Paige Torn (12 page)

I point. “My sofa, my gummy bears.”

“Fine.” She sighs, closing her eyes. “You may have three.”

Tyler grins at us.

Layla finishes chewing a gummy bear, studying him. “So, Tyler. What is your last name?”

“Jennings.”

“What does your mother call you?”

“Um. Tyler.”

“What is a childhood secret that you've never told anyone before?”

I elbow Layla.

“Ow!” she yells.

“Leave him alone. He barely walked in the door,” I say.

“It's okay, it's okay. I'll answer the question. When I was in the third grade, I found what I thought was a dinosaur bone in the sandbox at school. But this kid, Arnold, came and stole it and told everyone it was his.” Tyler's face gets very sad. “He even took it to Show and Tell.”

“So you were a suffering silent one,” Layla says.

“Well, I beat him up on the playground after Show and Tell.”

“So you were the vengeful, angry one.” Layla nods. “I see.”

“All before my conversion,” Tyler says.

“You don't eat meat either?”

“Are you kidding? That's all I eat. No, I meant before I became a Christian.”

Layla sighs sadly. “We can't all be helping protect Bambi. I guess some of you have to be out there shooting his mother. There are no heroes without villains.”

I laugh.

“For such a recent vegan, you sure have a lot of passion for it,” Tyler tells her.

“Tyler, meet Layla,” I say.

He grins. “So. When did you guys become friends?”

I look at Layla. “Fourth grade?”

“Fifth. Remember? You got assigned to the desk next to mine.”

“Oh. That's right. Mr. Hillerman.”

She nods solemnly. “Yeah.”

Tyler looks at us. “What was wrong with Mr. Hillerman?”

“Nothing. Except he almost destroyed
this
.” Layla waves her finger back and forth between me and her.

“He made us switch to desks on opposite sides of the room the second week in the school year,” I tell Tyler. “Layla was making me laugh too much in class.”

“She still can't laugh silently,” Layla says.

“I can too!”

“No, sweetie. You can't.” She pats my knee. “But don't worry. It's a learned skill. Mr. Hillerman just didn't give you enough practice time. Just think, if it weren't for him, we wouldn't have had that whole Spelling Bee Horrificalness.”

I sober. “Mr. Hillerman,” I whisper darkly.

“That's right, Paige. Let it out.”

“What is the Spelling Bee Horrificalness?” Tyler asks me. “And y'all realize that's not a word, right?”

“Sure it is,” Layla says matter-of-factly. “
B-E-E
. You know, buzz? The thing that stings you?”

“No, I meant — ”

“It was freshman year,” Layla interrupts. “Our first year in high school and we were not really making strides up the social ladder, if you know what I mean. I had this huge puffy hair and Paige had glasses and braces and, well, neither of us had gotten the whole eyeliner thing down. And there was this schoolwide assembly for a spelling bee about, oh, maybe right around Christmas that year.”

“I was a pretty good speller,” I say. “I couldn't figure out that stirrup pants had been out of style for like fifteen years by then, but I could spell.”

“Read geek,” Layla tells Tyler.

“Hey!”

“Loveable geek,” Layla says.

“Anyway. I got beaten out of representing our grade by Anthony Lakerson, because the day of the semifinal, I had a sinus infection and I could barely breathe,” I tell Tyler.

“Anthony was an even huger dweeb than Paige, if you can believe that,” Layla adds.

Tyler raises an eyebrow. “I'm not sure that's a word either, but go on.”

“D-W-E-E-B,”
Layla spouts off.

“No, I meant — ”

“So anyway,” Layla interrupts again. “Weeks go by and there we all were in the gym. They'd built this little stage with the two podiums on it for the people in the spelling bee and then all of the rest of the students sat on the bleachers. And our gym was really …” She looks at me, frowning.

“Echo-y,” I say.

“Right. Very echo-y. During basketball games, I had to leave because of how loud the squeaks from the players' shoes were.” She shudders. “I still can't watch basketball. Peter spends a lot of time alone in March.”

“Peter?”

“My fiancé. Keep up, Tyler,” Layla says.

“Anyway,” I say, setting a calming hand on Layla's arm, “Anthony was up against another student at the school, and in the first round, he got the word
robust
.”

“Okay,” Tyler says.

“So, Anthony spells it
R-O-B-O-O-S-T
, ” Layla says.

“Roboost?”

“Exactly.” I nod at Tyler. “And that's when it happened.”

“What happened?”

“Paige laughed like Cruella de Vil, and I'm not even kidding.” Layla leans forward, all serious.

“It wasn't that bad.” I roll my eyes.

“Oh, trust me. It was bad. I was sitting right next to her, and quick as a flash I slapped my hand over her mouth, but I wasn't fast enough.” She shakes her head mournfully.

“I couldn't help it. I was still a little mad about the whole thing where he beat me out because of a stupid sinus infection.”

“So her laugh echoed across the entire gym,” Layla says slowly. “And it kept echoing and echoing until poor little Anthony Lakerson sat down on the stage and wept.”

“No way,” Tyler says.

“He didn't weep,” I say.

“Oh, he cried.” Layla nods. “He cried hard. He cried so hard his mom had to push her way down the bleachers and take him home.”

“I felt really bad,” I say. “I told him I was sorry later. It just kind of … popped out.”

“The apology?” Tyler asks.

“The laugh.”

He grins.

“Anyway.” Layla gets back to her gummy bears. “Later Anthony told everyone he'd been cutting onions all week for his mom's big Christmas feast and that's why he started bawling in the middle of the stage and he thought maybe the onion fumes had gone into his ears and made him hear words differently. Like
roboost
instead of
robust
.”

