Burnt Orange Read online

  She smiles as if this is just the kind of answer she had hoped for. In fact, she was probably praying that the whole thing would go south on me. “Well, don’t feel bad, Amber. It’s probably for the best anyway.”

  Now, that just totally steams me. I mean, how does she know what’s for the best? Argh!

  “I made a schedule,” announces Jan just as we’re closing up. “It’s on the bulletin board if you want to copy it.”

  Simi and I go over, and I am surprised to see that I have Friday off. I guess I could actually go to Slater’s track meet now—that is, if I’m desiring a little more social torture. I’m not too sure about that at the moment.

  “We both work on Saturday,” says Simi with disappointment. “We’ll miss youth group.”

  “We could always go late,” I suggest.

  Jan is standing looking over our shoulders now. “Or I could come in and close and let you leave early.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Well, not every Saturday, mind you,” says Jan, “but once in a while. And especially if you’re good workers. And if I don’t have a date.” She laughs. “As if that’s a problem!”

  “You should join the singles’ group at our church,” says Simi. “You might meet Mr. Right there.”

  This makes Jan laugh even harder. “Hey, if I were seriously looking for Mr. Right, that would be the last place I’d look.”

  As we walk out to the parking lot together, Simi continues to urge her aunt to try going to church, but Jan just keeps blowing her off. I want to tell Simi not to be so pushy, but then I figure she’s talking to her own aunt. Surely she knows how much the poor woman can take.

  I try not to obsess over the mess I made of my “date” with Slater tonight, but as soon as I get in my car, my cell phone is ringing, and it’s Claire.

  “How’d it go?” she asks.

  “What?” I ask, although I’m sure that I know exactly what she’s talking about.

  “Slater.”

  I sigh. “It was pretty pathetic,” I admit.

  “Pathetic? Do you mean you or him?”

  “Both, I think. Or maybe it was just me. I’m pretty boring.”

  “You guys should’ve gone out for drinks.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea.” I don’t ask her about our instant-messaging chat last night because she already gave me the hint earlier today that she didn’t want to talk about that just yet.

  “Well, I think I’m going to give that boy a call.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” I plead. “I mean, that is really desperate and I’ll look like—”

  “Trust me,” she says. “I know just how to handle this.”

  “Whatever.” I realize that I’m the only one in the parking lot now. “Hey, I better go,” I say quickly. “I’m sitting by myself in the back parking lot of the mall, and I feel like a mugging that’s about to happen.”

  “Well, get out of there!”

  I am halfway home when my phone rings again.

  “You won’t believe this,” she tells me in a breathless voice. “Slater is still really interested in you, but he confessed that he’s really hopeless when it comes to starting a relationship, and he’s happy to get any help.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, and so I told him that I’d heard an ad for Lola’s on the radio and—”

  “What’s Lola’s?”

  “What’s Lola’s?” Her voice is incredulous. “What? Do you like live under a rock or something?”

  “Sorry, but I’ve been kind of out of it.”

  She laughs. “Well, just don’t go around saying something like that when real people are listening. Okay, Lola’s happens to be the best club in Stanfield. Everyone who’s anyone has been there. And they get a lot of up-and-coming bands. Like last fall, they had this indie band called Arnold that has gone huge recently. And this weekend they’re having an underground British band called Distance-Walker that is supposed to be awesome.”

  “Uh, let me guess. I bet you need an ID card to get in.”

  “Well, yeah. But I think Alex could have yours ready by Saturday.”

  “Saturday?” I don’t tell her that Saturday is youth-group night. I’m sure she wouldn’t understand.

  “Yeah. Is there a problem? I mean, Slater really wants to hear this band, and he’d like to go with you. He’s going to ask you tomorrow, Amber. I’m just trying to give you a heads-up on it.”

  I suddenly imagine Slater and me at this really great club, listening to an underground British band (whatever that means), and it sounds pretty grown-up and exciting to me. “Okay,” I tell her. “That sounds good. And if Slater actually asks me, I’m sure I’ll say yes.”

  Claire makes a squealing noise that hurts my ears and almost makes me run a red light.

  “All right!” she yells. “I’ll make sure that Alex has your ID card ready. And by the way, do you think it’ll be okay if I tag along? I mean, I’m hoping I’ll see Eric at Lola’s. That’s the guy I told you about, remember? He goes to North Ashton High, but I see him at parties and stuff. If I hadn’t been dating Tommy, I probably would’ve hooked up with Eric ages ago.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. I think it’d be great if you came along. Do you think Slater will mind?”

