far and it's been a lot of hassle, even though this is my favorite class, except that Ms. Green is making us do a presentation. Speaking in public makes me nervous—like, gargantuan levels of distress—but I'm going to try not to think about that. Maybe it will be better since we have to present as a group and I won't be alone.

The group is me, Cherie, Dawn, and Lemon, whose first name is Rudy, but no one ever uses that. He moved here in sixth grade and we already had a Rudy in our class, so Lemon became Lemon.

Cherie's head is on the table. I thunk my backpack down on the floor and she looks up blearily.

"You look horrible," I say. "Must have been some party."

"It was so much fun. The parts I remember, anyway. You look like shit, too, by the way." She sighs. "Party of one?"

I ignore her. Her eyes are bloodshot. I'm glad I remembered to use eye drops after my shower.

Lemon looks up from his phone. "You shoulda been there, Bella. Oh, wait, you're on parental probation after the incident ."

"Ha ha," I say, sitting down.

"What incident?" Dawn says.

Dawn magically appeared at our school this year. I've never seen her at a party or the coffee shop or the mall or even hanging out with anyone, really. She keeps to herself, which must be kind of lonely. I mean, I have Amber, Cherie, and Kristen, and I'm lonely, too, but at least I'm not lonely by myself. I think there's a difference.

Dawn is wearing her usual outfit of overalls, Doc Martens, and a black long-sleeved shirt. She's in three of my classes, so I see this outfit a few times a week. As someone who basically has a uniform as well (T-shirt, flannel, hoodie, jeans, Chucks), I admire her consistency.

"Don't worry about it," I say, trying to be all business, getting out my school laptop and firing up our PowerPoint. "Did you finish typing the paper?"

Dawn nods.

Lemon stretches out in his chair, knotting his hands behind his long hair. He smells distinctly of weed. "Bella got hella wasted at Luis's party three weeks ago and totally lost it, " he explains to Dawn.

Dawn frowns slightly, which kind of ticks me off. I don't want her feeling sorry for me. No one needs to feel sorry forme.

Cherie says, "Knock it off, Lemon. Like you've never had a broken heart." She puts her hand on mine.

I can feel my face getting red.

"Lost what how?" Dawn says.

Lemon looks at Dawn. "You know, breakup bullshit. Booze plus breakup equals emotional implosion." He makes a sound like a bomb going off. The old people sitting a few tables over give us a couple of Shh s.

He makes a face at them and then leans close to me. "You know, Hella Bella, I'm available. I can pick up those painful pieces and glue you back together. Don't underestimate the healing power of the Lemon."

"You wish, Lemon. I think I'll stay smashed up if you're my alternative."

Dawn and Cherie giggle.

"Speaking of smashed," Lemon says, "you mind if I go outside and chill for a few minutes before we start this bullshit? I need to take the edge off."

We watch him get up and amble to the front door.

"He's just going to light up? Right outside the public library ?" Dawn says.

Cherie shrugs. "That's his thing. Everybody has a thing, I guess. Don't you have a thing you do to like, de-stress?"

Dawn looks uncomfortable for a minute, that look somebody gets when they're thinking about saying something and they aren't sure whether to say it. Mouth pursed, eyebrows close together. That look.

Finally, she just says, "I needlepoint. Geeky, I know, but it makes me feel better."

"That's cool," I say, because she looks weirdly nervous, like Cherie and I are going to laugh at her, which, judging from the look on Cherie's face, might actually happen, so I distract Cherie by angling the laptop in her direction and pointing to a slide of Aphrodite of Knidos. "Let me guess. The ones that are misspelled are from Lemon?"

The text for the slide says statutory instead of statuary.

Cherie makes a face. "Actually, I think that was me. Sorry. I'll fix it." She starts typing.

Aphrodite is naked, or nude, as our art teacher, Ms. Green, prefers we say, holding some kind of draping and covering her pubis, another word that makes our class laugh. Aphrodite has just taken a shower, I think, and I remember that her pose is contrapposto, which sounds like a dish you'd get at Olive Garden. I tell Cherie to add that in and spell it out loud for her. I love this part of our class because the statues remind me of my grandma's photographs, not just the ones of my mom when she was younger but the ones she did much later, after her years of photographing musicians and artists and being a famous person herself. Older women, posed against the sky in the desert outside Tucson, their bodies seemingly fixed in time, beautiful and strong, like they know they matter. These statues have been through wars and plunder and maybe have lost noses or arms and legs, but still, they remain. They can't be erased or replaced.

They aren't too much.

Dawn says, "Hey, what's wrong?"

Cherie stops typing. "Oh, Bella, oh, no, are you okay?"

