The Distance Between Us

“My mom likes dolls the best. She got tired of stocking stuffed mice.” Plus we could no longer afford the extras. Something had to go and it wasn’t going to be the dolls. And since we are in a perpetual state of broke (as in barely enough money to stay afloat), the name of the store and business cards stayed the same.
    He jams a finger at the card. “Susan? That’s your mom?”
    And that’s all it says, too, her first name followed by the shop’s phone number, like she’s some stripper or something. I cringe when she hands out a business card outside of the store. “Yes, sir.”
    “And you are?” He meets my eyes.
    “Her daughter.” I know he’s asking for my name, but I don’t want to give it. The first thing I learned about the rich is that they find the common folk an amusing distraction but would never, ever want anything real. And that’s fine with me. The rich are another type of species that I observe only from a safe distance. I don’t interact with them.
    He replaces the card and takes a few steps backward. “Do you know where Eddie’s Bakery is?”
    “It’s two blocks that way. Be careful. Their blueberry muffins are laced with some sort of addictive substance.”
    He nods. “Noted.”

Chapter 2

    “ N o, we don’t carry Barbie dolls, only porcelain dolls,” I say into the phone for the fifth time. The woman isn’t listening. She’s going off about how her daughter will die if she can’t find the faerie queen. “I understand. Maybe you should try Walmart.”
    “I did. They’re out.” She mumbles something about how she thought we were a doll store and hangs up.
    I set the phone down and roll my eyes at Skye, who doesn’t notice because she’s lying on the floor holding her necklace in the air, watching it sway back and forth over her.
    Skye Lockwood is my one and only friend. Not because the kids at my high school are mean or anything. They just forget I exist. When I leave before lunch and never attend their social gatherings it’s not hard to do.
    Skye is a few years older and works next door at a place that carries lots of “and more.” It’s an antique store called Hidden Treasures that I call Obvious Garbage. But people love that store.
    In the world of science, if Skye were a host, I would be her parasite. She has a life. I pretend it’s mine. In other words, she genuinely likes things—music and eclectic vintage clothing and weird hairstyles—and I pretend those things interest me, too. It’s not that I hate those things; it’s just that I don’t really care for them either. But I like Skye, so why not tag along? Especially because I have no idea what I really do like.
    I step over her with a sigh. “Have you figured out life’s answers yet?” Skye often uses the floor of the shop to have philosophical wanderings (a fancy way of saying “arguments with herself”).
    She moans and throws her arm over her eyes. “What would I even study if I went to college?” If it were up to her, she’d work at the gift store forever, but college is important to her never-went-to-college-so-is-now-a-funeral-director father.
    “Whining?”
    “Ha-ha.” She pushes herself to sitting. “What are you going to study when you go?”
    No idea. “The long-term effects of philosophical wanderings.”
    “How about the art of sarcasm?”
    “I’m pretty sure I’ve already earned the equivalent of a master’s in that one.”
    “No, but seriously, what are you going to study?”
    I hear those words a lot: “No, but seriously” or “In all seriousness” or “But really.” Those are the words of someone who wants a real answer. And I don’t want to give one.
    “I haven’t thought about it much. I guess I’ll be one of those ‘no major’ people for a while.”
    She lies back down. “Yeah, maybe that’s what I’ll do, too. Maybe as we take classes our true path will come to us.” She sits up suddenly with a gasp.
    “What?”
    “We should take classes together! Next year. You and me. That would be awesome!”
    I’ve told her a million times I’m not taking college classes next year. My mother will fight this plan (which is why I haven’t told her), but I’m taking a year or two off so I can help full-time in the store. But Skye looks so happy that I just smile and give a noncommittal nod.
    She starts singing a made-up song. “Me and Caymen takin’ classes together. Finding our true paths . . .” Her voice gets softer and turns into happy humming