The Distance Between Us

answer any of my questions so I stopped asking. But every once in a while she says things in passing that I want to remember. Things that might help me discover . . . him? Me?
    Even thinking that makes me angry. As if I need him to be a whole person. He left my mother to fend for herself. How could I want to be anything like him? But I’m practical, rational, and if I need to find him one day, I want to know as much as possible. I close the book and underline the title again. You never know when you might need a kidney or something one day. That is why I keep this notebook. It’s the only reason.

Chapter 12

    T he next morning my attitude hasn’t improved much. Thinking about my dad always puts me in a bad mood. And the discovery of the empty doll casket in back made me realize the store is in even more trouble than I thought. I had been hoping that we always ran in the red; now I know we don’t. But the fact that my mom ordered that lady her doll AT COST makes me realize something else: my mom might not have enough business sense to get us out of our financial trouble. Are we months away from homelessness? I sense the burden falling on my shoulders and I don’t know what to do with the extra load.
    I grab my backpack and walk out of the store. The air is cold today and bites my cheeks as I step outside. Halfway down the block Xander appears at my side and hands me my already-been-sipped-once drink. I savor the heat as it coats my mouth and throat. I can’t believe we’ve been walking together all week. I hide my grin as I take another long sip.
    “You okay?”
    I look over at him and he’s staring at me with a critical eye. “What? Yeah, of course.”
    “You just usually have something sarcastic to say right out of the gate.”
    Does he know me that well already? “Am I your required dose of daily abuse?”
    “That works.” He coughs a little. “Okay, new game. A challenge if you will.”
    “Listening.”
    “You don’t know what you want to do with your life. I don’t know what I want to do with mine. But we both know that we don’t want to do dolls or hotels.”
    “That sounded bad, but I’m following.”
    “So I’m going to discover your destiny and you can discover mine.”
    “Uh, what?”
    “I’m going to try to figure out what you like to do.”
    “How?”
    “By trying different things, of course. Career days, if you will. I’ll set up the first one. Tomorrow, one o’clock. Be ready.”
    “Tomorrow is Saturday. Don’t you have a tennis match to watch or something?”
    “What? No. I hate tennis.”
    I look around. “You might want to keep your voice down when you say stuff like that. You wouldn’t want to be kicked out of the club.”
    “Are you trying to get out of the first career day?”
    “I work Saturdays.”
    “Time to start sending different signals.”
    I picture our monthly calendar on the back counter. Remember filling it in with my mom at the beginning of the month like we always do. “We have a party booked. There’s no way I can leave her alone.” But maybe after the party . . .
    He doesn’t say a word, just gives me a raised eyebrow look. The pressure from the burden resting on my shoulders intensifies and anger surges through me. Why am I in charge of my mom’s store? Why don’t I have any choices about my future?
    “Okay, one o’clock.”
     
    Saturday comes and I still haven’t mentioned the outing to my mom. My short burst of anger had melted into guilt. My mom is stressed and the store is broke. This isn’t the right time to rebel. Would there ever be a right time, though? One afternoon isn’t going to equal the ruin of the store . . . at least I hope it won’t.
    The schedule confirms one birthday party from ten to noon. That should be perfect to help and then be done just in time to go with Xander. To go with Xander. On a date. Is that what this is? I try not to smile but my face seems to want to at this thought. I remind my face that Xander called it a career day and that seems to help.
    My mom is in the back setting up the party while I’m watching the store. I know I need to talk to her, but I’m stalling. That guilt thing is gnawing at my gut. Nobody is in the store so I meander down the short hall and watch my mom set out little doll clothes on the table.
    She turns to grab another stack and sees me. “Hey.” She glances over my shoulder. “Did you need me?”
    “No. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need my help.” You are