I wipe the tears from my face quickly with the hem of my flannel shirt. "Don't worry about it."

"Breakups are hard," Dawn says slowly. "Once, I—"

"Her grandma died, too," Cherie whispers to Dawn. "It happened right—"

"Oh my god," I say loudly. "Can we just stop ?"

The old people at the next table say "Shush!" in their own loud way.

"Shush yourself, " Lemon says as he moseys by them. He drops so hard into his chair that he knocks our table. His eyes are pink and he reeks. "What did I miss?" He checks his own laptop, scrolling through the slides of classical Greek statuary on our project page.

"Ohh, baby. So many nips in this class. I love it." He makes a smacking sound with his lips.

"You know, Lemon," I say, glad that we've moved on from discussing my brief breakdown. I can feel Dawn watching me curiously, so I avoid looking at her. "The female body is a beautiful thing. It's not there for your gratification. It's art. It's made to be appreciated, not slobbered over."

Lemon shrugs. "Still makes me all jiggly, if you know what I mean. What's so wrong with that? Wait, were you crying?"

"Just shut up," I say. "Just shut up, and make sure you have your sources cited correctly for your slides, okay?"

"Yeah," Cherie says. "Step up, Lemon. I need a decent grade in this class."

"Me too," Dawn says. "My parents are super strict about grades."

"Okay, okay, Miss All-A Hella Bella and her minions. Excuuuussse meee. " He shakes his head. "Damn, somebody needs a drank. "

—

The bus is crowded and smells like sweat. I have to squeeze in the back right next to the window, hugging my backpack on my lap. My head is still rocking and there's a knot in my stomach. I haven't eaten anything yet; I just had that Coke and ibuprofen at my grandmother's. I clutch my backpack tighter and my fingers land on the shape of the Sprodka bottle inside.

Hair of the dog.

That's what my dad says sometimes after a long night out with his friend Hoyt, when I find him on the couch with puffy eyes, a beer in his hand, and it's ten o'clock on a Sunday morning. "A little hair of the dog always takes the pain away," he'll say with a wink.

No one would know. They'll just think I'm having some soda, right? It smells like soda. Maybe flat soda. Who would know? Who would even care? My heart starts to pick up a little. It might smooth out my head and my nerves. I have so much work to do before Thanksgiving break. That stupid art presentation. My actual piece of art for class, which looks awful. I never should have started drawing that damn tree, but I didn't know what to do and I had to do something. I don't even know what's going on in algebra. It's all just letters and numbers and lines swirling around. Lemon probably thinks I have all As right now, but I don't. My grades have dropped and I have a bunch of missing assignments I need to get in. I'm just lucky my mother's been so distracted she hasn't checked the grades portal in a while.

I sigh. I have five hours at work ahead of me. Helping ungrateful people and cleaning their dirty tables and picking up soggy napkins. My chest tightens.

Who would know? I can maintain. I think I can maintain. I know kids at school who guzzle NyQuil between classes like it's soda. And do other things. But that stuff seems dangerous and kind of scary.

This isn't scary. Literally everyone in the world drinks. I'm having a hard time lately. I just need to get through break andthen I'll cut way back.

There's a squeezing inside my chest that feels hot and prickly. The lady next to me is twitching in a weird way and keeps mumbling "Sorry." The guy next to her is doing that sleep thing where his head falls forward and he jerks awake and sits up and then falls asleep again. The bus always makes me feel even lonelier. Like everyone on it is being held hostage by something inside them.

I guess I am, too.

The squeezing inside me gets worse.

My hand is around the bottle inside the fabric like I'm holding a precious gem.

The bus lurches and I pitch forward, almost hitting my head on the back of the seat in front of me. I haul myself back into my seat, take a few big gulps of air. Jesus, get it together, Bella.

I will not drink on this bus. I can't. I won't. I have to go to work. I have to be nice and put on my apron and haul plates of greasy burgers and salty fries and quesadillas, and wipe down tables, and fish tips from the bottoms of soda cups because some people think it's funny to cram money between ice cubes. Some people think it's funny to eat almost an entire triple-decker grilled cheese with avocado and then claim the bread was overtoasted and they want a refund. Some people think it's funny teenagers have to work, and keep them at the table asking questions like Well now, girl, what are you going to do with your earnings? Buy more makeup? Or they think it's okay to put their meaty hands on your arm like they know you, all Aren't you just the prettiest thing I've seen all day? or compliment the food while insulting their wives, all If I didn't eat here, I'd die of starvation, heh heh. Some people think it's funny to say Now, where's my smile, give me a smile, and it's all I can do to not say I've got your smile right here and dump that glass of iced tea on their head. The world sucks, but I will not drink on this bus. I will not drink on this bus.

