Better Than the Best Plan Read online

  But the moment I burrow back into the pillow to try to go back to sleep, I remember where I am. And why. And then there’s no chance of going back to sleep. But I’m not ready to go downstairs to face Kris and Pete and whatever may be waiting for me there yet, so I stall. I snag the laptop Kris left me, a shiny silver Mac, and flip the lid.

  I start by emailing Mr. Reynolds at Roasted to tell him that he’ll need to cover my shifts for the foreseeable future. Only I’m not quite sure what to say about why. After writing and deleting several versions, I settle on “family emergency” and tell him I’ve had to go out of town for a while. I leave it open-ended, because I’m still not sure how long I’ll be here. My mom could show up again tomorrow. I cross my fingers that he’ll say my job will be waiting for me when I get back, but I can’t bring myself to ask for that.

  Then I open SocialSquare and give my feed a scroll. It’s mostly photos of my classmates celebrating the start of summer, either sitting around beach bonfires or toasting with ice-cream cones (and in one ill-advised picture, a giant handle of something brown and probably illegal for people our age to be drinking). I pause on a photo of Ali, who managed to bounce back from our canceled date by joining up with his soccer teammates at Starcadia, one of those arcades that also have go-karts and mini golf. He’s holding a fistful of tickets and grinning while Damien Newbery mimes pouring a soda over his head. I stare at Ali’s wide, easy smile and feel the usual warm, fizzy feeling deep in my chest. But that’s quickly overtaken by a hollowness, because I have no idea when I’m going to be able to see him and finally have that date. I want to text him again so he doesn’t think my rain check last night was an excuse or a blowoff. But if I text him before 8:00 A.M., will that make me seem … I don’t know, as desperate as I actually am?

  Instead, I text Lainey, who I know for a fact will be up and getting ready for her Saturday shift at the library.

  Ritzy: Long story, but I’m staying with this woman for a while.

  I can’t bring myself to type the words foster care. It sounds so tragic, and as weird as this situation is, it could be so much worse.

  Lainey: Tell me you’re not staying with Mrs. Sazonov. You’ll never get the borscht smell out of your hair.

  I laugh and once again realize just how damn good I have it right now.

  Ritzy: I’m on Helena Island. Like I said, long story. Maybe we can get together tomorrow so I can tell it?

  She replies immediately.

  Lainey: This I need to hear. Text me details. I’m free all afternoon.

  I add Ask Kris if Lainey can come visit to my mental to-do list, though with how accommodating she’s been, I can’t imagine it’ll be a problem. I could probably invite the soccer team and a biker gang here, and Kris would offer them tea and smother them in conversation.

  I manage to stall another half hour with a long, hot shower in my own private bathroom, the white-tiled stall stocked with lavender-scented soap and shampoo and fluffy towels that feel more like luxurious blankets. I throw on a pair of cutoff shorts and a T-shirt and wind my wet hair into a heavy knot on top of my head.

  Downstairs, I find Pete in the kitchen digging through the fridge. He’s wearing a pair of those embarrassingly tiny and brightly colored running shorts, and a sweaty T-shirt on top that tells me he’s already been out this morning. Which puts his wake-up at, what, dawn? They weren’t kidding about being early risers.

  “Hey. Sorry, did I wake you?” he asks, emerging from behind the stainless steel door with a carton of eggs and a block of cheese. I try to read his face. Am I intruding on his morning routine?

  “No, it’s fine. Hard to sleep in a new place,” I say, then wish I could swallow the words back, because they sound ungrateful. The bed was ridiculously comfortable, piled high with pillows and covered in sheets that smelled like something herbal.

  “I hear that. I’m always a zombie when I stay in hotels,” he says, as if that’s the same thing. I don’t tell him that I’ve never stayed in a hotel before, but I’ve always imagined it would be the best sleep of your life. “Anyway, sorry if I was making noise. I’m up early, training for a half marathon in a couple weeks. Runner.” He shrugs and gives a sheepish grin when he says it, like he’s confessing to being a smoker or something. “Can I make you eggs?”

  “Sure.”

