If I’d Known Page 3

  Tori laughs. "Told you it's funny."

  I groan. "People are stupid."

  "Stupid people have made us legends in this school. Haven't you noticed how everyone acts when we walk by?" Recognizing the unamused look on my face, she adds, "It's not like I care. But again, it makes me laugh."

  Just for a second, I look around and watch them follow us with their eyes, whispering. I notice the sidesteps to clear the way. It's not funny; it's sad.

  I stop in front of an open door. "You're staying 'til the end of school, right?"

  Tori sighs dramatically. "I guess. If I skip technology again, I'll get detention, and there's no way I'm staying in this building longer than I have to. I'll find you after."

  I walk into French class and take my usual seat at the back of the room.

  "Want to be my partner again today?"

  I glance over at Lincoln, opening my notebook. "Sure."

  Lincoln's one of the few people I can stand. He doesn't ask dumb questions and focuses on the classwork. He's smart, and he cares about his grades.

  There are a select group of students who are actually trying to get out of this town. They're the ones who give this building some semblance of a high school, organizing their after-school clubs, participating in sports and driven to make the Honor Roll.

  I don't participate in anything, despite Mr. Garner's persistent efforts. Hell, I barely participate in class. The only reason I even know we have sports teams is because I see the players wearing their jerseys on game days. And I know I can skip out early on the days we have pep rallies.

  Lincoln's ambitious. I've seen him wear a couple of different game jerseys. I think one is basketball. Or it should be since he's so fricken tall. He always has his assignments done for class. He's even helped me finish mine when I've gotten stuck. And I'm pretty sure he's our class president or vice president or something like that. I have no idea what that means exactly, but there were posters up at the beginning of the school year, asking us to vote for people, and I remember seeing his name. I'm not sure if he won, but I hope he did. He's a nice guy.

  Halfway through our conjugation assignment, Lincoln leans forward and whispers, "Do you think I have a chance with Tori?"

  "What do you mean?" I ask. That question could easily mean so many things. I'm surprised. I would never have guessed she was his type, because he's definitely not hers.

  "There's this party tonight in Oaklawn. I was hoping she'd go with me."

  "We have plans," I tell him.

  "Oh." He lowers his eyes, uncomfortable.

  I sigh, recognizing that I sounded like a bitch. "Ask her. I don't actually know what we're doing. If she says yes, then we'll be there."

  Lincoln's eyes light up. "Good. A friend of mine was talking about going too."

  "Don't set me up."

  "Right. No. I'm not," he fumbles. "I was just saying ... we can all ... hang out."

  "Sure." I shrug. "Ask Tori first. I'll do whatever she wants."

  I walk into Chemistry. I hate this class. Not only because trying to reconfigure molecules makes me want to scorch my brain with a Bunsen burner, but because it's the last class before freedom. It's the worst kind of torture, which means it feels like the longest class of the day. And, to make today even worse, the persistent douche takes a seat on the stool next to mine.

  "Why are you sitting here?" I look around and find Paola two tables back, sitting next to a guy wearing a backward baseball cap.

  She shrugs her shoulders in apologetic confusion.

  "Thought we could be partners today," he says, leaning in and running a finger along my arm. "You know we're good together."

  I scoff. "Excuse me?"

  "C'mon, baby," he purrs, a pathetic attempt at sounding sexy. "Your hot little body up against mine--now that's chemistry."

  I close my eyes and bite my lip, trying so hard not to laugh. But I can't stop it from bubbling up and bursting out of my mouth.

  "What?" he asks, grinning without really knowing why.

  "Go away," I tell him.

  He appears confused. "What did you say?"

  "Get off the stool. Go back to your table. And leave me alone." I glare at him, all humor gone. "I'm serious. Get the fuck away from me."

  His eyes tighten like he can't believe I just said that to him. "So you're going to be like that, huh?" He smirks like he knows something I don't. "See ya."

  Wearing a cocky grin, he stands from the stool and struts back to his table. Paola sits down next to me just as Mr. Tilman walks in the door, flushed and disheveled. Guess he took a long lunch.