—

It doesn't work trying to hide the stain on my red Patty's Place shirt. It's too high up, and if I tie my apron that high, it'll probably look like I'm trying to hide an impending pregnancy, so I just try to keep my order pad in front of the stain at all times, at least until I can legitimately claim that the stain happened today.

I'm working the five-to-ten shift, which means we're already busy by the time I get there, because people are having dinner before going to movies or whatever they're doing on a Saturday night. We'll have a lull around seven and then things will pick up again at nine and go until close, which is eleven p.m., but since I'm fifteen, Patty won't let me close, since closers don't get out until after midnight.

Patty's Place isn't big and it's kind of run-down, but it's been around for more than thirty years and has a pretty devoted old-school clientele and a lot of younger people who, I guess, consider it cool in an ironic way? Those types are always snickering over Patty's décor, which is pretty much whatever strikes her fancy at the thrift store, like purple-painted wooden fish, paintings of birds and seascapes, crocheted cacti, and old postcards that she frames. Not always with the picture facing out, but sometimes like, the actual written side, so you can read about what a great vacation someone was having in 1962 in the Catskills, or how much Edgar missed and loved Beatrice while he was in Paris in 1977. I like that one a lot. Edgar wrote, The city without you seems a selfish place, or perhaps I am selfish to be away from you. Pretty much whatever Patty likes, she nails or glues to the walls of the diner. I'm especially fond of her penchant for gold-framed mirrors of various shapes and sizes.

As usual, Patty is sporting a glittery scrunchie that can barely contain her out-of-control hair. If I were to describe Patty's hair using one of the paintings from Ms. Green's art class, it would be Klimt's Nuda Veritas, where the woman's red hair is like a cloud around her head, expanding almost beyondher shoulders, with some pretty flowers pinned in here and there. Patty's hair is red, too, but with a lot of gray, giving her a kind of wild, witchy look.

She's sitting at her desk in the cramped office off the kitchen, scribbling furiously on a schedule sheet. I try to sneak past her so she won't notice my stained shirt, but her head whips up just as I'm slinking by.

"Bella," she says. "Can you do a double tomorrow? Jess is out sick and I need someone to cover her dinner shift. I can have her sub for you next Saturday."

I hold my order pad over the stain. "Yeah, sure."

She squints at me. "You okay? You getting sick? You look a little…peaked."

"What? No, I'm fine. Just…tired. You know, school and stuff."

"I don't want you getting customers sick."

"No, I'm good."

"Why are you holding your stomach, then?"

Dammit. I slowly ease the pad away from the green chile stain.

Patty shakes her head. "You need to wash your shirt after every shift, Bella. How many times have I told you?"

"A million?"

She sighs. "If it happens again, I'm going to give you another shirt and take the twenty-five dollars out of your paycheck."

I nod, thinking of the money I had to spend for that replacement laptop. I can't afford to lose twenty-five dollars right now.

"Go on. Maura needs tables cleared. You can take some tables around seven, okay? Until then, bus and run the register." She turns back to the schedule sheet.

I walk by the kitchen, where Lonnie and Deb are working the grill and José is sitting on a milk crate by the dishwasher, reading a book of poetry. Sometimes when it's not busy he'll read everyone a poem out loud, which is kind of nice. José is even older than Patty, and I think he's been washing dishes here since she opened the place. He looks up and smiles at me as I pass, and I smile back.

Maura's tables are filthy and there's already a line of people at the door waiting for clean tables so they can sit. I start clearing plates and cups and dumping them in the bus tub and wiping down tables right away. It stays pretty busy, me bussing and doing the register until seven, when it slows down and Maura goes out back for a cigarette and her dinner and Patty tells me I can take any tables that come in.

I'm at the register, sorting order slips and receipts, when the little bell above the front door tinkles.

"Welcome to Patty's," I call out, not looking up. "Sit where you like and I'll be right with you." I try to keep my voice neutral but friendly, because Patty once told me I sounded "huffy," whatever that means.

I stack the sheets and file them neatly in the folder Patty keeps on the shelf under the register, slide my order pad out of my apron and make sure I have a pen.

And then I look up.

Dylan and Willow are sitting at B3, by the window. Tucked together on one side of the booth, holding the plastic menu between them.

Oh god no.

I panic. Turn around to face the kitchen, where Lonnie and Deb are fussing with onions and green chiles and cleaning the grill during the lull. Deb glances at me. "What's up?"

"Is Maura still on break?"

"Yeah, she's got fifteen left. She's gonna eat. Why? You okay?"

