I realized I’d just crumpled the paper in my hand.
“Uh, here’s your receipt. Sorry about the mangling. Thanks for your donation,” I said, handing over the balled-up paper to Stasia. The stylist at Whiskey Clipper had just donated a jumbo-sized bag of hardbacks to the library’s book drive.
“You doing okay, Lina?” she asked, stuffing the receipt in her bag.
Damn. I really needed to work on my poker face.
“I’m fine,” I insisted.
“If you’re worried about Knox and company, don’t be,” she said. “I heard they’re taking secret ballroom dance lessons to surprise Naomi at the wedding.”
I grinned. “You know what I heard?” I paused and looked both ways before leaning across the table.
Stasia leaned in too. “What?” she whispered.
“I heard they’re choreographing a flash mob dance. Something involving tearaway pants.”
“Oh. My. God. I can’t wait for this wedding!”
A few minutes later, I was spelled from my book donation duties by Doris Bacon of Bacon Stables, who had come dressed as the Horse Whisperer.
My community service had earned me one glass of spiced wine, I decided. And once I enjoyed it, I was going to go to Knox’s office and pound on the door until the Four Dumbasses of the Apocalypse let me in.
I had just acquired my wine when a pretty blond who looked vaguely familiar stopped in front of me. “Lina? Lina Solavita? It’s Angie from high school.”
Angie Levy, the second highest scorer on my soccer team and the reason I’d started going by Lina in high school because having two Angies on the team was confusing. She was a biology whiz who drove her dad’s hand-me-down Excursion that held half the team for ice cream runs. She’d lived on Diet Cokes and peanut butter crackers.
She was older now, prettier too. Her once long blond hair was now cropped in a swingy bob. She wore jeans, cashmere, and a chonky diamond on her left hand.
“Angie? What are you doing here?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“My husband and I work in DC. What are you doing here?”
“I’m just…passing through,” I hedged.
“You look amazing!” she said, opening her arms as if she were about to hug me.
“Thanks,” I said, warding off the hug by gesturing with my glass of wine. “So do you.”
“No. Really. You look wonderful. Stunning even.”
This coming from the girl who’d canceled my standing invitation to sleepovers at her house.
“Thanks,” I said again.
She shook her head and grinned, showing that long forgotten dimple. “I’m gushing. I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve thought about you so often over the years.”
I couldn’t think of a single reason why. She and the rest of the team, the rest of my friends, had essentially abandoned me.
It wasn’t like faulty heart valves were contagious, but being linked to me was apparently deadly for teenage reputations.
“Mom!” A boy with fiery red hair and milkshake staining his jacket launched himself into the midst of our conversation. “Mom!”
Angie rolled her eyes but somehow did so with affection. “Hey. Remember that whole manners conversation we had yesterday and the day before that and the day before that?” she asked.
The boy’s eye roll was an exact copy of his mother’s. He heaved a world-weary sigh before turning to me. “Hi. I’m Austin. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Austin,” I said, not quite able to smother a smile.
“Cool.” He turned back to his mother. “Now can I ask you my very important, worth-interrupting-you question?”
“Fire away,” Angie said.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, so Davy said there was no way I could beat him at the balloon dart game. Which is totally stupid because I’m way better at throwing things than he is. Only I didn’t do so good in the first round because he cheated and poked me in my tickle zone. Which is not fair. And I need a rematch.”
“So you need more than the ten bucks I gave you in the car that came with an explicit warning not to ask for more because you weren’t going to get another dollar out of me,” Angie summarized, shooting me an amused look.
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yep!”
“Why didn’t you ask your father?”
“He’s in a grudge match with Brayden at Whack-a-Mole.”
Angie closed her eyes and then looked up at the night sky. “Is it too much to have asked for a little estrogen in my house?” she asked the universe.
“Mom,” Austin said on a desperate whine.
“Did you take the garbage out last night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do all your homework for Monday?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you willing to pull the weeds in the front flower bed without complaining or asking for more money?”
His nod was even more vigorous. “I’ll even fold my own laundry for the week.”
“Five bucks,” Angie said, producing her wallet from her purse.
“Yes!” Austin pumped his fist victoriously.
She held out the bill but pulled it back when her son reached for it. “Hold it, buster. When Davy goes to throw his dart, wave and say ‘Hi, Erika.’”
Austin frowned. “Why?”
“Because your brother has a crush on her and he’ll be distracted.” She held out the five-dollar bill again.
He snatched it out of her hand, his freckled face lighting up. “Thanks, Mom! You’re the best.”
I watched him dash off into the crowd, cash held triumphantly over his head.
“Sorry about that. My entire life for the past decade has been nothing but interruptions,” Angie said. “Three boys who go to bed every night and wake up with all manners erased from their brains so you have to start over with feral cave babies every morning. Anyway. What was I saying?”
“I should probably head out,” I said, looking for an escape.
“Oh! I know. I was saying I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
And we were back to awkward. “Ah. Yes. That,” I said.
“I always regretted not trying harder to force my way over those walls after…you know.”
“My cardiac arrest in front of half the town?” I filled in glibly.
The dimple flashed again. “Yeah, that. Anyway, even in the midst of my teenage narcissism, I knew I should have tried harder. I should have made you let me be there for you.”
“Made me?” My shoulders tensed. “Look, it was a long time ago, and I’m over it. I’m not going to blame a bunch of teenage girls for not wanting to hang out with the ‘dead girl.’”
“Ugh. If I were Wayne Schlocker’s mother, that boy would have been grounded until college.”
Wayne was an athletic, God’s-gift-to-girls-and-football turd. It didn’t surprise me that he’d been the one to come up with the nickname.
“You do know that Cindy punched him in the middle of the cafeteria for that, don’t you? And then Regina squirted an entire bottle of ketchup on him. The whole team started calling him Wayne Shit Locker after that.”