Better Than the Best Plan Page 7

  “I don’t need—” I start to say, because I have plenty of oversized free T-shirts from school events to serve as cover-ups, but Kris cuts me off.

  “Sorry about her. She’s really enthusiastic. I’ve known her since we were little, and she’s always been really, well, familiar with people.” Kris takes the stack of bathing suits Heather brought and turns to put them on the return rack outside the dressing room. “Let’s just say this is the perfect job for her.” She rolls her eyes, but I can’t ignore the affection for her friend. “So, do you like it?”

  I finger the price tag. “It’s kind of expensive.”

  Kris reaches out and flips over the tag dangling below my armpit. “It’s on sale. Forty percent off.”

  “Yeah, but forty percent off a lot is still a lot.”

  “True,” Kris says. “But it’s a really well-made suit. That’ll last you years if you take care of it. Makes the cost per wear a lot lower.”

  I chew my lip, doing a little math in my head. Ninety-nine dollars is probably more than I’ve spent collectively on every swimsuit I’ve worn in my entire life, but Kris is right. And she’s offering. Still, I don’t know what accepting that will come along with. Helena is a different world for me. I have no idea what kind of strings people here could attach to something like this.

  Kris must read my hesitation all over my face. She steps into the dressing room with me and pulls the curtain shut.

  “Maritza, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I’m happy to take you somewhere else to shop if you want. But I want to get that suit for you, if you want it.”

  I steal one last glance at myself in the mirror, realizing that I do want it. The thought of putting it back stokes a little fire of what feels like desperation. Suddenly I want it bad.

  “Okay,” I say. There’s a fizzy feeling in my stomach as I accept, equal parts excitement and nerves. I’m trying not to do the math on all the things that ninety-nine dollars could buy, but I remind myself that it’s not my ninety-nine dollars to spend. It’s hers. And it seems to make her really happy, which is nice. “But please don’t make me wear that.” I point at Heather, approaching fast and armed with a gauzy, fringed thing that looks like a grandmother’s whisper.

  Kris glances over her shoulder, then back at me with a grimace. “Deal.”

  * * *

  It takes several minutes of convincing before Heather gives up trying to dress me like Vacation Barbie, but eventually we leave the store with my new bathing suit, a pair of big black vintage-style sunglasses that I only agreed to because they were ten dollars, and a dress for tonight’s “event,” as Kris keeps calling it. The dress is black lace and sleeveless, with a V-neck and a flared skirt to the knee. Kris assured me I would get a ton of use out of it, and it was one of the cheapest options in the store (which wasn’t saying much). And I have to admit, it does look pretty great on me. Both Heather and Kris tried to wrestle me into a pair of shoes, but after discovering that Kris and I are both a 7.5, Kris agreed to let me borrow from her instead. Even after minimizing the damage as much as possible, the total still came close to a month’s rent.

  Back out on the sidewalk, our purchases wrapped in butter-yellow tissue paper and placed carefully in individual lavender shopping bags, Kris cocks her head at a store a few doors down.

  “I have to stop in to Reuger’s before we head out,” she says. “I have a prescription to pick up that wasn’t ready earlier.”

  I follow her to a sort of general store with wide windows. Inside is a long, silver café counter along one wall. An older couple in tennis whites sits on red vinyl stools sipping cups of coffee and trading sections of a newspaper. There’s a wall of clear containers filled with candy, silver scoops sticking out of a bucket of paper bags. I can’t tell if they’re decorative or if the candy is actually for sale. These are not problems you have when shopping at the Dollar Tree.

  “If you need anything, toiletries or whatever, just grab them and meet me back at the pharmacy counter, okay?”

  I make my way toward the aisles in the back of the store, scanning the signs until I find hair care. I pick out a new brush from the shelves, a wide wooden paddle with bristles on it that doesn’t look like a fancy brush, but which must come with some superpowers if the price is to be believed. Still, it’s the cheapest one they carry that won’t immediately break off in my thick hair. I also grab a package of hair ties, the big black ones that I can wear on my wrist for the inevitable hair emergency that happens when your hair is long and thick and you live someplace with a constant ocean breeze and 100 percent humidity. These, at least, are a price I recognize. Still, I could kick myself for leaving my old brush behind at the apartment.