  “No. In fact, I suggested that we could all go together. He knows Eric too and totally understood my little plan.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah.”

  Then I remember something. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have to work on Saturday.”

  “Well, then get out of it.”

  “Actually, I think I can get off early. Is six thirty okay?”

  “Yeah, it’ll be fine. Trust me, Amber, this is going to be totally awesome.”

  But after I hang up, I begin to feel very nervous and kind of agitated. I mean, what am I agreeing to here? And how do I think I can get away with something like this? Not that there’s anything wrong with listening to a good band once in a while. But to use a fake ID and go somewhere I’m really not supposed to be? Well, it feels like my conscience is actually kicking in big-time right now.

  I pull over in front of McDonald’s and dial Claire’s number. I’ve decided that the only thing to do is back out before it’s too late. I’m determined to say forget it, and I think she will understand.

  “I just really don’t think I can do this,” I tell her in my best no-nonsense voice. “I mean, it sounds fun, but I know it’s wrong—at least for me. My parents would totally freak if they found out that I—”

  “Just chill, Amber!” She pauses, and I wait. “Now, listen to me. You’re making this into a much bigger deal than it is. Take a deep breath and just chill, okay?”

  I try taking a deep breath, but I still feel like this is all wrong, like the sooner she understands how I feel, the better it will be for everyone concerned. “It’s not working,” I tell her. “I think I should just bow out right now before Slater actually asks me and it gets—”

  “No,” insists Claire. “You need to do this, Amber. You’re eighteen years old—that’s old enough to vote and old enough to go to war. And you are definitely old enough to go out with a few friends, to hear a band, and even to have a drink or two if you want. It’s no biggie.”

  “Maybe not for you—”

  “Okay, I know what you need.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I’ll meet you at your house.”

  “But I thought you weren’t supposed to drive?”

  “It’s okay for emergencies.”

  “But this isn’t an—”

  “Yes, it is. Now just relax, okay? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I hang up my phone and try to figure out what just happened. It seems impossible to think that Claire will actually be at my house in fifteen minutes. I don’t think she even knows where I live. Besides that, she doesn’t have a valid license. Now I wonder if she hasn’t been drinking again and simply talking under the influence. The idea o
f that almost makes me laugh. Even so, I hurry home. I quietly go inside as if everything is perfectly normal.

  Within five minutes, I hear our doorbell ring. Before my parents can get there, I dash to get it and there is Claire, standing on my porch with a big grin on her face. “You probably thought I didn’t even know where you lived.”

  I pull her into the house, hoping I can get her to my room before my parents—

  “Oh, you’re home, Amber,” says my dad as he halfway emerges from his den. “Was someone at the door?”

  “A friend of mine,” I say quickly.

  He steps out completely now and removes his reading glasses and looks expectantly at Claire.

  “This is my dad, Pastor Conrad,” I say, using his title out of habit but wishing I hadn’t. “And this is my friend Claire Phillips.”

  He shakes her hand and smiles. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “We’re working on some homework together tonight,” I say, instantly regretting the lie. I hate lying to my dad.

  “Kind of late, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I had to work, you know. This was the only time we could—”

  “Your daughter is so sweet to help me like this,” Claire says quickly. “I’m hopeless at English lit, but Amber is a real genius.”

  He laughs. “A genius, eh?”

  “As if,” I say and then tug Claire toward my bedroom. “Let’s get to it.” Of course, we then meet my mom in the hallway. She has on her bathrobe and slippers and looks somewhat confused, so I’m forced to go through introductions and explanations all over again.

  “Oh, I’ve been wanting to meet you,” my mom says as she looks at Claire and smiles warmly. “I’ve heard good things about you.”

  “Thanks,” says Claire. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

  Finally we are safely behind the closed door to my bedroom, but I still don’t know what to think about Claire’s little stunt.

  eleven

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU REALLY CAME,” I TELL HER AS I SINK DOWN INTO my beanbag chair and attempt to calm my jangled nerves. I look up to see that Claire is now taking a little walking tour of my room, and I’m embarrassed. I mean, my house must look like the slums compared to where she lives. I try not to feel totally mortified, but I just can’t help it. Not only that, but I’m still wearing my lame work outfit. Talk about humiliating.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” I finally mumble. “Not quite what you’re used to, is it?”

