Paige Torn (17 page)

And my heart just breaks. “I don't either.”

“Do you think this is God's plan for my life?” she asks quietly several minutes later.

I dig in my purse and come out with my Bible, which is still in there from Wednesday night youth group. I read a verse in Isaiah a few months ago that I remember all of a sudden. I flip through until I find the purple highlighted section. “The L
ORD
will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs,” I read out loud to her.

She takes another sip of her Frappucino. “I don't feel satisfied.”

I look at her and force a smile. I don't either.

I
manage to finish the last home study transcription during the day on Friday. And Candace even manages to get my Starbucks order right. “I wrote it down,” she says, proudly setting the venti caramel macchiato on my desk. “And I'm sorry again.”

I take a sip and nod. “You're forgiven.”

I reconsider my words as I stuff tax preparation forms and last-minute banquet calls that need to be made into a file folder and clip it with binder clips so I don't lose anything. Tomorrow is looking like a fun Saturday.

And I don't even know what to think about tonight. Last I heard from Brittany, who texted me at four thirty, eighteen girls are now coming over to my apartment tonight. Eighteen. I have no idea where they're going to park, much less sit. I have a used couch I bought at a garage sale four years ago, an overstuffed chair, and four tiny kitchen chairs. And that's it for furniture.

Another thing, how much pizza do eighteen teenage girls eat? I drive to a local pizza parlor pondering the question. A slice a person? Two? I can usually eat two, but I'm not growing anymore, and I'm also not as concerned about my figure as I was in high school.

Back in my “I'll just take one slice” days.

I pity past me.

But then again, I'm not in high school where people are constantly judging you by your appearance anymore either. Now, I am in an office with two women who are always on Atkins and always telling me how lucky I am to be naturally thin.

There are outside factors to this not caring as much.

I end up getting three pizzas and drive home with my car smelling strongly of pepperoni and grease. The signs of a good pizza.

I climb the stairs to my apartment and balance the pizzas on one arm while I unlock the door and go inside. I tried to straighten up a little bit before I left this morning just in case I ended up running late getting back home. There wasn't too much to straighten up.

I haven't been home enough to make a mess.

I turn the oven on low, shove the pizzas in to stay warm, and go change before the girls start showing up. As much as I like leggings, boots, and sweater dresses, movie-watching attire while lounging on a couch eating pizza they are not.

My doorbell rings at exactly six o'clock. I've changed into my faded and nearly-ripped-in-the-back-pocket jeans, socks, and my old college sweatshirt. Three girls are standing on my porch. “Hi, Paige!” They all grin excitedly at me as they come inside. I think two are seniors and one is a sophomore.

By six thirty, the sound in my apartment is reaching decibels it has never reached. Girls are everywhere — giggling, eating, drinking Cokes that one of the girls brought, and oohing over the cookies Mrs. Kleinman made.

That are, in fact, decorated just like the paper lanterns in
Tangled
. It just makes me laugh when Paris walks in the door with the cookies. “Your mom is the best.” I take the huge box of cookies from her. “And holy cow. How many of us does she think there are going to be?”

Paris shrugs. “She says if I have extras to just leave them with you as a thank-you for having us over.”

I am suddenly much more concerned about my figure.

I finally get all the girls to sit down with their pizza around six forty-five. I push the DVD in and turn the volume up. I turn around and try not to shake my head.

There isn't even breathing room, the girls are all packed in so tight. Nine girls have squished together on the couch, two of them are sharing the chair, and all four of the kitchen chairs have been dragged to the living room. The rest of the girls ended up on the floor.

The movie starts and you can immediately tell who's seen it before. Some girls sing along to the songs, others whisper the lines with the characters, which honestly is one of my biggest pet peeves. Particularly if I am watching a movie I've never seen before.

But the other girls don't seem to mind.

I set the cookies in front of everyone about halfway through the movie. “Everyone has to take at least two cookies,” I say over the movie.

“No problem.” Brittany grabs three. “These are Mrs. Kleinman's cookies, huh? They are
amazing
.”

Paris's shoulders straighten proudly, and I smile to myself. It's a good thing to be proud of your mom.

I miss my mom. Most of the time I stay so busy I don't notice, but every so often, a girl just needs her mom.

Particularly if you've got a great mom like mine.

The movie ends forty-five minutes later and none of the girls moves. “That is
sooo
good!” Tasha squeals from the couch. “That is the best movie ever!”

I laugh. “Today, anyway.”

She grins at me.

And then the chattering starts again. And it doesn't cease until the very last girl leaves at eleven thirty. And then there is silence.

Just me, half a pizza, and forty-two cookies left.

My floor is covered in cookie crumbs, my kitchen counter has pizza sauce and paper plates all over it, and someone spilled a Coke on the tile in the entryway and only used a dry paper towel to soak it up, so now the whole area is sticky.

I look at everything that needs to be done, at the bursting file folder of work stuff, and then at my bed.

And the bed wins out. Right after a shower to get rid of the greasy feeling I have all over my face.

I climb beneath the covers and look at my Bible sitting on the bedside table behind me. I am so tired that my eyes are burning.

“Tomorrow,” I promise myself as I turn out the light. Maybe I'll even get in a nice hike with my Bible like I used to do.

Then I close my tired eyes and am out before I have another thought.

* * * * *

I wake up blissfully at eight forty-five on Saturday.

The latest I've slept in weeks.

I roll over and look at the clock before rolling to my back and staring at the ceiling.

My to-do list for the day reels through my brain.