I look down at the counter, at my hands, which are shaking uncontrollably. My skin feels like it's on fire. Why would he come here? Why would he bring her here? Isn't this, like, in violation of the many millions of rules of breaking up, one of which is avoid each other at all costs, except when you can't, like school, and in that case, change your daily class-to-class walking route and never make eye contact ?

In the summer, he would come in after the dinner rush and order some fries and wait for me, and then we'd walk to the park and kiss. Or take a bus to a movie, and kiss in the back row. Or take the bus downtown to 191 Toole if the show was all-ages, and kiss, the music fusing us together. My parents didn't know. I'd say I was staying with Amber and then she'd leave her back patio door open for me. Amber didn't like it, but she went along with it.

It felt thrilling, doing that with him, in secret. Something small and glowing and shiny that belonged only to me.

I have no choice but to take their order.

I walk to their booth slowly, gripping the pen and order pad tightly in my hands. It takes them what seems like an eternity to even notice me.

I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.

"Hey," Dylan says. "Hey, Bella."

His voice is neutral. Smooth. Like nothing is wrong. Like it isn't even wrong for him to be here with another girl. I can't look him in the eye. I look everywhere but at his face. At the menu lying flat on the table. At the table itself. At my order pad.

Willow says, "Are there red onions in the side salad? If there are, can you not put them in?"

Her voice isn't mean. Or knowing. Just normal, ordering food.

"No onions," I say in a low voice. "Got it."

"Cool. Can I have that with the cheese crisp and a Diet Coke?"

It would be so much easier if she was mean. I try not to see her face, her eyes. Her mouth. The mouth that he kisses now.

"Sure." Scratch, scratch, my pen on the order pad digging deep into the green paper.

Silence.

On my order pad, so hard I almost rip it, I write in very, very small letters, I hate you so much right now.

Dylan says, "You know what I like."

The green chile cheeseburger no tomato with a side of fries and ranch dressing and an orange soda.

I finally look at him. I can't help it.

Brown hair falling in his eyes. Blue flannel shirt. The freckle above his left eyebrow.

What I want to say is I guess I do know what you like and it isn't me. It isn't me.

My body was on fire, but now it's cold as ice, like when I have to get pickles and cheese from the walk-in cooler and it takes too long and by the time I have everything, my body is stiff.

What comes out of my mouth is "Yes."

"Cool. Thanks."

And then he turns back to Willow, who's scrolling on her phone and laughing. He bends closer to look.

Dylan brought Willow here and didn't think it mattered because…I don't matter anymore. I'm no big deal. I'm nothing. I'm erased.

I walk slowly to the kitchen, rip the green sheet from my order pad, pin it to the carousel, and press the bell. I open my mouth, but I can't even say Order up.

Deb turns around from the grill.

"What the hell is this?" she says, looking at the order sheet. "Something you want to tell me, Bella?"

Oh god, Deb read what I wrote about Dylan and thinks I meant her.

"Oh god," I say. My voice is so small. "That's not for you. I…"

I just want to die.

"Oh, shit," she says. "Are you okay?"

My whole face is wet.

I'm digging the pen into the order pad, deeper and deeper, until I'm just ripping the sheets.

"Lonnie," Deb says. "Go get Patty, quick."

Patty appears in an instant. "You are sick, I knew it." She puts a hand to my forehead.

But then she sees my face, and feels my tears, and turns around to see Dylan in the booth.

She sucks in her breath. "Oh, hell."

She likes him. She used to sit with him while he ate his fries and waited for me to get off shift. They talked about movies and music.

"Go out back. Take out the trash or something. Pull yourself together. Take a break. I've got this." She pushes me gently.

I walk quickly past Deb and Lonnie all the way to the back door and out into the parking lot behind the restaurant.

It isn't until I hear a soft voice say "Sit down, girl, take a load off" that I realize José is perched on an overturned pickle bucket, smoking a cigarette, listening to me hiccup as I try not to sob. It doesn't work. My eyes fill and my chest heaves. He stands, gesturing to the bucket.

I sit down. I hold myself as tightly as possible, as though I can stuff my sobs inside, but it doesn't work.

Dylan was the one thing that made me feel better after Laurel died. He was the one thing that came along and made me feel wanted and important, like she had. I told him things I'd never told anyone else. And he listened, like the things I said were important. Until they weren't.

"You want a cigarette?" José asks.

I shake my head.

"You want a drink?"

I sniffle, looking up at him.

My brain says: Challenge him first, to be careful.

My heart says: Just take it.

"What? I'm a kid. "

"Kids drink. Don't if you don't want to." He shrugs. "Under the pickle bucket. Maybe a little to calm you down. You might be a kid, but it seems like you're having a grown-up kind of feeling right now."

I stand up, lift the bucket. A pint of Smirnoff is sitting there.