  "What do you think about checking out a party in Oaklawn? At least until Nina gets out of work," Tori asks me as I shove books into my messenger bag.

  I stop what I'm doing and stare at her in shock. "Lincoln asked you? And you said yes?"

  "You knew?"

  "He asked if I thought you'd go. But I didn't think you'd say yes." I really didn't.

  Tori tends to go for the older, bad-boy types. And there are definitely plenty of those in Sherling. Lincoln doesn't really fit into that mold. He honestly doesn't fit in here at all now that I think about it.

  "He's sweet. And hot." She offers this like it explains everything.

  "You don't do sweet," I remind her.

  Tori laughs. "I know. That's what's going to make this so fun."

  "Oh no. Are you going to destroy this poor guy?" I ask, suddenly worried for him.

  I don't know much about Lincoln, but he doesn't deserve to be one of Tori's clawing posts.

  "I'm not like that."

  I give her a knowing look.

  "All the time," she finishes, trying to look innocent. I laugh just as she informs me, "You're going too."

  "He's not interested in me."

  "He said something about a friend."

  "Don't even," I warn her.

  She knows how I feel about being forced to be with a guy because my friend is hooking up with his friend. I'm the worst wing-girl.

  "I know. I know. But you'll do this for me, right?" she pleads, batting her thick lashes.

  "I guess," I reply reluctantly.

  She reveals a wicked smile. "We haven't been to a high school party in a couple years. And never in Oaklawn. No matter what happens, this is going to be a night we'll never forget."

  I can't argue with that.

  "How are we getting there?" I ask. "Let's not go with Lincoln and his friend. I don't want to be stuck with them if you lose interest or if they want to stay and we don't."

  "I'll figure something out. Tony might be able to drive us."

  "I doubt your brother will want to drive us all the way to Oaklawn."

  "He will if you flirt with him." Tori grins suggestively.

  "You're awful," I say with a laugh.

  It's obvious her brother has a thing for me. I've thought about it. But he's Tori's brother, and when it ends--because it will end--I don't want it to be awkward every time I go over to their house. So we just flirt because flirting's innocent--mostly.

  "What time are you coming over?"

  "I'm not sure. But I shouldn't be long. I just have to pick up a change of clothes and check on my mom. I'll text you when I leave my house."

  "Oh shit. I don't have Lincoln's number to let him know. I'm going to go find him. Meet me outside?"

  "Sure," I reply, closing my locker.

  "And maybe I'll find out more about his friend."

  "Please don't," I beg.

  Tori just smiles before walking away.

  I lean against the massive stone banister along the front steps of the school, searching for Tori, as everyone floods out through the doors in a mad rush. A red Jeep Wrangler parked along the curb catches my attention--or I should say, the guy leaning against it, who keeps staring at me, does. He looks just like--

  "So he does exist," Tori says from beside me.

  We watch Lincoln approach the Jeep, and the two guys greet each other with a hand clasp and a pound-
on-the-back guy embrace.

  "Shit. He's Lincoln's friend? Are all the Harrison boys that perfect?" When I don't respond, she says, "Lana? You know who that is, right?"

  She knows I do, even if he's only ever been talked about like some sort of mystical being.

  "This is definitely going to be an unforgettable night."

  "Yes, it is," I reply, unable to look away.

  Like he knows we're talking about him, he looks up at us, wearing an enchanting smile. I can't force myself to look away, even though I know I should. I continue to watch as he and Lincoln get into his Jeep. I find myself smiling at him when he looks back over his shoulder one more time before driving away.

  Chapter Three

  "If I can tell you one thing," my aunt Helen says, one of the few times she decides to talk to me, "it's don't think that anyone's ever going to give you anything in this life. If you want it, you have to fight for it, even if that means drawing blood."

  "Mom?" I call out as I shut the door and drop my messenger bag to the floor.

  There's only silence in return.

  "Mom?" I say softly, peeking into her room. I'm struck by the potent fragrance of the incense. My eyes water in protest as it burns my nostrils. There's no getting used to that smell.

