From Where I Watch You (3 page)

I blink hard and get mascara under my lower lid.

3.
Remove from heat before it melts.

..........................................................

Kara,

always watching you. always waiting.

My name, printed in careful handwriting, always has the same monstrous K that looks as if it’s trying to eat the rest of my name. And like the other notes, the paper is folded twice and tucked into a matching envelope.

Tired hardwood planks groan under my feet when I cross the room. The old floor makes different sounds depending on where you tread, warning me anytime Mom’s approaching my room. And since I started getting the notes, I’ve memorized where in the apartment each creak originates.

Warm air thaws my cheeks, but I still wrap a quilt around my shoulders. My hands shake. I read the note again and then stuff it back into my backpack.

This ancient house, like many others on the Ave, has a shop on the bottom floor and an apartment on the top. Our apartment has a window seat where I sit now, staring blankly at the vine maple that grows out of the sidewalk below. The top branch reaches a few feet above the window and has shed most of its fiery leaves for winter.

Pigeons stare in, framed by branches and puffs of gray cloud against a darkening sky. I wonder if he can see me up in this window, because in another week, when the rest of the leaves fall, the tree will barely hide it.

Who could get into the classroom and leave me a note without Mr. King noticing?

An hour passes and I’ve moved to my bed, to the sofa and back to the window, trying to get comfortable. I can’t. Each time a note shows up I run through a list of possible suspects, but I come up with nothing.

Every note has come from school.

Before the notes, I was starting to relax because with each new gossip-worthy scandal, the spotlight moved off me, little by little, until I was back in the dark. High school used to be just an annoying thing to slog through. Now I can’t even feel safe there.

WHEN I COME DOWNSTAIRS
I smell coffee and celery and something brown and meaty. But the first thing I notice is Hayden. He sits by himself at his usual table. He’s concentrating on his laptop screen, his eyes narrowed like he’s angry about what he sees. Or maybe he needs glasses. I think he’d be adorable in glasses. The baseball cap he always wears is turned backward and pieces of his dark blond hair stick out through the backside. I don’t want to bother him because he’s probably studying. Even so, I slow down when I pass his table, my heart sinking when he doesn’t say anything.

Something grabs the back of my hoodie, making me jump.

“I see how you are, sneaking by without a hello,” he says impishly.

Of course I act like I never saw him. I whip my head around and say, “Oh! Hayden, hi, how’s it going?” I’m a little too cheerful.

He smiles, playful and confident. I guess that’s the difference between high school boys and college men.

“Better now.” He turns his cap the right way around. “Are you baking? I could stick around and eat the broken cookies for you.”

Now he watches me from under the frayed bill. Hayden has this way of staring at me, like his eyes could suck out all my secrets. When he does this I have a hard time talking; I mean, I have a hard time talking anyway, but especially now.

He reaches his arms up and clasps his hands behind his head. “You okay?” he asks, the smile returning.

I fidget with my fingers behind my back. “Um, I’ve, uh, had a lot of caffeine today.”

He nods.

Nice. I’m boring him because I have nothing better to say. Because I have no life that would be interesting to someone who’s already escaped high school.

I don’t even have time to think before Hayden’s up and out of the booth, towering over me so that my eyes are inches from his Seattle Pacific University Falcons sweatshirt. It looks like it would be soft if I touched it. He smells of wood smoke and a faded scent of cologne or deodorant.

Hayden’s arm circles part way around my back but he doesn’t touch me, though I wish he would. And maybe if he didn’t have a skanky girlfriend around I might lean back into his arm a little. He says, “Maybe you should lay off the caffeine.”

I nod and then shake my head before I pivot and walk toward the kitchen because I can’t conjure up a grown-up college girl response. I’m such a dork. The noise Hayden makes behind me—shoving papers and books into his backpack—seems amplified.