  “Cheese?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “So not a vegan,” he says. He turns on the heat beneath a pan on the stove, the blue flame lighting up with a deep whoosh.

  “Not a picky eater at all,” I reply. I can’t be, with my mom’s wildly fluctuating nutritional philosophies. We’ve been pescatarian and vegetarian, vegan and freegan, paleo and low-carb, and once we even eliminated nightshades, though I’m still not clear on what a nightshade is. I’ve eaten plants raw that I’m pretty sure wouldn’t taste good even deep-fried and slathered in barbecue sauce.

  Pete cracks eggs into a bowl and whisks them with a fork.

  “Noted. I’m not much of a cook. I make eggs and anything that comes in a box. And I can grill a steak without killing it most of the time. It’s Kristin who’s really good in the kitchen. You’ll see soon. I’m sure she can’t wait to cook for you.” There’s pride in his voice, and maybe a touch of something else, like he’s trying to sell me on her?

  “Are my ears burning?” Kris breezes in through the wide French doors from the backyard. She drops a few canvas bags onto the counter, one of which tips, sending a shiny red apple rolling across the white marble.

  “Speak of the devil and her hobbies,” Pete replies, and just like last night, their practiced dance begins as they move around each other putting away groceries, Kris stopping at the frying pan to salt the eggs, Pete calling “I saw that!” over his shoulder.

  “He never salts them enough,” Kris says to me in a stage whisper from behind her hand. “He claims it’s a health thing, but I think he just forgets.”

  “I heard that.”

  “I’d be concerned about the state of your ears if you didn’t,” she says with a smile, and he pauses for a kiss as he passes by her en route to the pan. They seem like newlyweds, all gushy and mushy, but also like they’ve been together forever. I wonder how long they’ve been married. I spied a wedding photo on a table in the entry hall, but it was hard to place the date. Kris was wearing a flowing, gauzy thing with lace and ribbon, her hair cascading down her shoulders in effortless blond waves. Pete had on a navy suit, the collar on his crisp white shirt open. If I didn’t know them, I’d think they were the models who came with the frame.

  When Pete’s safely ensconced at the stove, poking at the scramble with a spatula, Kris turns her attention to me. “Sleep okay?”

  “Fine. Great!” I reply, and I notice Pete give me a side-eye over his shoulder. But he doesn’t spill my secret.

  “Is there anything I can do to make things better than fine?” She’s so hopeful that I search my brain for a task I can give her. Then I remember my to-do list.

  “Would it be okay if my friend Lainey came by tomorrow?”

  Her eyes brighten. “Of course! Tomorrow’s supposed to be gorgeous, one of the last comfortable days before the heat of the summer kicks in. You guys could go down to the beach.” She glances out the wide window of the kitchen, where beyond the lawn is the beach. She drums her fingers on the counter and bites her lip. “Which brings me to today. We have this … thing tonight.”

  It just hangs there in the air for a moment, this statement that seems loaded with something, but no one wants to touch it. Finally, Pete deposits a plate of steaming cheesy eggs in front of me along with a fork. “C’mon, honey. Can’t we skip that?”

  She shakes her head, a quick, short motion. “Sadly, no, as I am on the board of this particular event, and you agreed to take a shift with the silent auction.”

  Pete groans. “Which means I’m going to have to stand at that table for an hour listening to George go on and on about that boat of his.”

  “There ar
e other people for him to talk to.”

  “Yes, and yet somehow he always finds me. It’s like he put a GPS tracker in my shoe.”

  I watch their verbal ping-pong while I attack my eggs, hungrier than I thought I was. It’s strange to be in a house with so much conversation. Mom is always talking, sure, but it’s usually more talking at me, not to me or with me. Most of our time together involves her treating me to a monologue on whatever her new passion is, be it knitting or basket weaving or essential oils or crystals. There’s always someone who got her “turned on” to whatever the hobby du jour is, and I have to listen to that person’s résumé, which usually takes the form of a “spiritual journey.” I’ve long since learned to tune it out, which makes our apartment, so full of my mother’s chatter, manage to feel very quiet.