  “Mom! They have Merlin! On a towel! Can I get it? Please?”

  I look up to see a kid barreling down the aisle toward me, a towel wrapped around his shoulders and trailing behind him like a cape. I step out of his path just in time to keep from being little-kid roadkill, my hip knocking into a shelf of shampoo bottles. I reach out to grab one, but I miss, and they all cascade to the floor as the image of a brightly colored cartoon dragon flutters past.

  “Ryan, slow down, buddy,” a voice calls. It’s low and slightly gravelly, and there’s the tiniest hint of a southern drawl in the way he says “Ryan.” It comes out as almost a single syllable. Suddenly there’s a shadow over me as the owner of the voice bends down to retrieve the white bottles from the floor. “Sorry about that. He loves that damn dragon. I swear, if it was printed on a bottle of milk of magnesia, he’d want it.”

  “Sounds like Disney’s really missing out on a key marketing opportunity.” I glance up as I place the last bottle on the shelf before standing up to my full height. Which is a head shorter than this dude. He’s instantly familiar in that nagging way that you worry you’ll never place, but it hits me after only half a second. The curly blond hair isn’t weighed down with sweat, the cheeks aren’t red. And there are no tears. The tennis guy.

  Before I can say anything, or wonder if he saw me last night, too, the little boy and his towel reappear. This time it’s clutched in one hand, the tail of it trailing behind him on the tile floor.

  “Mom said if I want it, I have to buy it with my own money,” he says, a distinct pout appearing on his lower lip. He has the same sandy, shaggy hair as his brother, only with less-contained cowlicks, and a metric ton of freckles across his face. He slings the towel back over his shoulder, and that’s when I notice that his right arm, the one not clutching a towel, is only half as long. There’s the crook of his elbow and what looks like a fist, and then nothing. I quickly avert my eyes to avoid staring, looking first at the shampoo bottles, then up to his big brother, who is grinning down at his little brother.

  “Okay, that sounds fair.”

  “But I don’t have money.”

  “Ah, and there’s the rub,” he replies with an exaggerated Shakespearean inflection.

  The little boy cocks his head, his freckled nose wrinkling in confusion. “The what?”

  His older brother laughs. “I’ll tell you what. You apologize to this poor girl who you nearly flattened, and I’ll spot you.” He reaches into his back pocket for a wallet as he turns to me. “And your name is?”

  I’d been so busy observing them like a little stage play that I’m almost shocked at the moment the fourth wall breaks and I’m brought in. “My name?”

  “Yeah. If Ryan is going to give you a proper apology, he should know your name.” There’s that charming smile again, and I swear I see him wink at me. Dude is smooth, and I’m not sure I’m a fan. If I were in Jacksonville, I’d simply turn my back and walk away. But this place feels too small for that. There are definitely different rules here, and I need to start learning them. Fast.

  “It’s Maritza,” I say.

  “Maritza,” he says, the slight southern lilt putting a long, syrupy emphasis on the middle, an effect that must usually work really well for him. “Nice to meet you, Maritza. I’m Spenc
er, and this is Ryan, who is now going to apologize to you.”

  The little boy shuffles his feet, then peers up at me from underneath the longest, blondest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. “I’m sorry I almost ranned you over, Maritza.”

  “Ran,” Spencer corrects.

  “Right. Ran. I’m sorry I almost ran you over.” Then he holds out his hand to his brother. “Can I borrow the money now?”

  Spencer slaps the cash into Ryan’s hand like a slick high five, a grin on his face. “It’s only considered borrowing if you plan to pay it back,” he says, but the little boy is already streaking up the aisle toward the register, all warnings of slowing down gone from his mind.