  I quietly enter her room when she still doesn't respond. I find her curled up on her side under the blankets, asleep. Her face is drained of color, except for the ruddy patches on her cheeks. Without touching her, I know she still has a fever. Placing my hand on her forehead only confirms it. She doesn't stir with my touch, which concerns me more.

  "Mom?" I say gently, but she doesn't move.

  I pick up the water glass and carry it into the kitchen, filling it with cold water from a pitcher in the fridge. Before I bring it back to her room, I glance at her work schedule posted on the side.

  Tori's going to kill me.

  "I have to work tonight." I close my eyes, braced for her reaction.

  "What the fuck?" She doesn't filter the anger in her voice. "You're covering for her, aren't you?"

  I ignore the spite in her tone. I don't know what Tori's issue is with my mother, but this isn't the time to get into it.

  "I get off at ten. What time did you tell Lincoln we'd meet him?"

  "I didn't. Lana, this is bullshit, and you know it."

  "She's sick, Tori. There's nothing I can do about it. You know that."

  And she does, which is why she doesn't tell me to get someone else to cover for her. We can't afford to miss a shift.

  "I'm picking your ass up right at ten o'clock. Be ready."

  "I'll need to shower before we go out."

  There's silence.

  "Tori, I can't smell like the diner. It's disgusting."

  After another dramatic moment of silence, she finally says, "Fine. I'll ask Tony to pick you up. But we have to leave my house by ten thirty. Tony's going out, and he's our ride to the party."

  "I'll be so quick, I promise," I assure her. It's not like she's giving me any other choice. "I've gotta go. But I'll see you tonight."

  I sort through the bag of clean clothes, pulling out my hideous hunter-green polyester uniform. I swear the dress was made out of a leisure suit. It might even be flame retardant. The only good thing about it is that grease, ketchup and beer wash right out of it, and it never needs to be ironed.

  Unlike my favorite jeans that got ruined last weekend when Nina threw up on me. If she'd eaten, she might've been able to hold down whatever that bright pink drink was. So gross. Now they will have to become my favorite cutoffs. But I don't have time to mess with cutting them right now.

  I opt to pack a pair of fitted white lace-trimmed shorts, a low-cut bright sea-blue halter top and wedge sandals that wrap around my ankles. I drape my cropped black leather jacket over the tote and proceed to dress in the hideousness that is my uniform.

  Luckily, my mother has the dinner shift, so I don't have to deal with the totally obnoxious drunks. Stella's technically a diner. But, really, it's a bar ... that serves horrible food. The people who frequent Stella's aren't here for the menu. They're here for the cheap beer and strong well drinks. They'll eat anything to sop up the puddle of liquor in their stomachs. The greasier, the better.

  I have no idea who Stella is. Margo owns the place. Jim runs it. No one ever mentions Stella or why the place is named after her. All that's left of her is a black-and-white photo of a blonde sitting on the back of an old convertible, blowing a kiss at the camera with Stella scrawled in smeared blue ink on the white border. She's surrounded by pictures of motorcycles and muscle cars along with a framed dollar bill. Whoever she was, the sentiment is now lost in the chaos.

  I've been working here since before it was legal for me to have a job. I started two years ago when my mother was sick for a week and we couldn't afford the lost wages. It's not like this place offers sick days or vacation. One day, I came in and clocked in under her name. No one cared as long as I could balance plates and not spill beers.

  "Lana, hook us up with a pitcher?"

  I take a moment to actually look at the acne-faced guy who thinks he knows me. I sure as hell don't know him, although I have a feeling we go to the same high school.

  "Why should I?" I ask him. "What do you got that I want? And think before you answer that because I definitely don't want you." I eye his scrawny frame critically.

  The acne victim's mouth drops as his friends start laughing.

  "Uh, how about this?" He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small sealed plastic bag filled with pills of various colors, another smaller bag of white powder and a joint.

  "What are you doing, man?" the guy across from him questions sternly.

  With a quick warning glance, he continues, "We call it 'party in a bag.'" He smiles like he's clever.

  I don't change my bored expression, although I like the sound of it.