My hands are still shaky when I pull sugar cookie dough out of the walk-in fridge. After flouring up the board, I roll the dough out as thin as possible and press into it with a turkey cookie cutter. I should be decorating hearts because the contest has a Valentine cookie theme. But who can get in the mood for Valentine’s Day in November?

While the cookies bake, I mix up royal icing and imagine I’m in my own bakery, far from here. Mom and I have a deal. I get this little corner of her kitchen to make up for losing the gourmet kitchen in our old house. In return I let her sell my cookies. It’s doubly nice because I’m blocked off from Mom’s business by the dishwashing area, so I can avoid her and the cook.

My corner smells of warm, buttery sugar. By the time the cookies have cooled, I have three piping bags full of icing in shades of chocolate, pumpkin orange, and gold. During the contest we’ll have a time limit so I need to practice tinting the icing a little faster.

I outline the edge of my first turkey in chocolate icing, making a dam, before outlining the feathers. Then I flood random feathers inside the dams so the icing doesn’t escape the edge of the cookie. Then I do the same with the other colors. An idea has me up on a chair, sifting through my collection of sprinkle jars . . . until I reach too far.

I teeter and catch myself but my other hand accidentally knocks three jars to the floor. Broken glass and sprinkles surge out onto the dirty floor, in between the holes of the black rubber mat.

“Shit!” There’s no way I’m fishing those out. I see the dirt and crap that would wind up under my nails. I’d probably end up with a flesh-eating disease.

“Whoa!” a voice shouts.

I hop off the chair as a boy emerges from the dishwashing area. Mom said she hired a new dishwasher. But I had no idea it would be Charlie Norton.

“Sprinkles?” he asks, staring at the floor.

I ignore him and mourn the colored gems, pooled and sparkling inside the mat holes.

“Kara McKinley,” he continues. “I wondered when I’d finally see the daughter of the famous pea soup lady.”

I haven’t seen Charlie since he left town our freshman year.

What the hell?

Why is he back?

“You are Kara McKinley, right? Or should I call you Sprinkles?”

The difference between the skinny freshman arms I remember and the ones now crossed over his chest is a lot of physical labor out in the sunshine. His dark hair is shorter than it used to be, close cropped everywhere except the top, where it’s sticking up. A few strands fall over part of his forehead because of his cowlick, reaching toward his coffee-colored eyes.

“Aw come on, Sprinkles, you’ve forgotten me? You’ve known me since we cut each other’s bangs in kindergarten. But since I’m a gentleman I’ll reintroduce myself: after all, it’s been a while.” He bows before offering me his hand. “Charles Norton the Third, at your dishwashing service.”

“I remember,” I manage, turning back toward my cookies.

My jitters show again when I pick up the piping bag, and my icing dam results in a loopy mess that I’ll have to wipe off before it hardens. A shadow grows over my left shoulder.

“Hey do those turkey cookies taste like real turkey?” Charlie asks.

“Don’t you have some pans to scrape?” I hear myself snap. I don’t want him to leave. Even though he already smells a little like bleach.

“Just checkin’ to make sure you’re okay, Sprinkles. I know when I’m not wanted. If you get lonely, I’ll be around the corner—”

“Playing with your bubbles, I’m sure.”

He says nothing, and I wait until he walks away before I turn and look. I’m so dumb. I’m sixteen going on ten when it comes to Charlie Norton!

From around the corner I hear him above the tinny buzz of water hitting a stainless steel sink. “Hey, Sprinkles!” he yells. “If you need help with the giblets, let me know!”

I rearrange shelves until my hands are steady enough to pipe straight lines again. Charlie’s whistling rises above the noise of clinking dishes and the pinging spray hose, and a whole half hour passes before I think about weird notes and being watched.

Eleven-Year-Old Carrot

I hate PE, and I especially hate dodgeball day.

Mr. Scott has blown the whistle because I’m on the floor.

“Sorry about that, Kara McKinley.”