  While Spencer puts his wallet back into his pocket, I take a moment to study him. He isn’t acting like a guy who’d spent the previous evening crying on a tennis court. And he certainly doesn’t look like the guy who has something to be crying about. From his expensive shoes to his perfect orthodontia smile, it seems like life is going just fine for him.

  When he looks up at me, a grin breaks across his face, but then Kris appears at the end of the aisle carrying a small paper pharmacy bag. She looks lost in her own head as she kneads at the paper in her grasp. It’s not until she spots us that she puts on a smile, like she’s flicking a switch.

  “Oh, Spencer! Is your mother here?” Kris asks.

  “I think she’s getting coffee at the counter.”

  “I see you’ve met Maritza.” Kris turns to me. “Spencer lives in the house behind ours. His mother is a good friend. Speaking of, I’m going to find her. We need to talk about the Fall Festival committee.”

  I notice she doesn’t give Spencer any information on who I am in her life. She’s leaving my explanation in my own hands, and I appreciate it. I doubt this guy has ever met a foster kid before, and I don’t want whatever stereotypes his mind would conjure up applied to me.

  “I’m staying with Kris for a while” is what I go with, and Spencer accepts it without question. I wonder if he’s curious, or if it’s just his good southern manners that keep him from asking more questions. Or if, his mother being such good friends with Kris, he already knows. I could have been a discussion over the breakfast table this morning. That poor girl. A foster kid. Showed up in the middle of the night. Accompanied by the low “oooohhh” of Heather’s reaction in the store. I wonder if his mother had to explain to Ryan what a foster kid even was. People with their own tennis court probably don’t have a whole lot of interaction with the foster care system.

  “Cool,” Spencer says, and I can’t find anything in his tone or his expression that says he knows anything about my situation. “Kris is awesome. She makes the best chocolate chip cookies. Seriously, there’s some witchcraft and wizardry involved in those things.”

  “Spencer, we’re going. You coming?” says a tall blond woman in workout gear with her hair braided down her shoulder. She’s standing at the end of the aisle with Kris. She shares Spencer’s blue eyes and the perfect ski slope of a nose. Ryan appears next to her, a bag containing his dragon towel dragging at his side.

  “Yup,” Spencer replies. He reaches down, picks up the last bottle of shampoo that I missed, and passes it to me. He gives me a half smile paired with a full twinkle in his eye. “See you around.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, cradling the shampoo in my arms like an idiot. Ugh, this guy is entirely too much.

  Kris pays for my hairbrush and hair ties, and I add the brown paper bag to my collection. This is probably the most shopping I’ve ever done in one day, and I feel buoyed by the purchases, each one a new opportunity, a fresh start. I never really understood people who acted like shopping was some kind of recreational activity, but I think now I get it. I’m starting to understand why people call it “retail therapy.” Of course, that feeling is followed closely by one that I think might be what those same people call “buyer’s remorse,” because the guilt of all this new stuff that I didn’t pay for also makes my bags feel way too heavy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kris disappears into her office to finish some last-minute event prep, so I grab one of the paperbacks from my suitcase and head down to the water. I manage to kill the entire book and four hours with my toes buried in the sand.

  Back up at the house, I find Kris with an armful of shoes for me to try and an offer to help me with my makeup. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and when I finally slip into my new dress, I’m surprised to find myself actually excited for tonight’s festivities. Sure, my mom would probably disown me if she knew I was looking forward to spending the evening at a country club, but she already abandoned me, so she doesn’t get a vote.

  When Kris and I head downstairs—she’s in a bright pink shift with a halter neckline and some delicate folds along the bodice that make it look as expensive as I suspect it was—we find Pete waiting at the bottom of the stairs in a tuxedo. He gives Kris a wide smile and a kiss on the cheek, then turns his attention to me, nervously adjusting his glasses on his face. I feel for him, because he clearly has no idea how to talk to me. We get into the car and drive in silence for a while, then turn off the main road onto a drive that winds between dunes dotted with seagrass. I adjust the straps on my dress and give my bra a good hike so I won’t have to do it in front of people. I climb out and get a look at the Island Club for the first time. It isn’t as grand as I imagined when Kris first mentioned where the event was being held. I pictured a lush country club, something sort of Gone with the Wind–like with verandas and balconies, a gently rolling golf course with endless greens and artfully arranged landscaping dotted with bright, colorful flowers.

