Just Another Girl Read online

  “I told you, Lily.” I shake my finger at her to make a point. “You can’t be late like that.”

  “I wanna go to the pool,” she says, sobbing. “It’s not fair!”

  “I can drive you over there,” Owen offers.

  “Yes, yes!” Lily cries. “You can! You can drive me there.”

  “You don’t mind?” I ask hopefully.

  “No problem. I wasn’t doing anything anyway.” Owen looks slightly perplexed, like he’s wondering how he got into this mess. But he turns toward the expressway, and it seems the decision has been made.

  Lily claps her hands now, pointing to the big yellow bus now only a few cars ahead of us. “Catch them!” she cries.

  “I’ll do better than that.” Owen steps on it and switches to the fast lane. “I’ll pass them, and we’ll beat them there.”

  “Yes!” Lily says, clapping her hands even more frantically. “We’ll beat them!”

  And we do beat them. In less than ten minutes we’re there. “Here you go.” Owen looks relieved as he pulls in front of the pool’s entrance. “Enjoy your swim, ladies.”

  Lily laughs as she reaches for her Hello Kitty pack. “Aster’s not going swimming,” she says like it’s a joke. “Just me, silly. Me and my friends in the bus. Then we go to the park to play.”

  “Oh?” Owen glances at me as I climb from the pickup and help Lily out. “So what are you going to do, Aster?”

  I kind of shrug, wishing I’d thought to grab my purse and my bus pass. I can’t imagine how boring it will be to be stuck here all day, although I do have my cell phone in my pocket, so I might be able to guilt Rose into giving me a ride home during her lunch break. Or not.

  “Need a ride back?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Hop in.”

  I glance over to where the bus is pulling up behind us to unload the other kids now. “Do you mind if I go tell the director that Lily’s here first?”

  “No problem.”

  Of course, Lily has already run ahead of me and is now informing her special friends about how she got to ride in that cool white truck and how we passed the bus and beat them . . . yada, yada, yada. I quickly find Kellie Martin, the woman in charge of the park district’s special program, and I explain about Lily missing the bus.

  “Well, I’m glad you made it,” she says as Lily greets her with a big bear hug.

  “Me too,” Lily says.

  “Have fun,” I tell her.

  “Bye, Aster.” Lily waves, then puckers up her lips with an impish expression. “Don’t you kiss that cute boy!”

  Naturally she’s said this loudly enough for everyone in the parking lot and several blocks away to hear her. I make a face at her, and then, trying to appear nonchalant, I shove my hands into the pockets of my khaki shorts and stroll back to the pickup. Oh, Lily, whatever will we do with you?

  “Everything okay?” Owen asks as I climb back in and fasten the seat belt.

  “Yeah. I just needed to make sure they knew she was here.”

  “Do you always take care of her?” Owen asks as he pulls out of the parking lot.

  “Not always.” I consider this and wonder. “I mean, not 24-7. But I guess when it comes to getting Lily to where she needs to go and all that . . . yeah, that’s kind of my responsibility.”

  “That’s a big responsibility.”

  “Well, my mom works full-time. And she expects me to do what I can.”

  “And your parents are divorced, right?”

  I glance at him, surprised that he knows this much about me. “Yeah . . . my dad left about seven years ago.”

  “I remember.”

  “You remember?”

  “Sure. We were in fifth grade together. Remember, Mrs. Blanton’s class?”

  “You remember me from way back then?”

  He laughs. “Sure. I thought you were cute with your red pigtails and freckles. And you were a killer soccer player.”

  I blink and feel tempted to pinch myself. “Yeah, right.”

  “You were.”

  I want to ask if that means he thought I was cute or a killer soccer player, but I don’t. Both are pretty high compliments. And so I just sit there in shock, trying to wrap my head around this whole thing. How is it possible that Owen Swanson is not only chauffeuring me around town, but that he thought I was cute back in fifth grade? Then I remember how Owen used to be friendly to me when we were kids. He was just an all-around nice guy back then. But when we all moved to middle school, everything seemed to change. Owen grew a few inches, got rid of his braces, and got better at sports. As a result he became extremely popular.

