Paper Hearts Read online

  Squeee!

  I’m up, the screech of tiles against the feet of metal chairs a familiar alarm. No drool today. I rush out of last period before Mr. Varner can hold me hostage with demands as to why I don’t find his precalculus class very scintillating. Yes, scintillating.

  Work, my haven, has become my hell. Later hours brought more customers, leaving me little time to waste. Peter, my boss, said it was the best thing for his oldest gas station. Since he himself is stretched thin between another store and a nasty separation, he’s got little time for the Gas-N-Go or to bother me.

  He still manages both.

  “Remember, Michelle, efficiency is essential. It’s the key that opens all doors.”

  “I’ll remember that.” I scratch my jaw, then snicker when I recall my latest dream. Then I’m chuckling out loud at inner thoughts that really don’t make sense. Images of psychotic grins pasted on Big Bird, then on Peter Bird, turn the chuckles into spurts of laughter rolling out in loud grunts and choked attempts to shut up.

  He is almost like a bird, head cocked to regard the object of his focus, which is currently me.

  “Question, Michelle?”

  The snort is crammed down my nostrils with a sharp inhale. I shake my head and force a neutral smile, while the giggling inside kicks harder and harder against the back of my teeth.

  “Well, it seems you’ve got everything under control. I’ll see you Friday.”

  An old lady snails her way through the metal door. “Thank you, young man,” she says to a knight in dirty laundry.

  Another woman falls in behind, and he opens the door for her too, slopping sunshine across the floor.

  Shit.

  “Nathaniel, long time no see!” Peter chirps, sauntering toward the guy with more-than-heterosexual enthusiasm, which might explain why he’s separated from his wife.

  There again. That look, that weird smile, that immovable grin. I want it gone.

  “Hi, Peter.” Handshake with the boss. “Hi, Michelle.” A small wave.

  I ignore him, sliding a pack of Camels across to the woman, telling her the price by memory. Nathaniel, I decide, is either a smallish mountain or a huge-ish hill, topping Peter’s six feet by several more feet, molehills, whatever.

  After the woman leaves, I find myself listening to the pair.

  “How did you manage that?” Peter’s head is tilted, the look of birdly concern.

  “They said I broke too many plates.”

  “On purpose?”

  “I’m not, uh, very balanced.”

  “I’m ready.” Granny has arrived with an armful of stuff.

  I offer a quick smile and ring it up.

  “I don’t remember you here.” She studies me with rheumy eyes, unimpressed.

  “I’m new.” I tap away at the keys, catching bits of the conversation through her nasal humming.

  “You rang that up twice.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, trying to remember how to fix it. The register beeps.

  “Now it’s three.” She’s panicked, like I’ll whip out my Glock and demand the amount of whatever I ring up.

  “This hasn’t happened before.” I curse and ease a finger onto another key.

  Beep!

  I look for the manual under the counter, on the floor, and behind the lottery ticket box. I hear a throat clearing, so I go back to button smashing.

  Fingernails tap on the counter. I vaguely wonder if you can tell a person’s age by counting finger wrinkles like you can with tree rings. If so, she’s a good century old.

  “I’ve got places to be. Can you hurry along?”

  “I’m trying.”

  She tsks through piss-yellow teeth, cutting me off with, “Surely you can figure out how to work a cash register.”

  And with that, I change the station on her rumpled ass and tune in to The Peter and Nathaniel Show, clicking keys every now and then to look productive, while she keeps yammering.

  “I’ve tried everywhere, but no one wants to hire. Or hire me, at least,” Nathaniel says.

  “Not here, you haven’t.”

  My neck hairs stiffen.

  “Michelle didn’t tell y—?”

  “Are you listening, you heathen ?” the troll yowls, banging a hand on the counter like a Baptist preacher hammering the pulpit at Christmastime.

  Peter the Robin becomes Raptor Peter. His blue eyes leer from behind perfectly clean glasses. He takes them off and, with a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, wipes the lenses in even, clockwise motions. “Michelle?”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  He turns back to Nathaniel.