  I take the bag from his hand before he can react and slip it into my apron pocket. I turn and walk away without a word, returning with a pitcher of beer and a stack of glasses.

  I drop their check.

  "You charged us for the pitcher?" he asks incredulously. "I thought--"

  "Don't," I threaten. "If this is any good, I can hook you up with partiers."

  He shuts his mouth, knowing I could easily triple his business just by dropping a few words to the right people.

  "Hey, sweetness, can we get another round?" a guy calls, his face hidden behind a shrubbery of facial hair.

  He raises his hand to swat my ass. I can feel the gesture before I see it. Since I started working here, I've adapted a sixth sense for sexual advances. And these scumbags have tried just about everything.

  "Touch my ass, and I'll make sure there's shards of glass in your beer," I warn him.

  His hand lowers under the table.

  I drop their ticket. "If you're just staying for drinks, you can walk the three feet to the bar to get them yourselves."

  "Lana, can you take that table of guys who just sat down?" Marisa asks as I walk by her, dumping plates on the metal counter for the dishwasher.

  "That's not my table," I tell her, not about to be nice at nine forty-five. "I'm off soon anyway. Sorry."

  I don't stick around to hear her complain. I pick up the plates waiting for me on the raised stainless counter, hiding the shit show that is the kitchen. If people saw what happened back there, they'd never eat here again. I shuffle around the bodies hanging out at the counter ... or bar. Whatever it is, it's the worst setup ever.

  I drop the plates on the table, not caring if the correct order is in front of the right person. They're my last table. I need them to eat and settle up, so I can get the hell out of here. Tony should be here soon, and I know Tori won't let me hear the end of it if we don't leave her house by ten thirty.

  "Anything else?" I ask, leaving the check without waiting for an answer. "If you need another drink, you can get it at the bar."

  Technically, I'm not supposed to serve alcohol. I'
m only fifteen. But Jim and Margo ignore the law. And the police are too preoccupied with what happens in the parking lot to notice what happens inside this metal Twinkie.

  It's a job. I can't afford not to be here. And, believe me, I constantly remind myself of this too.

  I clear my other tables and make sure they've all paid before returning to the table I just fed. "Ready to pay?" I ask.

  They're interfering with my night. If they don't like the not-so-friendly service, they came to the wrong place. Besides, I'm not counting on the crappy tip they never planned to leave me.

  A guy with tattoos covering his thick arms pulls out two twenties and drops them on top of the bill without looking at it.

  "Need change?"

  He shakes his head. I try to hide the surprise that flashes across my face with a blink. Maybe he can't count. I'm not about to offer a math lesson. I hand the cash to Margo at the register and wait for the change. All she does is handle the money. She doesn't trust anyone. Not even Georgia or Mal, who've worked the bar since before I was born. No one touches the cash other than Margo, who remains perched on her wooden stool, watching everyone with her beady blue eyes.

  She reminds me of a bird, frail and thin, with wrinkled skin hanging off her, scowling at everyone like she's tempted to peck their eyes out. She sees everything. I try not to talk to her. I try not to even look at her if I can help it. She creeps me out.

  I duck into the back, past the counter where plates of food are waiting to be picked up. "Jim, I'm clocking out."

  "No you're not," he bellows. "You have five minutes left in your shift. Go check the bathrooms."

  I stop, wishing I had kept my mouth shut and just clocked out. He would never have known.

  As soon as I push open the red metal door, I'm forced to cover my mouth and nose. The stench is overwhelming. One of the toilets isn't working. Jim knew and didn't want to deal with it himself. Bastard. Well, I'm definitely not going to unclog it. Women are disgusting. I'm convinced we're grosser than men--throwing who knows what into the toilets, pissing all over the seats, littering the floor with shreds of toilet paper that are destined to stick to the bottom of someone's shoe. There's no way I can get away with leaving it like this. I'll get reamed the next time I work.

  I pull on latex gloves and pick up the fragments of paper towels and toilet paper scattered on the floor, shoving them into the overflowing trash. I wipe down the chipped porcelain sinks and step down on the trash to compact it.