  It all seemed to happen so quickly. About that same time, I lost my old best friend, the only real best friend I’d ever had. Or so I thought at the time. Katie Wick and I had been inseparable up until middle school. But Katie, like Owen, got popular. In fact, I think they even went together for a while. Not that I was privy to these things—well, other than observation. I did not get swooped up into that popular clique, and consequently Katie’s and my paths parted. That’s when I started to live up to my name (asters are shy and easily overshadowed by other more flamboyant blooms) and turned into a real wallflower.

  I suppose it didn’t help matters that my mom suddenly decided that since I was almost twelve and “practically an adult,” I should assume even more of the responsibility of caring for Lily. This meant getting her to and from her special class in school as well as other activities, and so I could be seen dragging her around town, placating her when she had a tantrum, defending her if someone teased . . . whatever it took.

  “It’s funny,” Owen says as he exits the expressway, “but you kind of seemed to disappear off the radar after grade school. Did you move away for a while or something?”

  I sort of laugh. “No, we never moved. You just got too popular to notice someone like me.”

  He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Seriously,” I persist, thinking I’ve got nothing to lose. “You were Mr. Popularity, and I was Miss Nobody. It’s no surprise that you didn’t know I was still around. And I guess I kept a low profile too.”

  He clears his throat. “And, well, there was that thing with your sister.”

  I nod. “Oh yeah, let’s not forget I was that pathetic loser dragging around her retard sister—” “I didn’t say that!”

  “I know . . . at least you didn’t today. But you might have back then. I mean, pretty much everyone else did in middle school. But that was a long time ago.” I’d like to act like it’s all behind me now. Like high school kids are more mature . . . and for the most part they are. But there are still some idiots out there.

  I’m about to tell him to turn on Larch Street, but he seems to know the way to my house. Once again, I’m surprised.

  “I don’t know why kids are so mean,” he says as he pulls into my driveway.

  “Because they’re ignorant,” I suggest.

  “Fortunately, we grow up eventually, and hopefully, we get less ignorant.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say as I reach for the door handle.

  “No problem.”

  “Seriously, I really appreciate it. If you hadn’t got Lily to the pool, I would’ve been stuck with her all day.” I sigh. “I mean, I do love my sister, but sometimes I need a break.”

  “So what are you going to do with your break?”

  I consider admitting that I’m going to do about three loads of laundry and clean the kitchen and do a few other boring chores, but I realize how pitiful that sounds. I mean, get real, he’s going to think I’ve got a serious Cinderella complex. And I don’t. I mean, I do have a life. Don’t I?

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say as I slowly open the door. “It’s such a pretty day . . . maybe I’ll take a bike ride.”

  “Want any company?” he says quickly.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t ridden my bike in ages. It sounds kind of fun.”
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  “Seriously?” I say again, knowing how idiotic I must sound. I actually do have a vocabulary, why don’t I use it?

  “Yeah. I used to ride the river trail all the time before I started driving. Then bike riding just seemed, well, you know . . . kinda uncool.”

  “But it’s not kinda uncool now?”

  He shrugs. “I’m not so sure I care about all that anymore.”

  Okay, I’m trying not to look overly stunned. I mean, people change, right? Maybe Owen Swanson is changing too. After all, we’re going to be seniors in the fall . . . maybe it is about time to grow up.

  “So, how about it?”

  “I guess that’d be okay,” I say.

  “I’ll need to go home and get my bike.” He frowns. “I probably need to check the tires and mechanical stuff since it’s been sitting around for a couple of years. Do you mind waiting?”

  “That’s fine,” I say, realizing this will buy me some time to put in a load of laundry and maybe even clean up the kitchen.

  “How about I come back here around noon then?”

  “Sure, that sounds good.” Now I actually smile at him, not too big though. I don’t want to seem overly eager. But he smiles back at me with those straight white teeth and sparkling blue eyes, and suddenly I’m thinking that the oxygen supply to my brain has just been cut off. But I keep it chill and just wave, then turn and jog up to the front door. I don’t even look back as I unlock the door.