  I smack the keys.

  Beep! The price has inflated to $42.24.

  “Young lady—”

  Beep!

  “Michelle—”

  Beep!

  “Damn it,” I scream, slamming my palms on the shit machine.

  The old woman fans herself with her pocketbook, shaking her head. “Such language.”

  Peter lifts an eyebrow. “Question, Michelle?”

  “Fix this,” I snarl.

  Peter strides over and fixes the hunk-o’-shit, not bothering to show me how, and gives the troll her change. “Please forgive her. She’s under a lot of stress. And you know teenagers—so temperamental. Michelle, apologize.”

  “I am so sorry for inconveniencing you. Please come again.” I thrust the bag into her hands, hoping one bottle of prune juice will be enough to flush out the stick wedged up her ass.

  “Heathen,” she spits before hobbling out the door.

  I fall back into my chair and tighten my ponytail until the skin at my temples almost stretches over my ears.

  Peter rubs his forehead, eyes closed. “I don’t know what that was about, but we will discuss it later,” he says with a glance at his oversized wristwatch. He sifts through the box at my feet, handing me the manual before rounding the counter toward the silent Nathaniel.

  “I don’t even know what it was about,” I snap, pulling my ponytail out of my hood.

  “You can work a few hours in the evening if you’d like,” Peter says to Nathaniel. “We need someone to stock and clean and maybe do a few repairs now and then. Can you handle that?”

  The guy bobs his head eagerly, a fish yanking a bait line. “Yes, sir. I really appreciate it. Thank you. Thank you a lot.”

  Yeah, thanks.

  They unravel the details while nausea tunnels into the center of any humor I had left.

  Peter Bird’s at the door when he turns an accusing look toward me. “Nathaniel, what were you saying earlier? Something about Michelle?”

  Nathaniel rubs the back of his neck. “Oh. Right. It was nothing.”

  Peter’s gone.

  Nathaniel is still here, and he looks like he wants to chat.

  I shove my hair back into my jacket, pull the strings to yank the hood over my head, and grind the earbuds into place.

  He takes his leave.

  Another guy comes in. Hell resumes.

  Chapter 3

  I’m right in the middle of a Wolverine fantasy involving magnets and whipped cream when Mr. Lee strides over, motioning for me to pull out my earbuds.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Mrs. Fanna wants to see you in her office.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  Mr. Lee says it can’t, so I tell him bye and trek to the fairy’s den, taking my time to stop and admire the dirty floors, outdated papers on the bulletin board, and the graffiti-covered door of a bathroom stall.

  I rap once, twice, before Mistress Tinkertitty appears.

  Perfect everything, from her clean-cut bob to her spotless suede heels, Mrs. Nora Fanna beams with eternal exuberance. Not the tolerable kind but the sickening the-world-is-a-happy-place-and-I-am-a-happy-camper kind that makes me miss Deena the bus driver.

  “Michelle, please do come in. How was your day?” Wide blue eyes stare into my own.

  “Good until now.” I skulk into the perfume-clouded room, sti
fling a gag. I drop my backpack next to the armchair, unable to fight my slow descent into the cushion’s depths.

  My comments have only brought forth more smiles, glistening white teeth flashing my way. She goes to the only desk in the room, a bright blue one the exact shade of my prisoner seat, and lights the four candles on it.

  Clipboard in tow, she floats over, purple dress somehow dancing without a breeze, and alights upon her rolling chair. “So tell me: how are you feeling today, Michelle?” Straight as a pine tree and just as scented, she gives me the stalker stare. Her smile pulls like wet gum across her narrow cheeks.

  Yes, she is that creepy.

  “About to asphyxiate from the fumes. You?”

  I pull out my phone and pretend to text, knowing this is the one thing that irks her. The time is 2:23. If I want to skip my final class, I’ll have to last another hour trapped with Mrs. Fanna, slowly being embalmed by the heaps of potpourri and candles and vats of perfume. I’d rather die, I’m sure.

  “I’m good, very good. But we’re here to talk about you.” She clicks her pen.

