The Alchemy of Forever

smile and nod at all the right places, even though I’m distracted. I can’t stop thinking about the help wanted sign in the antiques shop window.
    Finally, I clear my throat. “I know I’m grounded, but—”
    “Here we go,” says Mr. Morgan. Bryan leans in eagerly, sure I’m about to get into even more trouble.
    “. . . but I was wondering if I could get a job?” I finish.
    Mrs. Morgan raises her eyebrows, and Mr. Morgan nods slowly. Bryan’s jaw drops slightly. “That is not what I expected you to ask,” he says.
    Kailey’s parents look at each other, communicating silently, the way longtime couples learn to do. Mr. Morgan glances back at me. “I don’t see why not,” he says thoughtfully.
    “We’d have to approve the job, of course,” adds Mrs. Morgan.
    I tell them about the antiques store. “Who knows if they would actually hire me, though,” I demur.
    “I think it’s a great idea, Kailes. Just as long as you have time for your schoolwork,” says Mrs. Morgan.
    “Of course,” I assure her. “School comes first.” Bryan rolls his eyes and mimes gagging, but I ignore him, happy with my little victory.
    Just as we’re starting in on apple pie, the house phone rings, and Bryan jumps up to answer it, his chair scraping across the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor. I hear him talking softly in the hallway, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. “Must be a solicitor,” Mr. Morgan observes.
    “Kailey, it’s Leyla. She wants to know if you’ll study with her tonight,” announces Bryan, returning to the kitchen. He has a funny half smile on his face.
    “You should,” says Mrs. Morgan. I look up, surprised. “You’re still grounded,” she adds, trying to look stern. “But studying is allowed.”
    “We haven’t seen Leyla around much lately,” Mr. Morgan says.
    “Kailey? Phone?” Bryan reminds me, sitting back in his chair and taking an enormous swig of milk, emptying half the glass.
    “Oh, right.” I go to the phone in the hallway and pick it up. “Hello?”
    “Why have you been ignoring my texts?” Leyla demands, but continues before I can respond. “I’ll come get you and we can get coffee, okay? I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
    “Oh, okay,” I answer hesitantly.
    “Good. Ciao.”
    “Leyla’s coming to pick me up,” I inform the family. I’m not imagining the disappointed look that flickers across Bryan’s face.
    “Oh, I thought she was coming here,” he says.
    “That’s fine, honey.” Mrs. Morgan takes a sip of wine. “Have fun.”
    I run outside when Leyla pulls up in her Honda. I expected her to drive a car that matches her personality a little bit more—a pink Cadillac, a vintage Volvo, or a painted school bus. She’s wearing glasses and concentrates on the road as we drive, whipping them off as soon as we find a parking spot near Telegraph Avenue.
    “I’m so glad they let you out tonight,” she says, tossing the glasses onto the dashboard.
    “I have to admit I’m surprised. But I asked them if I could get a job, so maybe they’re rewarding me for showing initiative or something.”
    Leyla stares at me. “You’re getting a job? Will you still have time to paint?”
    I think of the unfinished portrait on Kailey’s easel. It will have to remain undone because art is something I never managed to master. “Yeah, I’ll still have time to paint,” I lie. “And I’ll have more money for art supplies.”
    “Fair enough.” She smiles. We climb out of the car, and I follow her lead as we walk down Telegraph, inhaling the Nag Champa incense that wafts out from nearby head shops. I try not to stare at the punk kids that sit on the sidewalk, begging for change. I know their type all too well: runaways, probably from wealthy families, but angry at the world. The type that no one would miss. A girl with oily white-blond hair wearing patch-covered camouflage pants pets a mangy-looking dog, looking at me hopefully. I turn away. These are the kinds of kids I’ve preyed on in the past.
    Leyla takes me to a café across the street from UC Berkeley. It’s packed with students, laptops open and books piled on tables, but a low chatter tells me that they’re not all here to study. I grab a table inside while Leyla gets us drinks.
    “So, what’s going on with you?” asks Leyla as soon as we’re seated, steaming mugs of chai in front of us. She squints slightly.
    “Not one to beat around the bush, are you?” I ask, with a wry