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“I’ve used him for like three assignments already and Mr. Anderson said he’s tired of seeing his smug face.” Yeah, that sounds like Mr. Anderson. He’s the type of teacher that throws paper at students who seem like they’re not paying attention. “He said it seems like Taj likes having his picture taken too much and I need someone who will give me a harder time.”
“That’s aproblem?” I walk to the window and pull the blinds open. The sun slips inside, warming my skin.
“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “I need someone more vulnerable.”
“Let me get this straight. You can’t use a camera-confident guy, so you want a vulnerable girl. To take pictures of. One on one?” My traitorous heart, the one that still has fragmented pieces from his birthday party, starts hammering. I don’t do vulnerable. I don’t do anything that puts me in a position like I was when the bottle stopped in my direction and everyone stared, but Holden staredin horror. I was exposed, and even though no one knew my feelings for him, it felt like they were laid out bare. No thanks.
“Well, when you say it like that...” He pauses. “Still yes. Plus, it doesn’t have to be one on one. I know Mara really wants to see you. She has a ton of questions about Rose and apparently I’m not an appropriate person to ask.”
“So, you’re being your little sister’s wingman?”
“Essentially.”
“Tell her I’m sorry, but I can’t today.”
“She’ll be disappointed.”
“With you as a brother, I can’t see why,” I reply sickly sweet.
“I know you meant that sarcastically, but it was really nice of you to say.”
“Bye.”
“You can’t put this off forever.”
I can certainly try. The line goes dead.
When I open the door, Corrine and my mom are standing on the other side, trying and failing to not look like the guilty, guilty eavesdroppers they are. My stomach drops at the expression on Corrine’s face. I don’t even know how to process it. It’s too many emotions at once, too fast.
“I didn’t know you and Holden were friends again,” my mom says, giving me space to exit the room.
“We’re not,” I’m quick to say. “He’s just helping me with my documentary and I’m helping him with an assignment.” Eventually. Maybe. Hopefully not.
“Oh.” She frowns, but goes down the stairs.
“How did you know it was Holden?”
“Corrine said.”
I glance at her now and she shrugs. “I guessed,” she says. “Kayla isn’t one for phone calls.”
“So,” my mom drawls. “What are your thoughts on this place?”
“I like it.” I originally say it because I’m eager to change the subject, but I realize, pretty quickly, that I do like it. It’s cozy and fresh and I could see myself enjoying it. Once I get over the trauma of leaving our house now, I guess. It’s just weird to think we would live in a place that I have no memories of my grandma in. There are only two bedrooms. No space for her to have art lessons. No sign of her on the walls, no spots of dried paint on the carpet, no lingering pockets of air coated in her perfume.
“I like it, too,” Corrine says. She points at the corner of the living room. “That lamp you guys have, the one with the mason jars, would look amazing right there. It would capture the light during the day and really brighten up the space at night.” She glances at the ceiling. “Since apparently there are only two tiny overhead lights in this room.”
“Maybe we could install some sconces?” my mom asks.
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Is this it, then? Is this The One?” My mom turns to me with a huge smile on her face and I know—Iknow—she needs to move out of my grandma’s house, needs to have new walls she can paint how she wants, needs to not feel like my grandma just left the room she stepped into every time she enters any room, but hearing her ask the question, say The One out loud, causes me to panic, stiffen, makes all my certainty evacuate from my mind. It’s too soon, too real, too final. And, suddenly, this place is awful. We’d be erasing my grandma.
“There aren’t enough windows.” There are actually zero windows on the bottom floor. Two sliding doors, one off the dining room and one off the living room, but no windows except for the master bedroom. “And, I don’t know, won’t it get cold with the brick wall? This is an end unit and I bet the wind just whips right through it.”
“Through a brick wall?” Corrine asks, blinking once, twice.
“No insulation?” I shrug. “And the kitchen is small. The appliances are old. The bathroom has no closet, so every time I need a freaking tampon, I’ll have to walk to get one.”
