The Distance Between Us

Your future?”
    “On the maybe list.”
    “I thought you might like it because you said you like science, which requires observing things and noticing detail. You’re good at that and those traits serve well when looking through a viewfinder.”
    I look up at him in surprise.
    “What?” he asks.
    I realize I must be staring at him in shock and turn back to look at the blurry reflection of us in the gold elevator doors. “I . . . thanks . . . for noticing.”
    He shrugs. “I’m trying to find something you’ll actually like. So you’re up next.”
    “Yes, I am. And since we’re all into this matching up the career day to our traits I guess I should find a career for you that involves ironing T-shirts or using lots of hair product.”
    He runs a hand through his hair. “I use very little hair product.” We ride the elevator back down. “So next Saturday, same time?”
    I try to mentally picture the calendar on the back counter of the store. I don’t remember if there’s a birthday party written in. “Yeah . . . yes,” I correct myself, giving him a smile to let him know I found his dad’s correction irritating as well. “I think that’ll work.” We wait while the car is brought around. “Oh, and wear your crappiest clothes.”

Chapter 16

    I meet Xander on the curb Saturday, trying to avoid the same situation as last week. My mom seems to be buying the “kid from school” routine and until she forces me to introduce him I’m going to stick with it. He turns off the car and gets out before he realizes I’m standing there.
    He’s wearing nice jeans, an even nicer T-shirt, and some loafer-type shoes.
    I point at his clothes. “Seriously? Didn’t I say the crappiest clothes you have?”
    He walks straight up to me. Normally he’s a whole head taller than me, but with him in the gutter and me still on the curb, my eyes are level with his chin.
    “Hi to you, too.”
    I haven’t seen him for a week. He was traveling for some sort of business stuff with his dad. For a minute I think he’s going to hug me and my breath catches, but then he looks down at his outfit. “These are the crappiest clothes I have.”
    I give him a shove, satisfying the urge I had to touch him. “You’re full of crap.” But I know he’s serious. “Okay, we’ll have to make a pit stop on the way there.”
    We drive several blocks, and I point to the Salvation Army parking lot. “First stop, new outfit. Come. Let us reclothe you.”
    We step inside and the musty smell that only exists in the presence of old furniture greets me. It reminds me of Skye because we spend so much time in places like this. “Shoe size?” I ask.
    “Twelve . . . Wait . . . we’re getting shoes here? I don’t know if I can wear shoes other people have worn.”
    “I think you just made a philosophical statement. Now suck it up, baby, because it’s that or ruin your pretty shoes.”
    “I’m okay with ruining my shoes.”
    “Wait. Did I give you a choice? Never mind, you obviously can’t be trusted with choices. We are buying your shoes here.” I drag him to the shoe section. There are only three choices in his size. I pick him out the most hideous ones—high tops with neon laces. Then I put him to work trying on clothes.
    While he’s in the dressing room I look through the sweatshirt section. Flipping through the rack, I stop. In between an awful neon orange sweatshirt and a University blue one is a black dress. It has hand-sewn beading, a sweetheart neckline, and cap sleeves. I check the size. It would fit me. I bite my lip and look at the price tag: forty bucks. That’s expensive for a thrift store. But it’s priced right. The dress looks vintage. The best find I’ve ever come across. The fact that it’s hidden between two sweatshirts makes me know someone else has their eye on it, too, hiding it in hopes to come back later. But forty dollars is way beyond my price point. I still haven’t been paid this month and I’m debating whether I’m going to cash my paycheck anyway. My mom can’t afford to pay me. My piddly paycheck won’t make much of a difference to my mom’s debt, but it would make me feel a little better.
    “I’m trying not to think about who wore these before,” Xander yells from the dressing room.
    “Do you need a tissue or are you going to stop crying? Come out here and let me see.”
    I move the next sweatshirt on the rack to cover the black dress. Even if I had forty bucks, where would I ever