Joyride (14 page)

His freedom.

If I had a job, I wouldn't have to go to him for anything.

Arden hasn't played sports or made good grades since Amber died. He hasn't resembled a good son since then. Yet, his father still leaves money on the kitchen counter for him every Sunday night. Before, he was glad to relieve his old man of some cash and blow it on whatever he wants. He thought that was hurting his father somehow, to waste his money on frivolous things. Now he realizes what it really is. Taking his dad's money doesn't hurt his dad, it hurts himself.
It's a way of controlling me. Of making sure I'm dependent on him. So he can say he did all he could for me. Just like he did with Amber.

Materially, Amber had it all. A new car that she never got to drive, new clothes, new laptop whenever she asked. But Amber never had her father. Not after he found out she was schizophrenic. Not after he realized she didn't fit in with the “normal family” image he was trying to maintain because God forbid the county sheriff should have mental illness running in his blood, sleeping in his own house. Election years were the worst. He kept Amber on a short leash, sometimes locking her in her room for days at a time. Never letting her go out in public, lest potential voters get a chance to see her talking to herself. From the minute their father found out she was ill, she was homeschooled. Cut off from her friends. Cut off from the world except through television and the Internet and whatever news Arden could tell her from school. He even stopped letting her come to Arden's football games—something she loved dearly.

Amber was alive but not living.

Arden's mother didn't like it, thought it was a bit extreme, but she never disagreed. Never stood up for her daughter. Nope. What Dwayne Moss said was law. Period.

After Amber died, his mother was torn to pieces. At first, Arden was glad. He thought his mom deserved the torment. To be a rag doll with few signs of life except for lung capacity and a beating heart. But then he realized she was a victim too. She wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, would hardly talk. She needed help, Arden knew, just like Amber did, but Dwayne Moss was too prideful to let his wife actually see a therapist. So she got pills from the family doctor—a good ol' boy who would refill the prescriptions without requiring something so inconvenient as regular visits. With Sheriff Moss, it's all about appearances. Which is why his father went on with his life without much outward remorse, or really any kind of reaction, about his daughter's death. In fact, he actually blamed
Amber
for what she did in the end.

That's what happens when you're not content with your lot in life
, he'd said.
We did all we could for her.

Arden had wanted to kill him.

“You're right,” Arden says, unballing fists he didn't realize he'd clenched. “It would make him mad if I got a job.”

Cletus scratches his belly, nodding. “It would gall the hell outta him, I'd say. Getting paid cash under the table, not paying your taxes on it. How could he explain that to his precious voters?”

Arden laughs. “He'd say I was working for free. That you didn't pay anything. That he always paid for everything I needed.”

“Guess I'd better write you a check then.” The mischievous glint in his uncle's eyes says it's a done deal. Arden would work here on the weekends while Carly worked at the café. Uncle Cletus would pay him under the table. Arden would no longer accept money from his dad. He and Carly could turn the county upside down with their reverie.

Life just got perfect.

 

Fifteen

Life sucks.

At least, it sucks when your feet feel like anvils in your nonslip work shoes. And the swelling. Oh my God, the swelling.

As soon as I'm done closing down my tables—filling up the salt, pepper, sweeteners, and jellies—I sit down at the last one and hoist my feet onto the closest chair. I wanted to untie my shoes and rub my feet, but I hold back for a couple of reasons. For one, I know they stink like hot dog water, and two, my trainer is making her way over to me. My only hope at this moment is that I don't have anything else to do before I leave, because I don't think my new blisters can take it. Plus, I know Arden is in the parking lot waiting for me; he revved his engine as soon as he got here. Must be some weird sort of redneck communication.

Darcy, my trainer, sits beside me at the table and pulls out a bundle of neatly folded cash from her apron pocket. She starts counting aloud and stacking the bills by denomination. When she gets to two hundred dollars I start getting really excited. Then she counts the ones. Together we earned two hundred seventy-five dollars in six hours.

I think I might pass out. She gives me my half. “You earned it,” she says. “I've never seen someone move so fast in my life. When you're fully trained, you'll be pulling this all by yourself. I don't know what I would have done with that family from Spain. Thank God you can speak Spanish.”

But all I'm thinking is that I could score almost three hundred dollars in six hours selling fancy breakfast to fancy people. “When do you think I'll be ready to be on my own?”

Darcy tilts her head at me. “Tell you what. Learn the menu this week, and when your Saturday shift rolls around, I'll let you have a few tables on your own. But I'll be here if you need me. Trust me, I want you to stay. You're way better a worker than Rose was. We'll get you trained as fast as we can.”

Apparently I've replaced this Rose person, who is currently in jail—but for what, nobody knows. She had a lot of regulars though, so I have a lot of kissing up to do in order to turn her regulars into my regulars.

“Pretty soon you and I will be working on ups and making a killing,” Darcy says.

“Ups?”

“Yeah, where we just take turns taking tables. Me, you, me, then you again. It's way better than having a section of tables. And with the way you work, Miss May won't have to hire anyone else to take up our slack. Just don't quit on me. I know it's hard.”

It is hard. Today was the hardest I've ever worked in my life. The Breeze Mart is just exactly that—a breeze. But I don't mind working for my money. My feet though? They freaking hate it.

“I won't quit,” I tell her. “But if I'm finished here, my ride is waiting for me. Unless you have something else for me to do?”

Darcy slides my pile of cash toward me on the table. “Nope. You're done. See you next week.”

When I get in the truck, I try not to act as giddy as I feel. Arden can tell I'm holding out though. “So it went well, I take it?” he says. I'm surprised, and disappointed, that I notice how he smells again. Like he just showered with man-soap or something. And maybe he did. His hair is a little damp.