"Sometimes you just need something to get to the next thing, you know what I mean? You just need to keep going and hope the next next is better," José says.

I hesitate at first, because, well, I have to go back in and work, and what if Patty notices? And also, what if José turns out to be one of those closet creeps and tries to touch me or something?

José chuckles, like he knows what I'm thinking. "Suit yourself," he murmurs.

I can have this. I know I can maintain if I have this. Just a little this.

I lift the bottle, unscrew the cap, and take two swallows before José shakes his head. "Not too much."

I take one last giant gulp, replace the cap, put the bottle back under the pickle bucket. The vodka burned my throat but replaced what was hurting inside me with a numbing warmth.

And kind of took my headache away. Hair of the dog, just like my dad says.

José holds out his palm. "Mint," he says.

I pop it in my mouth.

"?‘As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off,'?" José says, looking at the sky.

"What?" I'm patting my face with my apron, hoping my eyeliner didn't smear too much.

"It's from a poem we're reading in my class at Pima," José says. "She's talking to her boyfriend, who leaves her and goes back to his wife. Those are the last lines. I think about them all the time."

He takes a drag from his cigarette.

"I'm not sure what the words mean, exactly," he says, staring at the stars just beginning to pop in the sky. "But I find them kind of comforting, you know? Sad things can be really comforting in a weird way."

I nod, because I'm not sure what to say.

"You should go back in. Patty will be wondering where youare."

I stand up, retie my apron, pat down my hair.

José smiles and points to the pickle bucket and puts a finger to his lips. Shhhh.

—

Patty and Deb are waiting for me by the dishwasher. I keep sucking on the mint José gave me. The drinks I took are making a warm cloud inside my body. I feel calmer now.

"You want me to tell him never to come back? I will," Patty says.

I shake my head. I'm buzzed, to be honest. That last big gulp helped, but it's also hitting me a little hard.

"He shouldn't have come in here. That's cold. There's, like, rules. " Deb shakes her head. She's got two new streaks of color since last week: pink and green.

"It's fine," I say softly, even though it isn't. I try to speak really clearly because I'm afraid I might slur a little. The warm cloud inside me is getting hotter.

"Whatever. Sorry I flipped out." I bite my lip. Focus, I tell myself.

Patty gives me a smile. "Go fix your face. Deb'll make you some eggs and toast. You eat, then you go back out and he'll probably be gone. You've gotta be tough with this, you hear? Don't let him get to you."

Deb nods. "Yeah. You have to just carry that shit until one day, you wake up, and it doesn't hurt so bad."

Lonnie appears, drying his hands on his apron. "On behalf of all men and boys, I'd like to apologize for our insensitivity. We really are that stupid."

"True that," says Deb.

—

In the tiny bathroom, I look at my smudged eyeliner, the tear tracks through my face powder.

The poem José quoted to me drifts through my head as I look at the mess I am reflected back at me.

As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.

—

It's ten-fifteen and my dad isn't here to pick me up yet. I'm about to text him when I see Vanessa's white Volkswagen Beetle pull into the lot. Ricci waves at me from the back seat.

My heart sinks. Perfect. Just perfect. Now I'm going to be subjected to my dad's girlfriend's relentless positivity for the night. The shots I took with José helped me power through the last of my shift. I'm still a little buzzed, so they'll get me through at least this car ride.

I climb into the front seat.

"Sorry," Vanessa says. "Your dad went out for a bit to hear some music. Looks like it's a girls' night. Are you okay? Your face is really pink. You getting sick?"

"I'm fine, " I mutter.

From the back seat, Ricci chants, "Girls' night, girls' night!"

"All right, then. I've got cheese popcorn and hot chocolate," Vanessa says. "Maybe a movie on Netflix?"

"I have homework," I say. "And I'm pretty tired."

"It's Saturday! No one should have to do homework on a Saturday," Vanessa answers. "You can take a break, for once."

"Saturday!" Ricci shouts.

I know it kills my mom that Ricci likes Vanessa so much. I mean, Ricci's just a little kid, so things like new girlfriend and betrayal don't mean anything to her. But at this moment, after having lost it at my job when my old boyfriend, my first boyfriend, brought in his new girlfriend, I'm not feeling too much like pretending to be nice to my dad's new girlfriend . Who, for all I know, was his girlfriend while he was with my mom. Parents lie to you all the time.

"Just drop it," I say sharply.

Vanessa stops smiling. From the corner of my eye, I can see her jaw tighten. I've hurt her feelings.

Good. Because who is she to just suddenly be in our lives, pretending to be important, making us dinner, watching movies, making hot chocolate, acting like…she's family ? I didn't ask for a new family, or even an adjacent one. I don't know how to deal with the one I have.