  Instead, it’s a low beige stucco building with a terra-cotta roof. What it lacks in height, it more than makes up for in square footage, running in either direction on the shoreline for what looks like a few blocks. The front doors are wide and squat and look heavy like a castle entrance, and I wonder if I’ll be able to open them without grunting. I don’t get to test that, though, because as we approach, a uniformed attendant steps out from behind a potted palm and pulls the door open for us.

  I follow Kris through the entryway, our shoes clicking on the tile floor. I keep catching glimpses of my reflection in decorative mirrors that dot the walls we pass. Kris glides down the hall effortlessly despite her impossibly high heels, her hand resting gently on Pete’s arm. I tromp unevenly behind her, my black dress swishing around my legs, accentuating my awkward gait. I don’t even have the high heel excuse. Kris had presented me a few choices to go with my dress, and I opted for a pair of simple ballet flats, figuring tonight isn’t the night to learn to walk on stilts. I’ll be out of place enough without also falling into a chocolate fountain or something.

  It isn’t until we emerge from the building and onto the back deck that the Island Club begins living up to my imagined hype. It’s immediately clear that whoever designed the place knew instinctively that no one would care about the interior building, because laid out before me is a wide view of the blue ocean at sunset, the sky dappled pink and orange and purple.

  “Gorgeous, right? We always plan these events for sunset,” Kris says. “Nothing gets people happy and ready to write big checks like a glimpse of that.”

  “Well, the sunset and an open bar,” Pete adds with a wink.

  “Kris! I’m so glad you’re here!” A woman in a skintight coral cocktail dress comes running up to us. Or more accurately, she scurries, since I’m pretty sure between her sky-high heels and the way her dress binds her thighs together, running is not a possibility. When she’s finally in front of us, I notice her blond hair is slightly fried and her kohl-lined eyes are starting to go wild. “One of the bartenders called in sick, so we need to do some staff restructuring; otherwise, there’s going to be a huge line at the bar.”

  She’s breathless, and her tone escalates with each word. You’d think she was describing the approaching apocalypse, but I guess if Pete is right, any kind of roadblock at the bar might decrease the size of the checks. Still
, it’s hard to take her seriously as she frets about a missing bartender with the same level of distress one might apply to a fast-approaching hurricane, but Kris is either really good at faking it or is also appropriately horrified. She turns to me.

  “Do you mind if I—” she asks, but Pete cuts her off.

  “We’ll be fine. Go. Problem solve,” he says, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek.

  Kris and the coral woman hurry off, leaving us standing on the landing looking out over the entirety of the party. There’s a small, wide staircase leading down to a large stone landing, with tall cocktail tables covered in pristine white cloths where well-dressed people congregate and rest drinks and small plates of appetizers. Another flight past that leads to another patio, this one with a small jazz band set up and a mostly empty dance floor. Beyond that, down a third flight of stairs, is the largest space, a stone patio surrounded by tiny white fairy lights. There’s the warm red glow of a heat lamp where a man in white is carving some giant hunk of meat, a long buffet stretched out in gleaming silver beyond him. Waiters in white and black carry silver trays with tiny bites of food, gliding silently among the crowd as people pluck them from the trays.

  “So, shall we get something to drink? The bartender will put as many cherries in your Coke as you want,” Pete says. He’s got a smile on his face, but I notice he keeps digging his hands into his pockets, then pulling them out again.

  “Can’t beat that,” I reply, though my stomach is jumping a little too much to add carbonation to the picture.

  “Shit. Incoming,” he mutters, and before I can ask what exactly is incoming, I hear a deep, gravelly voice roar, “Peter!”

  A very large man with a salt-and-pepper beard is barreling through the crowd toward us like he’s being pulled by a homing device. His white shirt strains over his ample belly, his bow tie slightly askew.