  “We’re going,” Kris says to Pete, and then turns to me. “As I was saying, we have this charity event tonight at the country club. It’s cocktail attire, so I was thinking that if you didn’t have anything to wear, maybe I could take you shopping downtown. My friend Heather has this cute boutique, and I know we could find something perfect.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” I say, though as I’m saying the words, I know that the answer is yes, actually, you do. Because I don’t have anything that could even come close to being described as “cocktail attire.” I have exactly one dress, a pale-yellow sundress that I wear anytime I have to dress up for a school thing. I wear it with flip-flops (they’re black, so I figure they can double as dress shoes, right?). “I could just stay here.”

  A look passes between Kris and Pete, one I think they don’t want me to see, but I can’t miss it. It’s loaded, and it reminds me that I’m not just a houseguest. Even though they don’t fit the stereotype of foster parents, as far as they know, I’m just your average foster kid, ready to break into their liquor cabinet and steal whatever’s not nailed down.

  “You should come,” Kris says. I can hear her need to sell me on the event so that I’ll say yes. “There will be a bunch of island kids there your age. It’ll be good to meet people. And honestly, I love shopping for people. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  Ritzy would insist on staying home. I’m seventeen, after all, and until yesterday, I’d been home alone for two weeks.

  But now I live in a place where someone else cooks me eggs to order, and the grocery shopping is done in sustainable canvas bags. I live in a place where people use the phrase cocktail attire. This is where Maritza lives, and so I just smile and thank her and say it sounds like fun.

  Kris claps her hands in delight. “Awesome! Well, finish your eggs, and we can head out.”

  * * *

  By the time we arrive, downtown is buzzing with activity, like a very well-dressed beehive. A line of people are waiting in front of a café, the sidewalk tables already full of diners downing pancakes and eggs. They wear straw hats and ball caps, their eyes hidden behind designer sunglasses as they stare down at their phones. We pass a woman with a fleet of tiny, well-groomed dogs wearing bows and bandannas, and a man on a bike wearing neon spandex and sport glasses like he’s in a Nike commercial. Everyone is clean and put together, as if they were put on the street with the same care as the landscaping.

  I follow Kris across the street, weaving around shoppers and dodging joggers in brightly colored fabric. I don’t even notice what store we are going into until I hear the tinkle of a bell as I follow closely behind Kris. Everything inside is bright white and glossy, and somehow even my sneakers make a click-clacking sound on the marble floor.

  “Morning, Kris!” a voice calls from deep within the glitter and gloss. “I’ll be right out!”

  “Look around, take your time, try stuff on, okay?” Kris is talking to me, but she’s already rifling through a rack of T-shirts. I figure this is encouraging. At least she’s not worried about me shoplifting. “Swimsuits are in the back.” She points toward a wall where I see brightly colored strings and straps on hangers. On the way over, she’d managed to pry out of me that I’m also in need of a swimsuit. My last one finally fell apart in the wash a couple weeks ago, and though I tried my best to brush her off, already feeling awkward about letting her buy me a dress, she insisted. It seemed easier to just say yes, and my goal while here so far has been to make things as easy as possible. Don’t make waves.

  I ease past more racks of flowing garments, things with sequins, the kind that can afford to be decorative instead of utilitarian. I’m pretty sure everything in this store has to be dry-cleaned, a thing with which I have exactly zero experience. I have no idea what dry cleaning even is. It might be witchcraft. Or a very elaborate scam. DRY-CLEAN ONLY is a warning strictly forbidden in my world. A garment might as well say, Buy this, then light a twenty-dollar bill on fire once a month.

  When I arrive at the swimsuits, I flip over the first price tag I see. It’s attached to a green-and-yellow-striped triangle top that I have absolutely no interest in, as the colors would make me look sort of sick, and the flimsy straps don’t look like they’ll hold anything in place. But this is my standard practice anytime I go into a new store. All I need is one price to act as a barometer. I always know right away if a store is going to be for me, and from the number of digits on the tag for this tiny triangle top, I know I won’t find anything here. Not even a 75 percent off closeout sale can make any of this stuff practical, even if someone else is paying. If I had all the money in the world, I wouldn’t buy a $125 bikini. No, scratch that. I flip over the tag attached to the matching bottoms: $125 for a bikini top.