  My hands are actually shaking when I let myself in. Then I lean back against the closed door. I take in a slow, deep breath and wonder if I just imagined the whole thing. No way would Owen Swanson invite himself to go on a bike ride with me today—that is totally surreal. Maybe it was just my imagination messing with me. Just wishful thinking. A crazy daydream.

  Even so, I decide to be ready. Just in case it’s for real.

  3

  Since losing Katie to popularity, I’ve never had another real honest-to-goodness best friend. Not like the other girls that I see paired up around school and at malls and everywhere, acting like they’re part of some secret society where I’ll never belong. But Crystal is the closest thing to a best friend. And to be fair, she might even assume that I’m her best friend since she probably spends more time with me than anyone else, and that’s not saying much. Oh, she picks Lily and me up to go to youth group, and sometimes we go to the mall together, but it’s not like we’re close. Not really. I happen to know that Lily makes Crystal uncomfortable. And if she calls and invites me to do something, then discovers that Lily will have to come, she sometimes changes her mind. And we don’t go. Naturally, I don’t question this. Why should I? It’s not like we’re real best friends.

  Even so, I suddenly have this inexplicable urge to call up my “best friend” and tell her that Owen Swanson and I are going on a bike ride together and that I cannot believe it and that is it possible he likes me? But I control myself. For one thing, I’m still not convinced that I’m not hallucinating. For another thing, he could just be playing a mean joke on me. And, finally, although I like Crystal just fine—I mean, she’s great for a “casual” friend—I’m just not ready to divulge anything too personal to her. As corny as it sounds, I’m not ready for that kind of commitment.

  I put myself into fast speed and throw in a load of laundry, sort out the next two, and line up the baskets so they’ll be ready to go. Then I dash into the kitchen, and in record time I have the dishwasher loaded and running and the counters wiped. The sink and stove will have to wait. Then I swoop through the living room (my mother’s personal pet peeve is seeing the living room trashed) and grab up miscellaneous items strewn about—mostly from Lily. And, with a full load of Lily’s junk, I heave it into her room, which smells like someone put a dead fish under her bed, but I’m guessing it’s her tennis shoes. I close the door and decide to deal with that later.

  I do a quick cleanup in the bathroom. It’s so cluttered with Rose’s jewelry and makeup and hair stuff that it’s nearly impossible to do a thorough job. In fact, it’s no wonder her paychecks are so minimal, since I’m sure she must waste half of her earnings on this junk. Still, if I touch or move any of her things, she throws a huge hissy fit. Even Lily is afraid to touch Rose’s belongings, although she does occasionally—and even more since she’s getting older. Lily thinks that she should be able to wear makeup and jewelry like Rose, but Mom keeps putting her foot down, which I think is a little unfair since both Rose and I were allowed to do pretty much what we wanted to when we were Lily’s age. “But Lily is special,” Mom points out. “We don’t want her to grow up too fast.”

  Of course, I wonder what that’s supposed to mean since, duh, it’s not like she’s ever going to grow up anyway. Her mental capacity is supposedly equivalent to a five-year-old. She recognizes some letters and numbers and can write her name and a few other short words like “no” and “bye” and “Mom.” But that’s about it.

  Still, what would it hurt if she was allowed a little lip gloss and blush if she wants it? And yet this is a battle I’m not willing to fight. If Mom wants to keep Lily as her little girl forever, that’s her choice. The problem is that Mom doesn’t seem to notice that, despite Lily’s stunted mental capacity, her body is growing up. But there’s a lot that Mom doesn’t seem to notice.

  Anyway, I don’t want to think about that now. I don’t want to think about Lily or Rose or Mom. I want to be selfish and think only about me, me, me.

  I stare at my image in the bathroom mirror, wondering what I might possibly do to enhance my appearance. Okay, that probably seems stupid in light of the fact that I caught Owen’s eye without enhancing a single thing. Still . . . I can’t help that I care, can I? I mean, I’m a girl. I’m almost seventeen. One of the coolest guys seems to be looking my way. And I know what my competition looks like. Not that I can compete. I’m pretty sure I can’t. But I can’t just give in either.