Shower, get dressed.

Breakfast.

Banquet calls.

Tax prep.

Clean bathroom and kitchen.

Band previewing with Layla at one.

Call Mom.

Clean up Coke spill in entryway.

It isn't my favorite way to wake up. Particularly on a Saturday. I like to wake up slowly, make coffee, and then spend a quiet breakfast reading.

I get out of the shower a few minutes later, pull on a pair of jeans and a gray sweater, and blow-dry my hair. I come out to the kitchen to make coffee just as my phone rings.

It's my mom. “Hi, honey.”

“Hi, Mom.” I grin. One, because I'm excited to talk to my mom, and two, because I can cross two things off the list now.

“Just calling because we're getting ready to go to the store and I wanted to see what you want when you get here soon,” she says.

I frown and walk over to my planner, checking the date. “I'm not coming for about six weeks, Mom.”

“I know. But I want to have everything ready.”

I grin. Mom misses me too.

“I'm good with whatever, Mom.”

“I'm thinking we can go to Carroways for dinner one night.”

“Perfect.” My favorite local restaurant. They have the best onion rings in the whole state of Texas.

“And I'll make a brisket, of course. And Dad's going to make his rolls.”

My dad doesn't cook. He once ruined an entire batch of pancake batter because he misread tablespoon instead of teaspoon of salt. But for whatever reason, Dad can make the lightest, fluffiest, buttery-est, yeastiest rolls ever. It's a miracle of nature. Mom always tells me she thinks God gave Dad that gift because, otherwise, she wouldn't have taken a second look at him way back in their dating days.

“Daddy is a nerd, honey,” she'd say then.

And then Dad would sigh, remind her that his nerdiness was why they were now able to afford a nice house, and then he'd go make another batch of the rolls, just so Mom didn't get any ideas about leaving him for someone who didn't still wear knee socks.

Yep. That's my dad.

I suddenly have a strong craving for brisket and rolls, and the oatmeal I am making never looked worse. “That sounds so good right now.”

“And I'll make you sweet potatoes.”

My mother is about the most southern cook I've ever met. I've heard this rumor that sweet potatoes can actually be healthy for you, but considering I've never seen them any way but fried or covered in butter, brown sugar, and marshmallows, I have a hard time believing it.

The oatmeal really doesn't look good now.

“When do you think you'll get here?” Mom asks.

“I have to work that Thursday, so I'll probably just leave as soon as I get off work.” If I have my duffel bag in the car when I go to work that morning, I can leave straight from the office. “So, maybe around eight?”

“So, not in time for dinner but maybe in time for dessert?”

“That's in time for dinner, Mom. We can just have a late night.”

She laughs. “Sweetie, Daddy's doctor told him he has to start eating lighter meals earlier at night, so we've been eating grilled chicken on salads at five o'clock for the past month.”

I have a hard time imagining my father going along with that diet plan. “And he's really doing it?”

“He sure is,” Mom says proudly. “We eat every night at five, and then we each get a small snack around seven. I've been making us that fat-free popcorn and adding a little of that no-salt seasoning to it.”

Really can't picture Dad willingly eating like that. My father is the king of beef and carbs. His favorite meal is steak with a huge loaded baked potato and about six of his rolls.

“Wow,” I say.

“We're getting healthy. I've even got him up walking with me every morning at six before he goes to work.”

I try picturing that one and suddenly realize that my parents are getting older. Eating at five, walking at six in the morning. Old people do that. If my mother tells me she's started wearing khakis as lounge pants, I'll have to look into retirement communities for them.

“Wow,” I say again, trying to calculate how old my parents are. I don't remember them being this old before.

“Yes. But don't worry, sweetie. I'll make all of your favorite meals while you're here. It's good to allow yourself to splurge every once in a while.”

“Uh-huh.” I look at my congealing oatmeal. Maybe her comment is God's sign to me that I should go get an apple fritter from Starbucks and just not worry about my eating-out budget today.

I wince, thinking of my eating-out budget. Sometimes I miss being a little kid who doesn't get the concept that money isn't endless. At some point, you can run out. It is a jarring lesson to realize. I learned it three weeks after I moved into this apartment and suddenly noticed I had exactly $212 in the bank.

And nothing else.

There were lots of prayers said before that first paycheck finally arrived.

“So what do you have planned for today?” Mom asks.

I push the oatmeal aside and grab a paper towel and some of my floor cleaner spray. “I've got to do some cleaning and some work on the agency taxes before I meet Layla to preview bands for her parents' party.”

“You've been very busy lately.”

I scrub the Coke spill, throw the paper towel away, and see my half-finished wreath as I put the floor cleaner away. “Yeah,” I say sadly. “Very busy.”

“Sometimes life is like that. But sometimes it's our own fault. Can you cut anything out? I remember how you always needed your downtime.”

I think about it. I can't cut out Layla's parents' anniversary. Or work-related busyness. And I would probably be the worst Christian on the planet to cut out the youth group or Sunday school stuff. And after all that, there isn't too much left. I've already skipped working out for the last two weeks. And I barely have time for laundry and grocery shopping.

“Not really,” I say.

“Well. Just think about it. And I'll let you go, honey. Dad looks like he's ready to go to the store.”

“He goes with you now?” I am legitimately shocked. I think I can remember two times in the entirety of my childhood when Dad went to the grocery store with Mom. And I am pretty sure both of those times were when we were completely out of something and it was Mom's birthday and Dad felt bad that she had to go by herself on her birthday.