One Week In November. Sarah Everest

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СКАЧАТЬ do remember that our paper is due on Friday? I thought I was coming over to your place yesterday, but you acted like you didn't even see me. I worked on it alone, but I really need your help to finish it."

      "Oh," I had forgotten the project. The moment Aunt Stacey said we were going to visit my mother everything else had faded out. "I'm sorry Kade. I literally forgot. And tonight I have to work." I bit my right index fingernail nervously. When I was a kid I was a horrible nail biter, and in moments of stress and confusion the habit sometimes resurfaces.

      Kaden started breathing quickly. He's a great guy, really he is, but sometimes he can be a bit on the dramatic side. If I wasn't feeling so blah I would have suggested he join drama club and take it out on them, but I genuinely felt bad about the situation. "Look," I said taking his hands in mine, both to calm him down and prevent myself from destroying my nails, "just give me what you have and I'll work on the rest myself tonight."

      "Friday," Kaden focused his light brown eyes on mine. "That's tomorrow, AJ. If we don't get this done we're risking our first quarter grade. I can't afford that this year. If I slack off now..."

      "Come on, you know when I put my mind to it, I'm good for the A. Besides, Ms. Carter likes me. I'll just finish it up after work, and we can meet up in the morning before class to go over things for the presentation. I'm sure your work is stellar, and we did talk about all the elements last week." I could see him mulling it over. I watched him biting his full bottom lip and pulling his eyebrows together in consternation. There is no doubt that he is handsome, but I could never tell him that. I felt my cheeks getting warm at the thought and let go of his hands, hoping he wouldn't notice.

      "Is everything okay, AJ? I mean not just about the project. You don't seem yourself."

      I looked down at my chipping nail polish, letting my blonde hair fall down around my cheeks to be certain he couldn't see the pink tinge I was pretty sure was there. "It's nothing, really," I muttered. "Do you have the project? I'll take it now. Maybe things will be slow at the bakery and I can work on it there, too."

      "Hey," he brightened, which made me nervous for some reason I couldn't explain to myself. "Why don't I come by the bakery? Then we can go over things before you go home."

      I did not want him to stop by my work. He had been there several times before, and I knew none of my coworkers would care if he sat at one of the tables and we checked things over when there was down time, but it never felt right when he was there. Not to mention that, I was pretty sure Allie would be working, and I did not like the way she eyed him and got all flirty. "I guess," I said, hoping he would read the hesitance in my voice and change his mind.

      "Great." The bell rang, informing us that class would start in five minutes. Kaden gave me a quick hug. "You're the best, AJ." He grinned at me, revealing the dimples in his cheeks.

      "Oh stop, you're making me blush," I pushed him away, and he laughed. Other students were rushing past us now, and I let myself get carried away in the crowd. As I lost sight of him I almost wished I'd told him what was really going on in my life, but there were too many layers I would have to explain, and I wasn't ready to share it, even with my best friend.

      The whole school day felt like I was going the wrong direction on an escalator. No matter what I tried to do, I found myself disoriented. Kaden sat with me at lunch, but he thankfully kept quiet. I ate without registering what I was putting into my mouth. I wondered what my younger self would have said about my mindless eating. No doubt she would have pointed out every part of my body where extra fat had begun to pool. I had not regained my chubby cherubic cheeks, but I could no longer fit into the size 1 jeans that had once made me so proud.

      "What time do you start at the bakery?" Kaden ventured to ask as our lunch period came to an end. "I have to run a few errands for my dad before I come over."

      "I start at four thirty," I said, accepting the fact that he was going to show up there. "I'll be around until 8, so there's no reason for you to rush."

      "Sounds good," he nodded. He almost hugged me again, but the bell rang, rescuing me from another blast of confused emotions. Whatever was happening with my mother had everything in me out of whack.

      As soon as school was over I hurried home. It was a challenge to go there and then to the bakery before my shift started, but in the back of my mind, mixed somewhere between worry about the project I had to do, and confusion about the coming weekend, I had been trying to figure out some way to help the homeless man stay warm on these colder days. I'd given him extras from the bakery a few times, but it wasn't much. I wanted to do something that would make a difference, something that would make me feel like I was part of a bigger purpose.

      Aunt Stacey wouldn't be home until 6, so I knew I didn't have to worry about her asking any questions. She's a generous person, and I knew she would approve of me doing good for others, but I didn't know how I could explain why I felt compelled to help the man. I had enough trouble understanding it myself.

      The thing was, he just didn't seem like the type of guy who typically ends up homeless. On the corner by the bakery, there are an assortment of vagrants who take turns looking for handouts. We always give them big slices of bread when they come in, and if they come at the right time, we pass them the day old loaves when the fresh ones are ready to be sold. When I take my breaks I usually sit at a small metal table in front of the store. I abhor smoking because of my mother, but sitting out there on cold afternoons gives me the urge to take up the habit, just to have something to do besides staring at the homeless guys.

      I must admit, I find them fascinating in their own ways. I have created categories for them. For instance, there are the drunks, the physically handicapped, the young people - not much older than myself - who travel in groups of two with tattered clothes, dreaded hair, and occasionally a dog or two, and the mumblers. It's the mumblers that make me the most nervous. Their vacant stares and muttered words that don't fit together with any sort of sense, make my skin crawl. If one of them is still out when it's time to head home, I try to bum a ride with one of my coworkers. If that doesn't work, I call Aunt Stacey to come and get me.

      He didn't fit into any of these categories. Sure, he held a sign asking for handouts like the rest of them, but it never looked right in this large strong hands. He was always clean shaven, with his clothes tidy, and his grey hair smoothed down. I never saw him smoking, or glassy eyed from alcohol.

      Some days, when I think about who my father might be, I imagine him as one of the shabby trench coated, dreadlocked, drunks wearing gloves full of holes, and holding a sign saying: Need money for whiskey. At least I'm honest.

      I don't really want to meet my father. I certainly don't admire him. Whoever he was, and whoever my mother was at that point, he should have at least stuck around long enough to find out who I was going to be. But he didn't, so I know he doesn't deserve my time, and I don't want to support him with money for drugs or alcohol. At the same time, I wouldn't want to find out some day that I let my own father starve, or freeze in the cold. So I never give them money, but if I have extra food, I'll give them that. If they won't take food, they don't deserve money.

      When I got to the house I scrounged around for an old blanket that Aunt Stacey wouldn't miss. I looked at my afghan, but couldn't bring myself to give up the one connection I had to my grandparents. Even though I never met them, I've always had the feeling that if they'd been around things would have been different, better. I left my room and continued my search elsewhere.

      In the garage I found a tub of old comforters Stacey kept for taking on picnics or camping trips. We hadn't done either of these things for a long time, so I knew she wouldn't notice if one of them was gone. I pulled out an old fluffy brown comforter and sniffed it to make sure it was reasonably fresh. It passed my test, so I jammed it into my bag then hurried СКАЧАТЬ