  I realize there’s not much that can be done with my hair on such short notice. Rose has suggested numerous times that I should get it highlighted and cut into layers to calm down the thickness and natural waves, but I’m not sure that would really be an improvement. Plus I’d have to fuss with it and style it—and in my opinion, that’s a waste of time, energy, and money. One time I tallied up all the time that Rose spends on her hair, and it was more than five hundred hours a year. I have no idea how much she spends on hair products and salon visits.

  My hair, which most people call red, I call auburn. I like to imagine that it’s the color of mahogany. It’s not really that dark, but I hope it will be someday. And today it’s pulled back in a messy ponytail that goes midway to my back. I take it down and spend about five minutes attempting to tame my mane, which is not happening. In fact, it’s actually getting worse. Finally I give up completely and simply put it back in the ponytail, which I realize looked better before I messed with it. In fact, that’s just what it needs—to be messy again. So I take my hair down and shake it around and mess it up, then I quickly put the ponytail back in. Better.

  Next I examine my face. Fortunately, my freckles have faded a bit. When I was little, kids used to accuse me of having the measles. Now my freckles sort of blend together and almost look like a tan. But my lips, as usual, are too pale. It’s the curse of redheads to have overly pale lips. So I decide to “borrow” some of Rose’s latest beauty discovery—a gloss that’s supposed to plump your lips. I apply a generous coat of peony and watch to see if my lips get bigger. Actually, I don’t think they need to be any bigger, but it’s fun to see if anything happens. The lip gloss actually tingles a bit, but the color is kind of nice. Then I carefully put the tube of gloss back exactly where I got it.

  Now I look at my eyes. My mom says they’re just like my dad’s. Of course, when she says this she’s usually frowning, and I know she doesn’t mean it as a compliment. What she’s really saying is, “You remind me of your father, and he’s not someone I want to be reminded of, so why don’t you make yourself scarce?”
And that’s what I usually do.

  Anyway, my eyes are hazel, which to me looks like a mix of muddy colors. Like when I’m painting with watercolors and am too impatient to wait for the paint to dry before I apply another color, so the painting becomes muddy and ruined. Or like God couldn’t decide, so he threw in some leftover green and brown and blue and even some flecks of gold. Rose, who has beautiful blue eyes, told me that I should get tinted contacts. “Green,” she recommended after studying me carefully. “That would be the right color for you.” But the thought of putting something in my eye is too freaky.

  Still, I decide that some brown mascara on my pale lashes (another curse of the redhead) won’t hurt. But after that, I don’t really see what else I can do in the makeup department without ending up looking like a clown. I’ve been down that road before, and today, if Owen does show up, I do not want to go down it again. I still remember the time when Rose “fixed me up” for the homecoming dance when I was a sophomore. Crystal and I had decided to go, and Rose, who was a senior then, insisted we should “dress up.” So we did.

  Rose, who had just started working at Delilah’s, used this opportunity to turn us into her personal guinea pigs. Of course, I didn’t realize this at the time. I actually thought it was sweet that she was giving us so much time and attention. And, being fifteen and not too experienced in the world of makeup and fashion, I let Rose do her thing. So did Crystal. Like guinea pigs being led to the slaughter, we stupidly let her turn us into clowns. Then she drove us to the dance—a dance she was “too mature” to go to herself. But when we got inside, we knew it was a mistake. No one else was dressed up like we were. And no one had makeup that looked anything like ours. I’m sure Rose laughed all the way home. I’m also sure that we would’ve been a hit on the rundown section of Main Street, but at Jackson High, we were losers.

  “Don’t think about things like that!” I say sharply to myself. “Owen might be here in less than twenty minutes.” I only talk to myself like this when I’m feeling desperate and when I know I’m home alone. I make a quick run to the laundry room and put the wet clothes in the dryer, then start the next load in the washer. Not bad. I’m also done with my chores, and it’s not even noon yet. Maybe I should do housework on fast speed all the time.