matter if I’m going to school or work or soccer practice or a freaking pediatrician’s appointment with Hope. Have fun. Like having fun is the most important thing you can do. Like you can possibly have fun when you’re such a fucking mess.
• • •
I’m restocking the organic taco shells in the Mexican and Asian foods aisle, trying to block out the Celine Dion song that’s playing over the PA system, when I notice a kid climbing the shelves at the opposite end of the aisle. His feet are two levels off the ground, and he’s gripping onto a shelf above him, trying to raise himself up another level.
“Hey,” I call. “Don’t do that.”
“It’s okay. I do it all the time,” he says, successfully pulling himself up another foot. He lets go with one hand and stretches toward something on the top shelf.
“Wait.” I start to move toward him. “I’ll get whatever you need. Just get down.”
But there’s a determined set to his jaw, and he keeps reaching higher, the tips of his fingers brushing a bag of tortilla chips. I keep walking his way, but I slow down a little. He really wants to do this on his own, you can tell. I’m a few feet away, and he’s almost got a grab on the bag, when his grip on the edge of the shelf above him slips and his Crocs lose their foothold. Suddenly he’s falling backward, nothing but air between the back of his head and the hard tile floor. I move faster than I would have thought possible, given how tired I am. I shoot my arms under his armpits and catch the boy just before he hits the ground.
The kid rights himself, plants his feet safely on the floor, and looks at me. My heart is beating way too fast, but I tell it to chill the fuck out. The kid is fine. Crisis averted.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
“No problem.”
He ducks his head and starts to walk away.
“Hey,” I call after him.
He stops.
I grab a bag of chips off the top shelf—funny how easy it is for me to reach; sometimes I still feel like that little kid who the world is too big for—and hand it to him.
He takes it, no thank you this time, and disappears around the corner.
I’m dragging my feet back to the taco shells, back to the monotony, when there’s a voice behind me.
“Why, Ryden Brooks, as I live and breathe.”
My spine stiffens. Apparently today is Weird Shit Happening at Whole Foods Day. I haven’t heard that voice since before I left school in February. I turn and find myself face-to-face with Shoshanna Harvey. Her soft, southern belle accent comes complete with a delicate hand to the chest and a batting of long, thick lashes. I fell for that whole act once. Before I found out about a little thing called real life.
I saw Shoshanna in the store about a month ago but ducked down a different aisle before she saw me. This time, I’m not so lucky. “You do know we live in New Hampshire, not Mississippi, right?”
Shoshanna purses her lips and studies me. Her ponytail swings softly behind her, like a metronome on a really slow setting. “How are things, Ryden?”
“Things are great, Shoshanna. Really, just super.”
“Really?” Her eyes are bright. Clearly, she’s never heard of sarcasm. “That’s so great to hear. We’ve been worried about you, you know.”
“We? Who’s we?” You never know with Shoshanna—she could be talking about her family or she could be talking about the whole damn school.
Just then, another familiar voice carries down the aisle. “Hey, Sho, how do you know when a cantaloupe is ripe?” It’s Dave. His hands are placed dramatically on his hips and he’s got three melons under his shirt—two representing boobs and one that I’m pretty sure is supposed to be a pregnant woman’s belly. A flash of rage burns through me, but I smother it deep inside me to the place where all my unwelcome emotions reside. It’s getting pretty crowded in there.
“Dave,” Shoshanna loud-whispers, her eyes doing that as-wide-as-possible thing that people do when they’re trying to get some message across to someone without saying the actual words.
He follows Shoshanna’s nod toward me and drops the doofy grin. “Oh. Hey, Ryden.” He relaxes his stance, and the cantaloupes fall to the floor, busting open. Orangey-pink cantaloupe juice oozes from the cracks. Great. Now I’m gonna have to clean that up.