“Thank you,” he says, flashing me his white teeth. He really does look a lot like his son, only his son is much hotter.
“How is Caleb doing?” I ask before I can think better of it. I haven’t thought of him in years, not since around fifth grade when he got too cool to sit with me on the bus. But seeing Jack Brown this close makes me think of how much they resemble each other.
Something flashes in Mr. Brown’s eyes. A recognition of some sort that makes me a little embarrassed. Maybe he remembers me from when I was a kid, and maybe he’s thinking about how dorky I became and how cool his son is now. Although I’m sure business people don’t think of stuff like that.
“He’s doing very well,” he says. “Caleb’s been training for football next year. He made it into the college team for Houston. Did you hear about that?”
“Yes,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes. How could I not hear it? The whole school was excited when he was drafted to play college ball. “That’s very exciting for him.”
“I’ll tell him you said hello,” Mr. Brown says as he turns to leave.
“Oh…no, that’s okay,” I say quickly as I walk with him to the door, resisting the urge to shove him out of it as fast as possible. “He probably doesn’t even remember who I am.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Mr. Brown says, giving me another one of his charming smiles. “I look forward to hearing from your mother.”
By some miracle, my mother walks into The Magpie fifteen minutes late. I feel like spending the rest of the day dancing around and praising whatever gods have listened to my prayers. Another Jack Brown meeting has been thwarted, but how long can I keep him away from my mom? Hopefully she’ll tell him to go pound sand, to shove his buyout offer up his ass. But I can’t be sure of anything, especially now that the store is doing so poorly. I can’t let her sell it though, so I have to keep him away from her.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom says. She’s carrying two Starbucks mocha fraps, and I’m grateful and gleefully excited when she hands me one, but I can’t stop thinking that we can’t afford fancy coffee. Still, I don’t say anything because she seems to be in a great mood.
“Your newsletter looked wonderful,” she says, settling next to me behind the counter. We’ve been open fifteen minutes and no customers have come in yet.
Technically we’ve been open even longer than that since I got here early, but I try not to let that fact get me down.
“What’s this?” Mom says, picking up the folder I’d left on the counter.
My heart leaps into my throat. “Sorry!” I say sheepishly as I yank the file from her hand. “Schoolwork. I didn’t mean to leave it out like this.”
Mom shrugs and checks the store’s email on our computer. I breathe a sigh of relief as I shove the file into my purse under the counter. Now I can’t throw it away until she’s not looking.
Jack Brown’s offer has increased to ten thousand dollars, which is still a huge insult if you ask me. The rest of the papers are some long contract about buying out someone’s store for the purpose of selling off the inventory to the lowest bidder and turning the shop into something else. I only skimmed over it, knowing full well that we won’t take ten grand for the shop where my mom has spent almost twenty years of her life.
***
By Sunday, my sales efforts have proven to be unsuccessful. We’ve only had a handful of customers this weekend, and most of them are old ladies on a fixed income who can’t spend very much. A grand total of zero people have mentioned the newsletter for a discount, so I’m guessing no one actually read it.
Depression seeps into my bones by the time I start closing up shop. If good intentions could sell trinkets, we’d be millionaires.
And that’s the sad thing here. I don’t even want to be a millionaire. I want to be normal people with enough money to pay the bills and not stress about it. I want Mom to be happy every day, working the job she loves. I’m not asking for much here, and I don’t know why I can’t save the store even with all of my hard work.
It isn’t until I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Mom’s car, listening to her sing along to Gwen Stefani on the radio when I realize that day it is.
Sunday.
Sundaynight.
Tomorrow is the start of another week of school, of which I can’t miss any days. Where I’m going to be thrown into classes I don’t understand because I’m behind on the work. I didn’t even touch my stack of makeup worksheets this weekend because I was too busy at the store.
Dread seeps into my bones, rising up until I feel suffocated by the mere thought of how much school work I’ll have to do in the next two months.
I close my eyes and exhale. Deep down, I know this is a good thing because I want to go to college. I know we can’t afford it and I know my grades suck and I know it might not happen, but I do want to go. I want an education in business and I’d love to open a coffee shop one day. I want to be successful enough to take care of my mom if she needs me when she gets older.
So I have to try, even if the amount of work ahead of me feels impossible.
When we get home, I get online and search for tutors in my town. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to get a tutor on such short notice, since technically I’m supposed to start it on Tuesday after school. Will the school pay for it? Do I have to?
The tutoring options I find online are all pretty expensive and there’s no way we can spare that kind of cash right now. Surely the school will provide someone.
Actually, who am I kidding? It’s probably the teachers who do the tutoring. I’ll be stuck meeting with Mrs. Hardy in the library so she can lecture me in her high pitched voice about all the things she lectures in class.
