Well, he OD’ed. He was in rehab, remember? We’re at outpatient now.
Right
…
Come over after
What? That’ll be late. It’s a school night I see the light in your window I know you stay up late just tell your mom you’re helping me …
Mothers love me, Emmy
It’ll be warmer than the pool house
I breathe in the smoky air, which burns my lungs a little, so I move farther from the smokers. The lights in the parking lot blink on, casting a hazy glow over the lot. Going over to Gage’s would mean what? His bedroom?
…
You there
See you around 9:30, I type.
Simon said we are made up of all our experiences.
I’m just filling in my backstory.
A half hour. That’s all. Ok?
Ok
21
LATER, AT HANK’S HOAGIES, Joey shuffles out from behind the counter, his arms loaded with packets of napkins, bundles of condiments, and a damp rag. Under the harsh ceiling light, he looks tired and pale.
I close my iPad. “Let me help you,” I say.
“No, you don’t have to. Keep studying.”
“If I don’t help you, we’ll get out of here later, and you need to study, too,” I say. “Go get the mop.” I want to make sure we get home in time for me to go over to Gage’s.
Joey’s closing duties are stocking the lobby tables and mopping the floor. Hank does the register count. His wife and a sallow-faced girl take care of cleaning the kitchen and prep area. I’ve done this a few times already, and I have the drill down. Hank never seems to care that I help.
I wipe the red-checkered tablecloths and stuff the holders with napkins, slide forks into plastic containers. Joey wheels out the yellow mop bucket and dunks the mop inside. He squeezes out the mop and slaps it on the floor, twirling it across sticky spilled soda stains and droplets of dried mustard.
I carefully count out ten each of the condiments for the bins on the tables. Headlights of passing cars flash by the large window facing Main Street. There are tiny lights in the trees on the avenue that make them look starry, pretty.
I grab my things and step out of the way so Joey can finish.
Hank comes out behind the register, drying his hands on a towel.
“Good kids,” he says to me. He punches some buttons on the register and the cashbox pops out. He cradles it in his arms.
“Your mother made a decision yet?” he asks me.
“I’m sorry?” Hank is a perfectly round being. Round eyes, round body, and a round, balding head underneath the orange sub shop hat with the dancing hoagie.
“The Mill. Coupla offers to buy the building. Can’t sit empty forever. Shouldn’t, at least.”
“She doesn’t really talk to me about those things,” I say slowly, wondering why he’s asking me.
“Sure hope she decides to do the right thing. Those condos go in, we’ll get a whole lot of people from the city who want to live out here with trees and woods and the river. People who spend money.”
His wife turns around, her face sweaty. “Or, if they turn the Mill into condos, we’ll see chain shops,” she says. “Subway will show up, drive us out of business. Kaminski’s Hardware will be replaced by Walmart or Home Depot.”
“I don’t know anything,” I say carefully. Joey passes by me, wheeling the mop bucket into the back.
“Some rinky-dink group wants to buy that big old building for nothing. Your mom tell you that? Turn it into housing and services for the deadbeats down on Frost River.” Hank shakes his head. “That happens and we’ll get the wrong kind of traffic from the city. More of those deadbeats coming here for a handout. We’ve already got too many, if you ask me.”
“But I mean, those people need help, too, right?” I think of the security guard at Joey’s outpatient center, who called the people at the center junkies.
And Joey. Joey could be—sort of is—one of those people. Or might be, if not for my family’s money propping him up.
“You say that,” Hank says. “Because you can. You aren’t hurting. Your brother isn’t hurting. Every morning when I open up, I have to kick out a bunch of lazies in the alley who’ve been picking through my dumpster. Only a matter of time before I get jumped or robbed. Had to put in security cameras, just in case.”
The girl in the kitchen says, “I like Walmart. They have everything under one roof. I’d like not to have to go to three different places in town, if you want to know the truth. Or take the bus to the city to the mall.”
Hank’s wife says, “Be quiet, Caroline.”
Caroline goes back to scrubbing the grill.
“Anyway,” Hank says, shutting the register. “I do hope your mother makes the right call. I did her a favor, maybe she can do me a favor. Do the town a favor.”
The look in his eyes says Your family owes Mill Haven.
It makes me feel queasy.
Joey comes out in his hoodie.
“Bye, Hank,” he says. “Bye, Marie. Bye, Caroline.”
“Good boy,” Hank says. “I’ll see you on Friday.”
On the way to the car, Joey says, “Hank won’t let me count the register at the end of the night, you know. He thinks I’ll steal the money. What a joy working in this town is.”
* * *
—
Joey slumps into the dining room chair, pulling two subs from his backpack and plopping them on the table. “I got you a sandwich,” he says.
He lifts his iPad and notebooks from his backpack and takes off his hoodie. His orange Hank’s Hoagies shirt is crinkled and stained.
I look at my phone. Nine-fifteen. Fifteen minutes to go over to Gage’s. I walk upstairs and peek into our mother’s room. The lights are off. She’s a lump under the covers.
In my bathroom, I brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Plain.
Maddie would be in here dusting her face, contouring, lining her eyes, arranging her hair, and would emerge flawless, perfect.
But I’m not Maddie.
Downstairs, Joey is munching his sandwich, spilling daintily sliced strands of lettuce on his lap.
“Hey,” he says. “Can you help?”
“Um…” I hesitate. “What’s up?” I don’t want to be late to get to Gage’s, so I’m speaking fast.
“I don’t get these problems in Nicholson’s class. I just don’t…like, the problems are confusing.”
“I’m kind of going somewhere.”
Joey puts his sandwich down. He frowns. “Where? It’s a school night.”
I take a deep breath. “Over to Gage’s. He wanted help on a paper.”
Joey’s eyes widen. “Gage? Like, next door Gage?”
“Yes.” I hold my breath, watching his face.
“Why would he ask you for help?”
“What?”
“He has an academic tutor. All the athletes do. So they can stay on the team. He doesn’t need you.”
“W-well,” I stammer. “I mean, we were talking and he asked, is all.”
“Emmy, he’s Gage Galt. It’s just weird that he would ask you.”
There’s a tiny sliver of suspicion in my brother’s voice and it hurts me. I knew it. Even though he said anyone would be lucky to have me, he doesn’t think it’s possible “anyone” would include someone like Gage.