But instead of giving me time off, Monroe added shifts to my schedule. Instead of three nights a week, it’s five. I’ve complained a few times but they pull the whole it’s-for-a-good-cause card. Not. Fair.
More than anything, I just really hate working until ten. A free clinic in the middle of Portland doesn’t exactly attract the best crowd when it’s dark out. And yet, I can’t imagine Monroe working anywhere else. He likes to play savior whenever possible.
I sigh. “Can I have today off or not? I asked you yesterday.”
Monroe’s silent for an excruciatingly long time. “I haven’t had to perform CPR on the sidewalk out front, so it seems to be a slow night. Why, do you have plans?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, then. Don’t let the sick and incapacitated of Portland stop you. Run. Frolic.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Why, thank you. To make it up to me you can come in tomorrow. Six sound good?”
“I knew there was a catch.”
“Always is, sweetheart.”
When I hang up, Sarah widens her brown eyes at me before popping a fry into her mouth. “Time off for good behavior? Monroe is feeling generous tonight.”
“I have to go in tomorrow instead.”
“He’s a bastard.” She pauses in her chewing. “So . . . I heard you and your boy toy whispering about sneaking around. Planning a sleepover, Charlotte?” She grins deviously. “And how will Mercy feel about this plan?”
Mercy Hernandez—my adoptive mother—splits her time between volunteering at a woman’s shelter, working nights as an ER nurse, and raising foster kids as her own. Then again, with a name like Mercy, what else would she do?
“She’s working at the hospital tonight.” I smile, picking up my soda to bite on the straw before sipping. “And she doesn’t get back until after school starts in the morning. And since I’m not going to the clinic tonight—”
“You’re going to get naked. Yeah, I got it, Charlotte. Don’t need the mental picture.”
I nearly choke on my Diet Coke. Sarah has a habit of knocking everything down to the lowest common denominator, which to her usually involves getting naked.
“Will you drop me off at Harlin’s place when we’re done shopping?” I ask.
“Sure, but I have to go to Plato’s. I need an outfit for this stupid benefactors’ dinner out in Hillsboro. Do you think—”
“Yes, you’ll look hot,” I answer before she can finish asking.
Sarah’s mother forces her to attend countless benefit concerts and dinners, all in the name of charity. They’re all worthy causes; I just don’t get the having to entertain people for them to give money. Why can’t they just . . . give?
“Are you thinking self-righteous thoughts right now, Charlotte?” Sarah asks, a smirk pulling at her lips. “Not all saints are created equal, you know. Mercy does her thing physically, and my mother does hers socially.”
It is a valid argument. Sarah’s dragged me to a couple of events before, but they’re like death to me. Stuffy people. Stuffy room. Sometimes I feel like her mother is watching me, as if being poor is contagious. It’s like I’m a stray that Sarah brought home. I wonder if she’s hoping someone else will adopt me soon.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to see a text message. Harlin.
Still with dead people?
I laugh and run my thumbs over the keys. Worse. I’m sharing ketchup at Frankie’s.
“That Harlin?” Sarah asks, wiping her hands on a napkin and then tossing it onto the table. “Tell him I said to take a cold shower. You’ll be there later.”
“Nice.” Instead I type, Sarah says hi.
After a second Harlin’s text pops up and I press my lips together and look across at Sarah. “Um, he says hi back.”
“Yeah, right.” Sarah starts piling the dirty plates on the tray and reaches over to take my soda out of my hand, shaking the ice around—confirming it’s empty. She drops it on top of the tray and walks over to dump it all in the trash.
I watch after her when another text comes up.
I want you here now.
I cradle the phone in my hand, wishing I could kiss the screen and he’d feel it. It’s tough with Harlin. I think I’d spend every second of every day with him if I could. He’s like a want I can’t describe. And I don’t just mean physically. When I’m not with him, I feel almost empty. Lost. I can barely remember what it was like before him.
When Harlin transferred to St. Vincent’s two years ago with scruffy hair and a leather jacket, it was like I’d been half-asleep for years and then suddenly woke up. Everything came into focus when I was with him. Sure, I had a few friends—I had Sarah. But something about Harlin—the way he looked at me. It was like I could suddenly breathe. He made me feel at peace.
Soon. I love you, I send back, and click my phone shut. I pause for a second, feeling the warmth fade from me, leaving me just a little bit lonely. After a long sigh I stand up and look around for Sarah. She’s at the glass doors, her arm resting on the metal bar, staring at me.
For as long as I’ve known her, Sarah’s been searching for the guy, the one who’ll be good to her. Of course he also has to be hot, rich, funny, sensitive, masculine—but not macho—and want to move out of state after she graduates. With those requirements she’s been looking for a while. Even if it’s gotten her a not entirely deserved reputation.
Sarah knows how I feel about Harlin. Even if we seem a little intense at times, she knows he’s my guy, so she doesn’t complain. We’re too drama-free and a little boring for her taste, but I’m pretty sure Sarah approves. She’s a romantic like that.
“Red or black?” Sarah asks, a dress in each hand as she poses in front of the mirror. Of the eight that she’s tried on, she’s narrowed it down to these two dresses. She holds the black one up to her, tilting her head.
We’re in Plato’s, a hipster secondhand store that has the best selection of used clothing in Portland. Even though Sarah could afford to shop anywhere, she prefers this place. She says the clothes have more personality because people have lived in them. Squinting, she switches to the red dress.
I shrug. “Red is sexier, but the black makes you look smarter.”
“Red it is.” Sarah tosses the black dress across the patterned lounge chair and folds the red one over her arm, turning toward the front of the store. “I have some fabulous Jimmy Choos at home to match this.” She pauses to look me over. “Do you want to shop for something? I have my mom’s charge card.”