  “With your skin, I’d recommend the warmer colors. That green’s gonna make you look sick.” The voice comes from a shelf of leather bags. I turn and see a short woman with a blond pixie cut wearing the exact kind of expensive, flowing fabric decorating the racks throughout the store.

  This price is gonna make me be sick, I want to say, but instead I duck my head and move to the back corner. I reach for a one-piece suit, black with a pattern of little gold starfish. The straps come up in a halter over a sweetheart neckline, and ruching along the sides comes all the way down to the hip. It looks like the kind of suit someone would wear in 1945, while they were waiting for their beau to get home from war.

  “Now that would look fab on you,” the salesgirl says, and I jump. She saunters up behind me and pulls it off the rack, thrusting it into my hands. I don’t even have a chance to check the price tag. “So many girls come in here without the required curves to really rock that suit. You have to try it on. With that mermaid hair and a bright red lip, you’d look positively pinup.”

  Who wears a red lip to the beach? I want to ask her, but she’s already herding me like a collie toward the dressing area. I look around for Kris, but she’s all the way at the front of the store, and calling for help seems a bit overdramatic. The salesgirl tosses back a heavy black velvet curtain and places the suit on the hook just inside the door. “You’re an eight, right? I’ll bring you some things.”

  Without the prying eyes of the most persistent salesgirl in the world, I venture a glance at the tag. The $165 price is crossed out, and $99 is written over it in a hasty red pen. A bargain, I think, shocked at how quickly it all becomes relative. Not even one day here and I’m starting to experience a new normal.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I threw on a pair of cutoff shorts and an oversized T-shirt, a Goodwill score that’s been washed just enough times to make it perfectly soft, but not so many times that it lacks the structural integrity of a T-shirt. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a shirt like this one sold brand-new in this very store, but for about fifty times the three dollars I paid for it.

  I study myself for a moment, my long brown curls that the salesgirl called “mermaid hair,” and my boobs and hips that she referred to as my “curves.” If she hadn’t said it with such a warm and friendly smile, I’d think maybe she was insulting me. Still, I pull off my T-shirt and start to slip into the suit. I’m just about to tie the halter neck when a
handful of suits come over the top of the curtain.

  “Try these,” comes the salesgirl’s sugary voice. I reach up and take hold of the hangers she’s dangling over. They’re all reds and oranges and a mustard-yellow bikini.

  “Heather, leave her be,” I hear Kris say.

  “She’s with you?”

  “Yes, that’s Maritza. She’s staying with me for … a while.”

  I hear a low “ooooohhhh” and then some whispers. My name must mean something to Heather, which irks me. This salesgirl knows more about my history than I do.

  “Do you have it on yet? Let’s see!”

  “Heather!”

  I choose to remain silent as I tug the straps and adjust my boobs into the cups. When I look in the mirror, I understand what Heather meant about curves. She actually was being complimentary, because this suit looks bomb on me. The ruching around the hips makes it look like I have an hourglass figure, and the sweetheart neckline is really flattering without letting my girls fall all over the place. I tuck my hair behind my left ear and feel the inevitable tug of a smile. I still would never, ever in my life pay this much for a bathing suit, but I understand the allure. The fabric feels solid, not like it will pull and pill from sitting on a pool deck. The straps feel like they’ll hold everything in place with a perfect curve and fit, and I don’t get the sense that the elastic will be snapping anytime soon. So this is what ninety-nine dollars buys you.

  “Everything okay in there?” Kris asks, and without even thinking about it, I push the curtain aside. Kris is standing in the little waiting area with an armful of dresses, and Heather is beside her holding even more. Kris smiles, and Heather’s mouth drops open in a scarlet O.

  “That’s perfect! Don’t even try on the others, that’s the one,” Heather squeals at a pitch that gives me goose bumps. Then she holds up a long finger. “Oh, there’s a cover-up that will look great with that! Lemme grab it.”