The Weight of Rain (5 page)

“So what do you want to do?”

I turn my head to Mercedes. She’s unaffected by the mess and doesn’t seem to care at all that I can’t stop staring at it, feeling slightly horrified that anyone could live in such chaos. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s too young to understand this would commonly be considered a social faux pas, or if she simply doesn’t care. “What do you normally do?”

She rolls her eyes again in an exaggerated fashion, her fists slamming back to her non-existent hips. “What do
you
normally do?”

I tilt my chin, wondering if she’s seeking sarcasm, but I attempt honesty. “I go to school and work. When I’m not doing that, I’m usually with my friends, Charleigh and Allie.”

“What do you do when you hang out with them?” There’s still an edge to her tone, but her eyes are filled with curiosity as she watches me.

“They go to school for fashion design, so sometimes we talk about art stuff, sometimes we watch movies and make Charleigh try American food, other times we just hang out.” I shrug once again.

“American food? Is Charleigh not from here?”

“No, she’s British. A tea drinker,” I add, noting an empty Starbucks cup littering the ground.

“How very Mary Poppins of her.” I feel the edges of my lips lift into a smile and note the way her lips mirror mine for a second before they stop and turn into a forcible frown.

“What do you know how to cook? I’m hungry.”

“Want a sandwich?”

“Try again.”

Raising my eyebrows, my tone becomes indifferent. “Cereal?”

“No way! It’s afternoon.”

“Mac and cheese?”

“Seriously?”

“What’s wrong with any of those?” I ask, following her into a kitchen that is shockingly clean. The surfaces are empty and wiped down. Even the floors look as though they’ve recently been washed.

“We have basil. Can you make pesto sauce?”

I narrow my eyes, drawing my eyebrows together. “Not unless it’s in a jar that I can open.”

“What about scallops?”

“I thought you were ten.”

“I am.”

“What ten-year-old eats scallops and pesto sauce?”

“Ones with refined taste buds that didn’t grow up on Cream of Wheat,” Mercedes quips.

“How about scrambled eggs?”

“Do you know how to cook
anything
that requires more than one ingredient?”

“Not many, no.” My frankness is not well received. Her eyes become tapered once more and her jaw clenches.

“Let’s pray there are leftovers,” she says, doing a quick spin on her heels and moving toward the fridge.

T
HE AFTERNOON
passes at an alarmingly painful crawl. I can’t express my relief when I hear the front door close and a male’s voice call, “Mercedes, I’m home!”

The first genuine smile I’ve seen from her passes her lips, and she drops the small gadget she has been playing with for the past hour, on the floor amongst the maze of clothes and toys in her room, and heads toward the greeting.

“Hey, buttercup! How are you doing?”

“Why are you home so late?”

“Sorry, I had a long meeting with Stan.” His attention shifts to me as I trail into the room, feeling a new sense of unease. Not only have I had a terribly awkward afternoon with his daughter, but I don’t know the guy, and he’s attractive. Like ridiculously attractive. “Hey! You must be Lauren. I’m Kashton,” he says, extending a hand.

His smile is warm, inviting me to reply with my own. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, taking a few steps closer to the man who doesn’t look much older than me.

“Yeah, you too. You came highly recommended.” His hand feels slightly rough, but it’s the warmth of it that distracts me. It feels as if he just emerged from the hot sun rather than the cooler rain that has made an early appearance. As our hands slide apart, I notice several small nicks and scratches across his knuckles.

The impulse to object about my qualifications dances across my tongue, so I bite it. I bite harder when the desire to question him about not meeting me prior to allowing his daughter for the afternoon enters my mind.

“Did you guys have a good day?” he asks.

“She doesn’t know how to cook.” Mercedes announces the fact like this has been the biggest issue we’ve faced today.

Kashton’s eyes meet mine. They’re a warm brown, reminding me of well-worn leather, but are a similar shape and depth to Mercedes. “Maybe your uncle can teach her.” His voice is playful, accompanied by a smile that assures me the thought is more for Mercedes.

“He will have to; otherwise, I’ll starve.”

Kashton laughs and ruffles a palm over Mercedes’ head, triggering the same look of disdain she’s been sending me for most of the afternoon.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, then, Lauren?” Kashton asks.

“Yes, at four, right?”

He nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah, I’ll be here tomorrow, but I’ll be out in the shop, so four will work great.”

I nod in response and then jerkily move forward to grab the strap of my messenger bag, still leaning beside the door, and pull it on.

I’m already near a large SUV in the driveway when I turn around and wave. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you, Lauren,” Kashton calls in reply.

“You too. Bye, Mercedes.”

“Bye.” I hear her voice, quiet and lacking warmth or amusement, then watch as she closes the door with a bang.

“S
O HOW
was your first day of the new job?” Even Charleigh’s warm voice sends chills of frustration through me that make my teeth grind.