“Very.” I don't want to tell him how much I made though, in case he's not impressed. He probably gets that much for his allowance. “All I need to do is memorize the menu before Saturday and I can work my own tables. Darcy—she's the waitress who trained me—said I'm a natural people person.”

Arden laughs. “That's what we Southerners call sarcasm.”

I lift my chin. “I am a Southerner, idiot. And just because I'm not an Arden person doesn't mean I'm not a people person.”

“Touché. But for the record, most people are Arden people. So it could be considered a flaw that you're not.”

“I don't fall for the mob mentality.”

“Believe me, I've noticed.” He shrugs. “I went to Cletus's house to help him out with a few things. Nothing much.”

“How is he?” I haven't seen Mr. Shackleford since the faux robbery. Maybe he'll come in tonight and give me another Question of the Day.
Ugh. I have to work tonight
. On these same throbbing feet. At least I have a stool to sit on at the Breeze.

“He's fine,” Arden says generically.

“You told him, didn't you?”

“He figured it out on his own, actually.” Arden grimaces, as if he'd eaten something bitter. “He took it well, though.”

“By making you work it off?”

“He's paying me. I figure if you're working on the weekends, then I should too.”

Huh? What, are we married? “What does my working have to do with you working?”

He shrugs, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. He jerks the steering wheel hard right, as if he was about to miss his turn. That's when it occurs to me that we're not heading in the direction of my house.

“Where are we going? I have to work at the Breeze tonight.”

“How much money did you make today, if you don't mind me asking?”

When I raise a brow, he amends, “I mean, did you make more than you do at the Breeze Mart? Oh, don't give me that look. I'm just asking if you think you could quit the Breeze Mart and only work at the Uppity Rooster. Then you'd have your weeknights off. You know, to do homework or, uh, fun stuff.”

Fun stuff. He's still going after this whole accomplice thing. Not that last night wasn't a complete riot. I can't remember laughing so hard in my life, not even when that kid dug his hand around in our shitty purse. But fun is not the important thing here. Getting my parents home is.

“I need both jobs,” I say with more harshness than I intend.

Arden is undeterred. “I thought you might say that. But you're going to work yourself to death with two jobs and school and then I'd feel rotten for putting it into your head. Couldn't you just cut down on your hours at the convenience store instead of quitting cold turkey? Maybe just work two nights a week or something?”

For once in his life, Arden has a point. Working two jobs and school will be exhausting. My grades might start to slip. And I just can't let myself be okay with that. Besides, with all the money I'll be making at Uppity Rooster, why shouldn't I give myself a break?
Because our parents are counting on us
, I can hear Julio say in his sternest voice.
Don't you want your parents back?

Of course I do.

“We need the money,” I say decisively. “Cutting my hours is not an option.”

Arden squeezes the steering wheel tighter. I can tell he's trying to be diplomatic with me. “But what about you? What about what you need? I see how hard you work at school. That's going to suffer, you know.”

“You just want me to give up my shifts at the Breeze so I can spend those nights with you.” I fold up my apron and nestle it between my legs so the precious money doesn't spill out and so Arden might focus on my hands instead of the blush I feel burning my face.

So I can spend those nights with you
.

Idiota.

He grins as if he knows I just freaked out my own self. “There's more to life than working and school.”

Life. What an abstract concept that's become. Life is something I've put off until my parents get back. Life is something other kids have the luxury to worry about. It's not something I should give a second thought to, not until my parents are on US soil again.

Right?

“Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to pressure you. I'll take you home. You need some rest if you're really going to work tonight.”

Then I remember that tonight we're getting in a big shipment, which translates to endless boxes that will need stocking, and suddenly the thought of working at the Breeze is less appealing than walking across a floor made of cactus. I'm not even sure my feet could handle it. Heavy lifting. Standing on my tiptoes. Ew. “Maybe I'll call in,” I'm saying out loud. “I could use a good foot soak.” A foot soak? When have I ever needed a foot soak? I don't even have anything to soak my feet in, except maybe a bathtub full of shampoo bubbles or something.

“You know, the creek is the perfect place to soak your feet.”

“And to do what else?”

“Fish, of course. I happen to need some fish. You know. For something.”

I can't help but smile. What will he think of next? The truth is, I like spending time with Arden. It's fun. Liberating, to an extent. I feel like a different person around him—in a good way. I feel a rush of freedom. Which sucks, because that means that normally, I must not feel free.

Arden seems to read my mind. “It's just that you act like Julio's slave or something. Like you're not allowed to enjoy life. It seems unfair.”

It is unfair, I want to tell him. But not because I'm Julio's slave. No, because I slave for my parents. Here in the States, it's the other way around. Parents sweat and grind for their children. They labor for their education, for them to have nice things, for them to be protected from the world's darker side, like hunger and violence and disease. Here in the States, kids are spoiled.

My
parents? They slave to come over here, in order to slave for … I'm not exactly sure. A better life for my siblings, probably. Not me, I know. I'm already sixteen. A junior in high school, probably a senior by the time they get back. They expect me to take care of myself when they get here. Mama has made that clear. That she has two younger children to raise and that she needs my help more than I need hers. And that's okay with me, really it is. I'm proud to make such a contribution to my family. I want my younger brother and sister to be raised in America, even though Americans can be such snobs. I mean, if Canada offered better living conditions and more money and opportunity, wouldn't Americans be sneaking their family across the Canadian border? I'd bet money they would.

But people just don't understand, especially in these parts. They complain that Mexicans take their jobs and their money and their government benefits.

But I'm not about to lay this on Arden. All Arden knows is freedom. The American way.

And I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't jealous.

“Julio does the best he can,” I tell him. It's all I can say. Giving him a speech about poverty and responsibility and family ties would spoil the mood of me making killer money today.