  I prepare to duck in case Tinker Bell should come whizzing out.

  “How is your job?”

  “You already know.” The cushion has nearly eaten my butt.

  She’s lasted more than most, a whole eight months, and I applaud her for it. The last two counselors, with names that escape me, managed about six months apiece before they resigned themselves to failure. You can’t fix every screwup. Mrs. Fanna will learn soon enough.

  “Yes, well, Peter—”

  “Called and gave you a report. It went something like this: ‘Michelle is lazy. Michelle does not find my speeches about efficiency fascinating. Michelle is a bad person and would be fired if not for the fact that Mrs. Fanna is friends with my soon-to-be ex-wife.’ That sound close?”

  The sunshine vapors reach out and strangle me even more violently than the perfume. She nods, expression cheerful, manicured nails grasping the black gel pen. “Yes, he did call. And mentioned that your work ethic was . . . lacking. And that you sometimes did not respond well to instructions, though he did say you haven’t had any major incidents.”

  It’s now 2:25. “So I’m not fired. Anything else?”

  “I wanted to discuss your classes.”

  “Okay?”

  I’m suddenly anxious to get back to class for a nap. The Fairy Queen is having none of it, however, and crosses one long calf over the other, patting the flowy folds of her dress over her knees. “Your mother’s concerned you’re falling behind in school.”

  “And?”

  “She wants to know whether I suggest you continue working.”

  My eyes are swelling from the perfume stench. I can feel them, bulging from my skull, practically cracking my eye sockets. “My grades have fallen a little, but I’m sure they’ll pick up.” I smear on a smile. “Just give me a chance.”

  Very few things are worth jeopardizing my freedom for, and Mrs. Fanna isn’t one of them. Sure, I gave some of the customers a hard time, but all in all I was good. No thieving, little slacking. What more could they ask for? Besides, Fanna knew my record when she asked Peter to give me a job. He knew, she knew, and I knew this was a last-ditch effort to keep me from driving my mother off the deep end.

  I sit there, fake smile slipping, and wait for her to respond.

  She pulls out my file, drawing her red, curved nail down its length. “It says your grades have dropped in all classes, Michelle, even art. I’m not sure if working is a wise decision.”

  “I haven’t been working long. I need time to adjust.”

  Her singsong voice drops an octave. “I don’t know . . .” Her fingers smooth her already perfect blonde hair before going back to her lap.

  “I need this job. At least I’m not off doing guys and drugs, right?”

  “I guess you’re right.” She purses her lips and looks at the wall. Every once in a while she taps the pen against the manila folder, not leaving even a smudge. “Okay, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell Karen you’re going to work hard and make those good grades, as we all know you can. If you don’t bring them up, I’ll let her know. Sound good?”

  Her teeth, unmarked by the red lipstick stenciled on her lips, repulse me. I nod regardless.

  “Good, good. Okay, then. I guess that’s all for today. I’ll see you sometime next week. You can go back to class now. And it’s been so good seeing you.”

  The steel drives a chill up my arm. I yank the door open and nearly topple the old troll.

  “Watch it!”

  “Have a nice day,” I call, watching her puff out, bullfrog style.

  She shakes her head and departs in a senile rage, pulling her green knit hat over her ears and cursing everyone as far back as the Truman administration for the rudeness of all young folk.

  At exactly 8:58 Nathaniel shows up, looking more presentable than usual, his face shaved and jeans clean. The signature shy smile and the whole don’t-kick-me-please look are there too.

  “Hi, Michelle.”

  I ignore him, sliding Peter’s typed weekly to-do list his way. “The mop’s in the bathroom. Everything else is in the back.”

  “Okay.” He walks off, humming to himself.

  I snort. Dumb ass is too stupid to know he’s dumb. Or that I’m mad at him, though I don’t know why, exactly—besides his taking-my-job bit. Really, he could have told Peter about the letter. Why the hell didn’t he? Blackmail, maybe. Or what if he already did and this is all some test or something?