I'm glad she's hurt.

I take out my phone, pretend to look at messages, like I don't know I've spoiled her nice plans for the evening.

Because I'm a watercolor. I wash off.

—

In the room I share with Ricci at Dad's, I throw my backpack onto the top bunk and climb up in the dark and click on the fairy lights I've strung around the railings and lie down.

I can hear the opening of Frozen out in the living room and Vanessa moving around in Dad's tiny kitchen. I know it's all he can afford right now, and it's actually kind of nice—the complex is pretty big and there's even a pool—but sometimes his apartment feels so tight and small, like I can't breathe. And there's only one bathroom, which is a pain when you really have to go and, say, Ricci is in there taking her sweet time. There's nowhere to go here, like there is at Mom's, where I have my own room and two bathrooms, plus Laurel's house when I need to disappear.

I unzip my backpack and pull out the Sprodka bottle and take a sip.

I'm kind of sorry that I know José keeps alcohol at work. Now I might be thinking about that all the time while I'm there. I sometimes have it in my backpack, but that's always for later, and it's not all the time, anyway. It's just lately. I just feel like if I can get through Thanksgiving and have a break, things will be better. I'll make them better.

I should change out of my work clothes. I'm still wearing my apron. I need to make sure I have a clean work shirt and apron for tomorrow. This means finding some quarters for the laundry machine in the next building over. I feel in my apron for my tips and I'm relieved to find some quarters in there. My dad isn't great about saving up quarters for emergency laundry. He likes to just dump everything off at the cleaners once a week.

My phone buzzes. Amber.

Hey

Hey, I type back.

You okay? How was work?

I hesitate. If I tell her about Dylan in the wrong way, she'll call, and I don't want to talk to anyone right now.

Dylan came in. With Willow.

OMG Are you all right? What a jerk!

It's fine. They just ate.

I pause.

It was all cool. No worries.

You sure?

Yeah. Gotta go. I need to do laundry. I'm at my dad's.

K. Call me if you want to talk.

I arch my back and untie my apron, counting my tips. After tipping out Deb, Lonnie, and José, I have thirty dollars. Not great, but not bad. It's something. I fold the paper money carefully and tuck it in my backpack, then count out six dollars in quarters.

I look at my phone.

I check Dylan's Stories.

I have a fake account, so he won't know it's me. I know that's all sorts of wrong, but I couldn't help myself after we broke up.

There they are, back row of the movie theater, nestled together.

I start crying again.

They're kissing.

Did he play air hockey with her in the theater arcade before the movie, like he did with me, our laughter mixing with the clack and slide of the puck across the table? Does she like to breathe in his smell, just like I did? She doesn't look any different from me, really, just a girl with messy hair and better eyeliner and jeans and sneakers, so why am I too much and she is not?

I slide down the ladder of the bunk and rip off my jeans and work shirt and jam on pajama pants and an oversize T-shirt and hoodie and grab the laundry basket from the corner. I throw my work clothes in there, along with some dirty clothes lying on the floor, and my headphones and phone, and tuck the Sprodka bottle under the clothes.

In the front room, Ricci and Vanessa are on the couch eating popcorn and watching Frozen. Ricci has a hot chocolate mustache.

Vanessa looks up at me. "A little late for laundry, don't you think?"

"I'm working a double tomorrow and I need clean work clothes. Dad's not a great laundry person, if you haven't noticed."

She gives me a look like she's considering very carefully what to say.

"Okay then," she says. "Maybe when you're done, you'll be ready to hang out?"

"No. Homework, remember?"

She tucks a strand of blond hair behind one ear and crunches a piece of popcorn. "Right. Homework."

She's wearing pink pajama pants and a tank top, which means she's staying over.

After the divorce, Ricci and I had barely just started getting used to Dad's apartment and, well, Dad, alone, without the presence of my mom, before Vanessa appeared. She was just there one night, like it wasn't a big deal, or anything my dad had to prepare us for, or even, I don't know, ask us about. He just slotted her into our lives, like our mom didn't matter, like maybe I wasn't kind of looking forward to just being with my dad by himself, away from all the fighting and tension with my mom, maybe figuring out who he was when he wasn't angry and sad all the time. No one ever asked me what I wanted.

And looking at Vanessa on this couch right now, even though she's being sweet and cool and nice with my little sister, I kind of hate her.

—

The laundry room is dead, so I have the machines to myself. I'm grateful that nobody left any wet clothes in the washer, because that's awkward, wondering if you should just pull out a stranger's clothes and dump them on the table. Who wants a stranger touching their clothes? Also, I do not want to touch anyone else's wet underwear.