“I’m pretty sure Lucifer has a daughter, and her name is Mercedes.”

Charleigh’s loud giggle goes from a sound to a vibration as she wraps her arms around my shoulders, hugging me from behind. “Was it that awful?”

“Worse.”

“What were her parents like?”

“Her dad is young. Really young. And he’s a total slob.”

“Did you meet the Queen?”

I shake my head slowly and avert my eyes back to my sketch. “No, I guess she passed away.”

“Oh, that’s awful. Maybe that’s why she was so difficult?”

I shoot her a glare that says
I don’t care what her excuse is
.

“Why don’t we go get something to eat. Something totally bad for us. We’ll put in a movie and watch our pant sizes grow.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You are cross, aren’t you?”

I rub a palm over my eyes that have gone dry from staring too long, a side effect of my art.

“That’s Lucifer’s daughter?” Charleigh keeps one hand wrapped around me while the other snakes out and hovers over my drawing. “She’s lovely.”

“I’m sure Eve thought the apple looked really delicious too. That’s why looks are deceiving.”

“You know, I learned in my history of religion class that they don’t believe Adam and Eve ate an apple. Before the seventeenth century, all fruit was referred to as an apple besides berries and nuts.”

“That really doesn’t change anything.”

“I know, but I didn’t think I’d ever be able to use that useless fact again, and you just happened to set the perfect stage for me.”

I release a deep breath and drop my head to her shoulder, not having the energy to continue this conversation. “You’re so weird.”

“It’s why you love me.”

“Something like that.”

“Come on. I’ll let you pick the movie this time. I’ve got my mind made up on this. We’re going.”

“And you can’t let go, because you’re killing every second till it saves your soul.”

Charleigh growls as she stands from my bed. “You know I hate when you do that! That song is going to be in my head for days.”

I’m not in the mood to be around anyone, even Charleigh, but I grudgingly stand up and grab a clean hoodie from my closet. As much as I don’t want to see anyone, I know if I see Kenzie, I may lose my shit and actually punch her after the afternoon I’ve endured with Mercedes and her crazy amounts of attitude and sidelong glances that kept mocking me.

“L
AUREN
!”

I turn from where I’m holding an empty laundry basket midair, staring at one of the thousand piles of laundry that literally cover this house. My eyes find Mercedes and dance over the too-short skirt she’s wearing over a pair of tights, which are covered with stripes in every color, and a black T-shirt that says “It’s hard being a ten” and is covered in rhinestones and skulls. When my eyes meet hers, they’re narrowed again, her hands back on her slender hips. I have been babysitting for three weeks now, and little has changed between us. I grew up having only an older brother and an often times aloof father. My brother and I helped our dad from the time we were young, doing chores that included taking care of the land and the animals because there was always more work than hands. We had several men who worked on the farm for my father, and a woman named Nell who lived with her husband Alan—our foreman who takes care of the animals and machinery—in a small home situated an acre away from our house. Nell is great. She’s been around since before I was born and has played a large role in my life, participating in events my mom missed with her frequent absences. Our 300-acre cattle farm lies between Helena and Missoula, and although the town I grew up in is small, both nearby cities were large enough that I have seen and experienced a lot of people in my life. But I’ve never dealt with anyone quite like Mercedes.

Over the past few weeks, there have been moments when I’ve wanted to get an inch from her face and start screaming at her for acting so rude. Other times that I’ve wanted to walk away and quit. Then there have been moments when I have realized this ten-year-old girl who is acting like nothing in the world phases her, is trying to be tough for reasons I don’t understand, and it worries me that she will become hardened for life. Cold and ignorant to all of the small beauties and blessings that too many already miss. Those small windows are why I’ve lasted this long. Well, that and the fact that I’m making double what I was.

“You’re not paying attention. I almost hit you in the face!” Mercedes’ voice comes out petulant, her face distorted with anger.

“Yeah, I’m done.” I drop the empty laundry basket she’s been aiming a miniature basketball at. Her chin juts out, becoming more prominent as she clenches her jaw. “Why don’t we clean up some?”

“I’m not done,” she says, keeping her face locked in a silent threat.

“Well, then you’re going to have to find out if you have an actual basketball hoop that goes with your ball. If we start cleaning, we might find it by next week.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Good, I wasn’t trying to be.” Growing up, my room usually resembled the aftermath of a tornado. With clothes rarely ever being put away, but rather in heaps on the floor, across my desk, desk chair, and bed, along with CDs and books and the occasional stray piece of silverware that my foot always seemed find in the middle of the night when I was heading to the bathroom.

It took dorm life to learn simplicity and organization in my personal space, and it’s become even more prudent now that I’m living with Kenzie. My shoulders sag as a loud sigh leaves my lips. This house is a mess. Dead bodies could be concealed under these piles, and the carpets are covered in crumbs and dirt, bringing a personal rule to always wear shoes in the house.