Authors: Lynda Sandoval
If only.
Over the past month, Lila, Caressa, and I had made full use of Inner Power’s resources on our quest to find the perfect guys, but it had never worked out. No matter what we tried, fate kept stubbornly pointing us back to Ismet, Dylan, and Bobby. So, as far as the whole shop-owner fantasy went, believe me, NO ONE should ask my advice on who to date … or even how to find out!
But, it didn’t matter, because I wasn’t one of the shop owners. Unfortunately, I
was
only the part-time clerk, and even more unfortunately, I had places to go and lots of things to do before I could hit the sack that night, so my delusions of grandeur had to stop.
The rhythmic
click, click, click, whirrrrrr … click, click, click, whirrrrrr
of the adding machine carried through
the otherwise silent store, and I hated to interrupt Reese while she worked. But, I only had a small chunk of lee-way time between when I left Inner Power and when I needed to show my face at home to avoid questions. Plus, our tiny Sears store didn’t stay open too late on weeknights. I had to get there at least half an hour before they closed if I wanted it to be worth my while.
None of this had ever been a problem for me before.
Don’t think about it. You don’t have a choice.
With a deep, calming breath, I leaned my head inside the door to the tiny, brightly lit office and pasted on a smile. “Excuse me, Reese?” I said softly.
She glanced up, a pleasant expression on her makeup-free face. She kept one finger pressed onto the stack of receipts so she didn’t lose her place in the adding, I assumed. “All done out there?”
“Yeah. I’m going to take off, if that’s okay.”
“You have a lot of studying to do before finals?”
Something like that. I averted my gaze and felt instantly crappy about the fact that I had been lying to basically everyone in my world since the White Peaks Christmas Market. Even Lila and Caressa. Even
myself
, if I really thought about it—which I tried not to. You know
what they say …
denial
is more than just a river in Egypt. “Uh, yeah.”
“Well, you’ll do great, as always. But if you need to cut down on hours or study at the cash wrap desk when business is slow, that’s fine.”
“Okay. I appreciate it.”
“You go on, Meryl. See you this weekend. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Bye,” I said, feeling a fresh stab of guilt. If I was falling behind on my studying, it sure as heck wasn’t because I’d been working too much.
I slipped out the front door of the shop, relocking it behind me, then hunched my shoulders against the cold, ominous wind. I pulled my collar up around my cheeks and prayed I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. Once I’d made it safely inside my Volvo, I breathed a sigh of relief and mentally sketched out my evening. I would head to Sears, put in another session of Operation: CIA (Catch Ismet’s Attention), and rush home in time to relax and spend time with my family.
I was basically leading a double life, but I couldn’t see any other way to solve my ongoing guy problems. I mean, COME ON. The dumb supper and the two separate
apple seed experiments came up with the same result: Ismet. Subsequent tarot and rune readings and other little rituals confirmed the fact that Ismet was allegedly the guy for me. All that repitition had to mean
something
significant. And yet the only way to snare him was to somehow transform into a cool, all-American, pop-culture-savvy teenager. It was a NIGHTMARE, because I felt completely out of my element.
Hopefully, though, not for long.
Nightmare or not, I wanted Ismet Hadziahmetovic to see me as more than a dorky little school pal, so I was doing what I needed to do to make it happen. If it meant I had to sneak around a little bit, compromise my convictions temporarily, well, it sucked but I hadn’t been able to think of a better way. I knew Lila and Caressa had become underwhelmed about my chances with him, but if it was just a matter of a little television …
I parked sort of behind Sears near the Dumpsters, just in case one of my friends drove by and caught a glimpse of the car. My Volvo was totally recognizable and I’d be so busted. I’d hate that, because—truth told—I wasn’t 100 percent comfortable with, nor was 1100 percent proud of, these clandestine nights spent at Sears.
I slipped into the store as I’d done so many nights before and, head down, I wound through the aisles I’d come to know by rote until I reached the TV section in the far corner. With a sigh, I pulled the program guide I’d smuggled along out of my backpack and gave it a quick scan. There was this show about winning a million bucks that sounded vaguely intriguing. I didn’t know what the show was, but I mean, who
doesn’t
want to win a bunch of money? Duh.