I stuff my clothes in the washer, add detergent and quarters, and start the machine. Then I plug my headphones into my phone and go sit in the corner with my backpack and Sprodka bottle. If anyone comes in, I'm just some loser girl, doing her laundry on a Saturday night, listening to music and drinking her soda, occasional bursts of heat from the dryers keeping me warm.

—

I almost trip on the stairs going back up to the apartment andI have to stop and take a couple of breaths to steady myself. I'm not sure how long I was in the laundry room; I stayed long after the clothes in the dryer stopped tumbling, just looking at pictures on my phone and listening to music.

I'm unsteady. I was down there too long. I take a deep breath, standing outside the door to the apartment, listening. It's quiet inside. Ricci always goes to sleep for Vanessa, no problem, which I've never understood. I hope Vanessa is asleep, too.

I just have to get through the living room and to our bedroom. That's it. I try to imagine the path I have to take: being careful not to walk into the couch, which juts in front of the door; angle around the easy chair and then take a sharp right down the short hall to our room, open the door, set down the laundry basket with my clothes, manage the three steps on the bunk ladder—

No. I'm going to have to pee. No, I do have to pee. I start giggling at the absurdity of it, having to plan out my path like a master spy, but I'm also a little panicked. Please do not let Vanessa be up, please, please, please. I don't want to have to talk to her. My mouth is as thick as mud; I'll definitely slur.

No one is in the front room when I step inside. I breathe a sigh of relief. They're in bed. I'm almost around the sharp corner, one eye squinting because things are a little fuzzy, when Vanessa calls out from the room down the opposite hall, "Bella? That you?"

I freeze, then turn slightly. The door to the bedroom is half open. She's in bed with the light on.

"Yes." My lips are rubbery as I speak. Am I slurring? I cough to cover the possibility. Lick my lips.

"Okay. Did you lock the door? Your dad won't be home until later."

"Yes." Did I? I can't remember. Should I go back and check? No. Screw it.

"Don't stay up too late studying, okay?" She sounds sleepy. The light clicks off. "Good night."

"Night." I cough again.

There's a silence and then, "You sound a little off. I think you are getting sick."

"I'm just fine, thank you very much." I head as quickly and carefully as possible to our bedroom. I close the door behind me, my heart thudding with relief. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.

Ricci is splayed out on the bottom bunk, her thumb jammed in her mouth. I put the laundry basket on the floor and open the door again, pausing to listen. I don't hear anything, so I creep out as quietly as possible to the bathroom, waiting to flick the light on until I have the door closed. The suddenness of the light stings my eyes because my dad likes superbright bulbs. I sit down and pee what feels like a gallon of liquid and then stand up and wash my hands.

I look at myself in the mirror. Tired face. Sad face. Round and childish-looking, except for my smudged makeup. I trace the outline of my face in the mirror, leaving a fingerprint trail.

"That was stupid," I whisper to the girl in the mirror. "You could have got caught. Don't do that again."

I stifle a giggle.

Back in our bedroom, I fold my clothes in the dim glow of the fairy lights, set the alarm on my phone for tomorrow morning for work, squinting to make sure I have the time correct, because everything's getting blurry again, and start climbing up into my bunk with my backpack on.

But my foot misses one of the steps and I slip, jamming my chin on one of the rungs.

I freeze, pain slicing through me, and it's all I can do to hold back a scream. I take several deep breaths, try to refocus, my heart thudding in my chest. Jesus.

I grip the rungs again and slowly climb all the way up to my mattress, throw off my backpack, and turn on the small light clamped to my headboard. I feel under my chin, but no blood comes away on my fingers. That was close.

I check my phone. Put it down. Pull my school laptop from my backpack, lie down, rest it on my stomach, reach up behind me and click on the tiny lamp on my headboard. Maybe I should do some reading for English lit. We've got that paper due on Wednesday for the nonfiction module and I chose Wild, but I haven't finished it yet or even taken notes, even though I told my mother I did. I'm just filled with lies these days.

I slide the book from my backpack, but the words swim in front of my eyes. This book makes me sad, because the writer lost her mother, which makes me think of Laurel. I don't know if I would have what it takes to walk that far and for that long by myself, but maybe it wouldn't be too bad. No one to bother me. Just some trees and dirt and birds and a tent.

I start reading, forcing myself to concentrate on the words, as if I can stop their fluttery movement in front of my eyes. I shouldn't have stayed in the laundry room so long. I didn't pay attention. Bad Bella. I sigh; I can't concentrate. My chin aches.

The bottle is peeking from the top of my backpack. I look at it, then look away, then look back at it.

I mean, what does it even matter now?