“And that's the Spelling Bee Horrificalness,” I say.

“And now we know it's all Mr. Hillerman's fault.” Layla looks at me.

“Teachers have a great responsibility in this life.” Tyler nods.

“For good or for evil,” Layla says soberly.

“Well, I'll have to remember I'm in the presence of a spelling snob then.” Tyler smirks at me.

“I gave that up.”

“Sort of like how I gave up meat.” Layla chews a gummy bear.

“Except I gave mine up years ago, and Layla has now gone two hours,” I say, grinning at my best friend.

“So, you're engaged,” Tyler says.

“Yep. Hoping to follow in the tradition of my parents, set so grandly before me,” Layla says dramatically. “You can come to their surprise anniversary party if you'd like to. Though, to warn you, there is a good possibility there will not be any animal products on the menu.”

“When is this party?” Tyler asks.

“February 22. And we're going to spend the night in the park beforehand. Me and Paige.” She pats my knee again. I guess that means Peter has backed out. Like I knew he was going to.

“Yeah.” I try to muster up some enthusiasm.

Tyler looks at me and then back at Layla. “Wait, just the two of you?”

“Yep! It's going to be great. We'll bring sleeping bags … we'll roast marshmallows. We'll sing ‘Kumbaya.' It'll be epic.”

“Uh-huh.” Tyler looks back at me. “Have you thought about maybe asking a few more people to join you in this epicness?”

“Definitely not a word, Tyler.” Layla shakes her head.

“Sure it is.
J-O-I-N
. Join. You know, when more people come spend the night at the park so you don't get murdered the night before your parents' anniversary party.” He gives her a stern look. “Somehow I doubt that would be the best way to pay homage to their grand example for you.”

I start laughing. Any guy who can dish it back to Layla is okay in my book.

Layla pauses and thinks about that. “I guess that would be good, huh.”

Tyler nods. “Staying alive? I think so.”

“No, having more people to sing ‘Kumbaya.' Two people just don't really make a great campfire sing-along and no offense, Paige, but our voices don't mesh very well.”

I shrug. No offense taken there. She speaks the truth.

S
unday morning, my alarm goes off at seven.

Now, I love being a Christian. I love Jesus. I love reading my Bible, and I love that I can go to God anytime in prayer.

I don't love that church happens so early on one of the few mornings I have off from work. And I especially don't love the weeks when I'm teaching the two-year-olds' Sunday school class, because I have to be there thirty minutes before I normally would.

If there are any unperks of being a Christian, I consider less sleep one of them.

I finally talk myself into getting out of bed by seven fifteen, stumble to the shower, and turn the nozzle all the way to hot. Good showers only happen if the water is so hot that my feet are purple when I get out.

I stare into the mirror while I wait for the water to heat up. My eyes have big dark circles under them, and I swear I see a new wrinkle forming on the side of my right eye. I am twenty-two years old. This is not supposed to happen for many more years.

Maybe it's the very late night last night. Tyler and Layla both ended up staying until well past midnight. We ended up half watching, half talking through the rest of
Clueless
and then
Just Like Heaven
.

I take a quick shower, blow-dry my hair, and pull on a pair of jeans and a black long-sleeved Henley-style shirt. Rule number one in teaching the two-year-olds is that nice church clothes are a definite no. Particularly if your nice church clothes include a super-cute jersey skirt that has a fold-over waistband instead of an actual waistband that can't be pulled down.

Yeah. I learned that lesson the hard way.

I plug in my curling iron and look at my hair. It isn't as long as Layla's and it certainly isn't her pretty, chocolaty brown. My mother liked to tell me my hair was “golden brown,” but that made it sound a lot prettier than it actually is.

Should I ever have the money someday for highlights, I'll make it blonde again like it was when I was a little kid.

My dad always tells me that you can marry more money in five minutes than you can make in a lifetime. Which is why my mental list of what I am looking for in a future husband includes the words
rich doctor
.

They're right below
frequent shaver
. An occasional five o'clock shadow is cute, but I really prefer a clean-shaven face.

Probably has something to do with being raised in Texas, where it consistently reaches ninety degrees and 100 percent humidity. The less you have to wear, the better, and that includes facial hair.

Which is also why
doesn't think a swimsuit is nice summer attire
is on my list. And that one is self-explanatory.

I get to church at eight thirty after making a stop at Starbucks. I am well on my way to becoming one of the esteemed gold-card members with how often I go there. I sip my macchiato, then look at the cup, frowning.

If I give up macchiatos, will I have enough to get highlights every month?

I take another sip and shake my head. Isn't worth it. I'll stay dishwater blonde or brown or whatever color my hair is. You can never underestimate the power of a personality, compliments of the wonder drug caffeine.

My coteacher, Rhonda Matthews, shows up at about eight forty-five. “Paige, I am
so
sorry.” She hurries through the half door looking pretty harried. “Mandy woke up with a cold, Reid's alarm didn't go off, and Ben decided that he would only come to church with me if he got to pick out his outfit.” She hustles her two-year-old son, Ben, into the room. Ben looks … colorful.

“Nice boots, Ben,” I say. It's hard work to pull off red cowboy boots with green athletic pants about two inches too short for you.

“What do you say to Miss Paige, Benjamin?” Rhonda demands, hanging her purse and jacket on the hooks by the door. This is the thing about us Texan women. It may be seventy degrees out, but dang it, we are going to wear those cute jackets when it is supposed to be wintertime.

Ben pulls three fingers out of his mouth, slobber covering them. “Tanks, Mwiss Paid.”

“Sure,” I say. One of these days, I will figure out how to get that stain-master stuff sprayed on the jeans I wear on Sunday school teaching days. And maybe some form of germ repellent.