I walked up to the TV in the farthest back corner and pushed buttons around until I happened upon the channel I needed, then I sat back and watched. My attention kept drifting, but the money show seemed to be some sort of televised testing process, where participants were awarded dollar amounts for answering the test questions correctly, and they lost money for giving the wrong answers. However, I couldn’t tell if the money they earned was symbolic, like Monopoly money, or real. No bills ever exchanged hands, let me put it that way.
Huh.
It wasn’t that I
hated
the show, or any of the shows I’d been exposed to since I’d begun sneaking into Sears
to watch TV, but the underlying point of them was lost on me. I certainly couldn’t fathom how watching this or any of the shows would make a girl more dateworthy.
Still, I kept watching, hoping I’d get the point.
Operation: CIA, and all that.
I answered all the questions correctly on the money show, which was at least fun, if not surprising. But aside from that, I just had to ponder the question of WHY I would want to watch some stranger being tested on their knowledge in order to win money. Why would anyone? Once, maybe. Or if you knew the person on the show. But, otherwise, it kind of annoyed me.
Then again, maybe I just had to reframe it in my mind. I mean, it
was
kind of like debate, only glitzier and more cheesy. Maybe I could get used to it … but the thought of that made me feel bleak and grumpy. The whole bottom line was, I sort of wished Ismet would like me for ME, and not for my knowledge of television and stuff. Because I sure wouldn’t mind having my normal life back, only with Ismet as a part of it.
I’d been disturbed to realize that my eyes had been more tired at night after I’d spent an hour or two staring at the Sears televisions, and I’d even started getting
headaches. Not to mention, I had developed an almost constant nervous stomach, because I felt like I wasn’t being authentically me.
Part of me felt like what I was doing was wrong.
The other part of me just wanted Ismet to LIKE me.
And there I was, stuck in the middle and feeling yanked by both sides. Tears stung my eyes, and I sat down cross-legged on the floor, leaning my back against a shiny chrome dishwasher. (The store was really small, so display space was at a premium.) I watched a bit more of the money-winning show, then crawled up to the television and hit channels until I got to this show where people who thought they were ugly got made over by experts and plastic surgeons and stuff. Again, explain to me why watching this would make me a catch?
“You can use the remote, you know.”
I scrambled to my feet and spun toward the voice, my heart pounding in my chest. The statement had come from a thin, late-twenties-looking guy wearing dress slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a shiny electric blue tie that sort of didn’t go with the outfit. He had a Sears employee nametag pinned to his pocket, and he lounged against the chrome dishwasher with one ankle
hooked over the other, just kind of studying me.
My throat tightened. “I’m sorry?”
“The remote.”
I had no freakin’ clue what he was talking about, and it must’ve showed on my face.
“To change the channels, you know? You can use the remote.” He waited for the big A-HA to register in my eyes, and when it didn’t, he picked up a little calculator-looking thing and showed it to me. “Instead of going up to the television, you just point this.” He demonstrated, taking us back to the money show.
“Oh. You mean … from across the—oh yeah.” I touched my forehead. “That’s right. I forgot.”
He laughed. “Where exactly do you come from? A little house on a prairie somewhere?”
Embarrassment flushed through my body in a hot sweep, but I lifted my chin. “I just don’t have a television, is all. I didn’t remember the dumb”—I flicked a hand—“remote control.” Sheesh. How hard is it to get up and walk to the TV, anyway?
He stopped teasing and cocked his head to one side. “You don’t own a TV at all?”
“No.”
“Did you ever?”
“Nope.”
“What about at friends’ houses?”
I shook my head.
“Wow, trippy.”
“Look, I’ve
seen
remotes. I mean, I’m no idiot, but I just … never mind.” I wasn’t going to explain the lifestyle quirks of my family to the Sears appliance guy, for God’s sake.
He pushed up off the dishwasher and walked a few steps closer. “Is that why you’re here several nights a week? Deciding on a television to buy for your folks, perhaps?”
Man, I hadn’t thought about the possibility of someone noticing the weird redhead loitering in the home entertainment department on a regular basis. Was I in trouble? I mean, loitering was a crime, right? I stalled, tucking my hair behind my ears. “I’m just … checking them out. Sort of.”
“Where do you live?”
I had immediate flashes of the Sears Police driving me home, lights and sirens ablaze, and telling my parents what I’d been up to. It’s not like they’d kill me or
anything, but I would hate to disappoint them or make them think I didn’t like our life the way it was. Then again, Sears didn’t have its own police force as far as I knew, so I was probably wigging for nothing. Still, I took a hesitant step back and flicked a glance around. “Why?”