  I’m annoyed now: the pressure inside is festering like a sore, an unfamiliar feeling squirming right under the surface.

  And even though I say I don’t care, and even though I can’t place the feeling, I manage to stay calm by kicking the shit out of the very unhelpful wall closest to me.

  A guy comes in with two brats. Twin brats. He shoos them off and walks over.

  “You have an ATM?” he asks, flicking his phone away from his ear.

  “It’s broken.”

  One of the girls has hidden behind the cardboard ICEE stand. The other studies the candy shelf, her blue dress dusted in orange stains, the fabric bundled in her small fist.

  “Well, isn’t that a kick in the teeth? No, not you, but why the hell is Jameson gone this week?” He pulls out his wallet and rifles through the bills inside.

  The smaller girl has unknowingly walked closer to her sister while in pursuit of the perfect candy. Crimpy blonde hair falls in her eyes, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, balancing on her tiptoes to reach for a Snickers bar.

  A clatter and two screams whip Daddy Dearest around. The stalker has just tackled her prey, felling them both like saplings into the bottom shelf, scattering tears and candy.

  “Get your asses over here now . . . No, not you, damn it. It’s these kids again. No, it’s my weekend to have ’em.” He slides a ten across the counter and says, “Sorry for the trouble, and where’s an ATM around here?”

  I stare at him, unblinking, mouth slack like a simpleton’s.

  The crying gets louder.

  Nathaniel edges out of the bathroom.

  The guy glances at me, snaps close to my face, mutters something I can’t hear, chuckles. “Twenty on pump four.” He turns and walks to the bathroom.

  The crying has turned into whimpers.

  I glance to see Nathaniel squatting next to the twins. He’s got a smile and is holding out two candy bars. The girls look terrified, but Nathaniel’s grin doesn’t waver. When they don’t take them, he lays them at their feet and starts picking up the mess.

  For a time, the girls don’t move. Then the smaller one eases a hand out and takes the candy bar near her foot.

  Nathaniel says something, and they all laugh.

  I find myself smiling, a small expression that doesn’t show any teeth but feels just as good.

  Father of the Year returns, back on his phone. He whistles at the kids like they’re dogs off the lead and keeps
on talking. “No, no, I’ve said before: we are not compromising on this. I’ve worked too hard to lose now—”

  His voice is cut off by the closed door.

  The girls smile and wave before running out, candy in fists.

  Nathaniel smiles and waves back.

  I put twenty dollars on pump four.

  The big guy comes over wearing—you got it—that same happy-ass smile that might as well be carved into his pumpkin head. Surely he’s slow or strung out, because there is less than a snowflake’s chance in hell of someone being that clam happy.

  “Here’s the money for the candy.” He fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a few ones.

  I give him his change. He pockets it, then gets his mop and bucket.

  For some time, I just watch. He works quickly but effectively, scrubbing from the bathroom door toward the entrance.

  “How do you know Peter?” I ask, crossed arms pressing into my ribs.

  “He’s a friend of the family. My grandma knew his mom, and, well, I know him.” He smiles, keeps mopping.

  “Why didn’t you tell him about the letter, then?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “I tore it up. You gonna tell him now?”

  He looks taken aback. He squeezes out the mop before flopping it on the gray linoleum. “No. But . . . why’d you tear it up?”

  “Why do you think?” I slide forward in the rolling chair, cracking my knuckles on the cold countertop.

  The mop slides across the floor in broad circles. It returns to its bucket, gets doused and wrung out before meeting the floor again.

  “Because . . . you don’t like me?” The last part definitely sounds pained.

  For some reason this makes me madder. I slap the counter, making him jump. “Don’t play that shit with me.”

  “Play what shit?”

  “Play what shit?” I mock. “Like you don’t know. There’s no way you can be this happy all the time. You’re like Mary Poppins with a penis.”

  “You’re mad because you think I’m too happy?”

  “No, it’s because you’re too . . . too fake or something. Like with those kids. Who does that?”

  “They felt bad, so I thought candy would help.” He says it the way someone would if they were asked their own name, like there’s no other answer.