—

I wake up with the book on my chest and the Sprodka bottle on its side, liquid pooling on the sheet under me and my bladder so full it's burning the inside of my body. Dammit.

I almost fall climbing down the ladder and catch myself just in time. I hold on to a rung, try to calm down. Am I seeing double? The room is spinning.

I blink a couple of times. The doubles go away.

From the living room comes the sound of soft strumming and low voices.

Dad.

The front room is separated from the kitchen by a breakfast bar, and after that, if you go left, you go to Dad's room. If you go right, it's me and Ricci's room. Right in the middle of our rooms, next to the kitchen, is the bathroom, so I'm going to have to see Dad in this state whether I like it or not.

Like I said, act like nothing is amiss and nothing will be amiss.

I open my bedroom door and stand in the doorway of the front room, trying not to sway. I don't think my dad would be mad if he thought I'd been drinking, since he's lazy in the parental enforcement area, but he would think it was weird that I did it by myself, on a night I was working, and not with friends or something. My mother told him about what happened with Dylan, and about Luis's party, but he didn't tell me to not drink or anything. It was mostly an awkward conversation about "taking it easy on the hard stuff" and "sometimes a broken heart makes us do some pretty crazy things" and my favorite, "what a little prick that kid is."

"Hey, Bella," my dad says. He's sitting on the couch, a guitar on his knees. "Did we wake you up?"

His voice is a little thick and his face is soft.

Oh. Right. Vanessa said he went out to listen to a band. So he's tipsy, too.

"Belly!" It's my dad's friend Hoyt. He's stretched out on the floor between the couch and the television, a couple of beer cans by his head.

I flinch. I don't like it when he calls me that. I feel like grown men should not be referring to girls by their body parts, even if it's because when I was really little, Hoyt could get me to lift my shirt by asking me, "Where's your belly button?" Which is also kind of gross, when you think about it.

"I don't like it when you call me that, Hoyt," I say. "Can you…not?"

He chuckles. "Aww, come on. It's your nickname. It's cute."

I look at my dad, like can you make him stop? But my dad is looking at his guitar.

Hoyt and my dad were in a band together a long time ago. Once, Hoyt said, "We traded guitar licks and groupies for Garanimals and goldfish and here we are, for better or for worse." I couldn't tell if he meant it in a happy or sad way.

"You didn't wake me," I say to my dad, making sure to speak slowly so I don't slur. "I just had to pee."

My dad pats the couch next to him. "You want to join us? I missed you. I could show you a couple of chords."

My dad is always trying to teach me how to play the guitar, but I'm not very good. I feel like my fingers are clumsy and huge when I try to play, but he says I just need practice.

I shake my head. "No, that's okay. I have to get up early. I'm doing a double tomorrow."

"Come here. Give me a hug, babe. I missed you."

Can he see me hesitate? The side of my shirt is wet from the spilled bottle.

"Come here," he says again.

I take the couple of steps toward him and bend down, kind of awkwardly, over the back of the couch, so he can't notice or feel the wet mark on my shirt. I keep my mouth shut, too, because of my breath. He kisses me on top of my head and ruffles my hair.

Then he sniffs the air.

I stop breathing.

He sniffs again. "You smell like…," he says. "What is that smell?" He frowns.

Hoyt laughs. "She smells like a giant Patty's Place burger, bro, green chile and onions. It's killing me. You got anything to eat here?" He gets up, groaning a little, and staggers toward the kitchen. On his way, he peers at me.

"Damn, girl, you look like a soggy raccoon. What happened to you?"

I touch my face. Oh god. I fell asleep with all my makeup on.

My dad frowns. "Jeez, Bella, you really piled it on today."

He's not a fan of my makeup.

"It's my face," I say, my voice prickly. "I can do what I want with it."

"Ooooh, kitten's got her claws out," Hoyt calls from the kitchen. He's rummaging around in the fridge.

My dad's mouth flattens a little. "Well, wash it off and go to bed, all right? Good night, Bella."

He starts strumming his guitar again.

"Good night," I murmur, turning and walking to the bathroom.

I let the water run in the bathroom while I pee, just so Hoyt can't hear it in the kitchen, and then I wipe off my makeup and wash my face.

In the mirror, my bare face stares back at me, shiny and pink and puffy and tired and naked. I lift my chin. There's a red splotch there that will probably be swollen and purple by morning. That's just perfect.

I meet my eyes in the mirror for only a second before something flares up inside me, hot and sudden. Tears pool in my eyes. I shove the heels of my palms against them.

I don't like seeing that girl. That girl looks ugly and heartbroken and alone.

I turn away from the mirror and grab a towel to put over the wet spot on my sheet and go back to bed. I just want to disappear.