It’s skinny but athletic superstar Charlie Norton. He holds out his hand. He always calls me by my first and last name. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes it ticks me off. Always it embarrasses me.

I rub the scraping burn on my cheek where he nailed me with the ball. He pulls me up so I’m standing and I don’t want him to let go of my hand. We’re eye to eye and I stare at the soft brown freckles dotted across his cheeks and nose.

“Here you go.” He hands me the ball like my hands could break. “You get me back.”

He walks away, and I know that I love him. I hear giggling along the perimeter. I try to sneak off the floor, pretending I’m hit, but Sara Nguyen calls me out, threatening to tell Mr. Scott.

I throw the ball as hard as I can and Charlie steps into it, taking it in the chest when he very easily could’ve caught it and brought back one of his teammates. He winks at me as he crumples to the floor. Everyone is laughing. I think I might crumple to the floor, too.

4. Space three inches apart.

..........................................................

The next day at school, I look for Charlie. Not in an obvious way or anything because I don’t need Noelle giving me crap about it. There were rumors about why Charlie left freshman year, but I wasn’t sure anyone knew the truth. He hung with my crowd, sort of. Even when I had a crowd to hang with, I was still the quiet one. So I pretty much never talked to Charlie. I just stared at him a lot. Everyone loved him. Even the seniors invited him to their parties.

Why does he have to work at my mom’s café?

Why haven’t I noticed him back at school?

When did he move back?

“Hey, sista,” Noelle says, slamming her shoulder into mine.

“Hey!” I sidestep to keep my balance as a rush of adrenaline takes me out of my own head. “You scared me.”

“Why? What, were you picturing yourself under Hayden again? I called your name like two times down the hall.” She flings her backpack over her other shoulder.

“No. Nothing. Just thinking about plane ticket money. Wanna give me some? I really don’t want to work at Crockett’s.”

She smirks. “American Express, dear one. My parents didn’t notice the jeans I bought you, but I don’t think even they are stupid enough not to notice a plane ticket on their bill.”

“I know. Guess I’ll have to schlep bags of food after all.”

“Maybe accidentally sneak some Trojans into your purse for me, too? Really hate paying for those suckers.”

Some people turn to look at us in the crammed hallway. I stare at the floor because if I say anything back about condoms it will lead to yet another discussion about my virginity. No thanks.

A pair of too-skinny legs in too-big leather boots stop in front of us. Jen Creighton offers a paper to Noelle. “Since I don’t have your number, here you go.” Jen’s eyes flick to me, only for a second. “Of course, Kara’s invited, too.”

That’s bullshit and she knows it. She’d never give me an invite if Noelle wasn’t around. Her eyes tell me she knows it’s bullshit, too. Her eyes tell me that she might even be doing this on purpose, to set me up somehow.

“Gee, thanks,” I reply.

But then Jen does that eyelid flick thing she used to do when she was nervous. Back when we were friends.

“I’ll consider it,” Noelle tells Jen. “On second thought . . .”

Noelle takes her gum out of her mouth, real slow, and sticks it in the middle of the flyer, squishing it in for extra emphasis. Then she folds and unfolds it to see the pink wad stretch from both sides of the paper. She hands the little flyer gum package to Jen. “Thanks, but I don’t think I can make it.”

I hate that I feel a little bad for Jen. She totally deserves that. But I know her and I know right now she’s mortified. Of the three of us—me, Gaby, and Jen—Jen wanted the attention, the popularity. So I know she’s lying awake at night obsessing about her party and who might show and who won’t. I know she spent hours making her little flyer perfect with just the right wording so people won’t think she’s too desperate, even though I think a fancy flyer says it all.

Jen gapes at the paper mess. And then down at her big boots. Gaby always teased her about not having calves or a butt. Part of me still wants to put my arm around her shoulder; that little part of me who remembers spending the night in the bathroom, feeding her Kleenex and Junior Mints because her crush didn’t show up to her seventh grade swimming party.