He held up both palms. “Relax, I’m just curious. I have a friend who subsistence farms at about ten thousand feet of elevation. He doesn’t have electricity, running water, or any ofthat. Hence, no television.” He shrugged. “I guess I just wondered if that was your deal.”
Now I looked like a subsistence farmer?! God, no wonder no one wanted to date me. I started to feel irritated by the conversation, even though he seemed non-judgmental and basically harmless. Still. I stooped over and grabbed my backpack, then slung it over my shoulder. I tossed my hair and leveled a hard look at him. “No, I live in a regular house with flush toilets and everything,” I said sharply. “We just don’t have a TV. It’s not a required household item in America, you know.”
He pulled his chin back with what looked like surprise. “Look, I didn’t mean to pry and I certainly wasn’t passing judgment. I don’t watch much TV myself.”
I glanced away, shamefaced. Why was I so defensive?
“Anyway, you seriously don’t have to leave.” He spread his arm toward the wall of blathering boxes. “Feel free to watch as long as you like. I won’t bother you.”
“No. I—it’s okay,” I muttered. “I need to get home anyway.” I spun toward the front of the store and started walking swiftly down the polished, white linoleum floor. My arms were stiff at my sides, my hands in tight little fists. Suddenly, I started to feel like a jerk for my snotty behavior, and I turned back. The Sears guy didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my Operation: CIA frustration. I met his gaze directly, even though it wasn’t easy to do. “Thank you. For talking.”
“What’s your name?”
Should I lie? Then again, wasn’t I doing enough of that these days? Without warning, I felt really tired. I just didn’t want to add another layer to my web of deception. “Meryl.”
“Named after Ms. Streep, I assume?”
“Who?”
He chuckled. “Never mind. I’m Mike, and you’re welcome.
For the talking, that is. I meant what I said.” He tilted his head toward the bank of televisions. “You can come in and catch a show whenever you want.”
What if I don’t want to, but I feel like I have to if I ever want a date?
I bit my bottom lip and seriously thought about asking him, but at the last minute I decided it wasn’t his problem. I gave Mike, the Sears guy, a closed-mouth smile instead. “Okay. Thanks.”
Caressa
Another New Year’s Eve had come and gone, and none of our rituals had succeeded in pointing us AWAY from Dylan, Ismet, and Bobby. After the apple seed rituals at the WP Christmas Market, we’d tried everything else we could think of. We’d had our tarot cards and runes read at Inner Power. We took a Saturday drive to the Metaphysical Fair in Denver and had our palms and tea leaves read. We tried scrying, Wiccan love spells—I even dropped a hundred bucks calling a 1-900-psychic, not that I’d admit it to my friends. But, anyway, NOTHING we tried gave us direction on how to fix our lives, and everything pointed to the three guys who hadn’t worked out whatsoever.
Well … not
yet
. At least in my case.
It was already the week of Valentine’s Day, and I’d convinced myself that Bobby Slade hadn’t written back to me because he’d been out on the road. But I happened to know that his twenty-second birthday was February 14. (Google is a beautiful thing.) Surely, he’d be home celebrating the big two-two with his family. Here’s what I figured: Bobby would take a birthday break from touring, and while spending time at his home in Louisiana, he’d take a few moments to catch up on all his correspondence, which included getting in touch with me.
Voilà!
Perfectly logical.
That line of reasoning is why I found myself sitting by the front window watching for the mail carrier like a dog with a fondness for biting. Don’t ask me how, but I just
knew
there would be something from Bobby Slade. I don’t CARE about Lila’s and Meryl’s skepticism—fate was sending me a loud and clear message: Bobby Slade was my destiny.
As I waited for the mail, I killed time by painting each of my toenails a different color from OPI’s Greek collection, looking up every few strokes to be sure I
didn’t miss our rural carrier, Roland. Mail delivery was different up here in the mountains. There were a few of the standard red, white, and blue mail trucks people are used to seeing, but they usually made the rounds right in the center of town. For the outlying neighborhoods, most of the mountain post offices contracted carriers. In plain English that meant regular folks delivered mail to us right out of the windows of their personal vehicles. Cool, huh?