  “Very interesting décor,” she finally says and then giggles. “What’s up with these colors? Lime green, magenta, tangerine—looks like you couldn’t make up your mind. Or maybe you were wasting away in margaritaville?”

  “Yeah, that must’ve been it.” Then, despite myself, I chuckle. “Okay, the truth is, I painted the place myself. I was about fifteen at the time and actually thought all these stripes of color would be cool. I’d seen one of those Trading Spaces episodes and thought, hey, how hard can it be?”

  “Those shows crack me up,” she says. “But don’t you know that you’re not supposed to attempt this at home?”

  “Yeah, somehow the results weren’t anything like on the TV show.”

  “I think it’s actually kind of interesting,” she says as she sits on my bed. My bedspread is actually a large piece of batik cloth that I found at a flea market. “Kind of seventies retro,” she says. “Playful but serious.”

  Okay, now that makes me laugh. “Yeah, kind of like me, huh?”

  “Yes. So are you over your crisis yet?”

  “Crisis?”

  “You know. It sounded like you were having a full-blown panic attack in the car.”

  I sigh. “Maybe just a conscience attack,” I confess. “But seriously, won’t you get in trouble for driving? I thought your license was suspended.”

  “Mom and Mike had to go to a business dinner that will probably go until really late. I borrowed my mom’s wheels, and if she finds out, well, I’ll simply tell her that you were a friend in need. She’s really into loyalty. I think she’ll understand.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  Claire opens her bag and takes out a pink thermos and a couple of paper cups. “I brought over a little something to calm your nerves. And then we can talk.”

  I feel my eyes growing wide. I mean, I’m thinking, Yeah, right, let’s just get snookered right here in my bedroom so that my parents can walk in and have a freaking fit. But she’s already poured whatever this concoction is into a cup and is handing it to me.

  “Come on,” she says. “I made a special effort to come over here. The least you can do is have a drink.”

  And so despite all my fear and anxiety, I take a sip. And then I take another. And it’s not long until I think I know exactly what she’s talking about. It’s like my troubles just start to melt away, and before you know it, I’m feeling more confident and happy. All of a sudden I’m thinking, Hey, what’s the problem?

  We talk and laugh, and not once do my parents come bursting into my room to see whether we are drinking or not. Why would they? I’ve never given them a single reason not to trust me. Why would they stop trusting me now?

  And when I realize it’s getting pretty late and I attempt to quietly walk Claire (who’s looking a bit unsteady) to her car, they still do not make an appearance. Once again, why should they?

  “Drive carefully,” I warn her, suddenly feeling some concern for her welfare.

  “No problem,” she assures me. “I have a special route to get home. No cops along there.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” I say and then giggle. It’s amazing that I really do feel better about everything now.

  “So, it’s settled then? You’ll be going with us on Saturday?”

  I nod. “Yeah, sounds like fun.”

  “Can I get a ride with you in the morning?”

  “Sure. But don’t forget I have to work afterward.”

  “Oh, yeah, the Caramel Corn Queen. Do you have to wear one of those aprons and everything?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  She laughs and climbs into her mom’s immaculate silver Mercedes and then smoothes her hair before putting in the key. Maybe she isn’t as intoxicated as I think.

  “Really,” I remind her anyway. “Drive carefully, okay?”

  She nods and then casually waves as she pulls straight out into the street without even glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one’s coming. Fortunately, the street is empty

  Even so, I feel a little freaked as I watch her drive away, and I actually mutter a quick prayer for her safety. Then I slip back into the house and flop down on my bed and fall soundly asleep.

  It’s three in the morning when I wake up, and it feels like I can’t breathe. I jump out of bed and gasp and sputter, and finally I realize that I am breathing, but my throat is so dry that it hurts. I go to the bathroom, where I guzzle lukewarm water straight from the faucet. And I wonder if this feeling isn’t a side effect of drinking too much tonight, like maybe I’m about to have a heart attack or something.

  By the time I go back to my room, I am wide awake and know that I won’t be falling asleep anytime soon. I am also feeling seriously freaked about what might be the effects of too much alcohol. I decide to go online again and read up on the possibilities. Maybe I can scare myself into straightening up. So I surf and read. I read about things like liver damage, heart failure, and alcohol poisoning, and I am somewhat shocked to learn that you can simply pass out and die from drinking too much. Or worse yet, you could black out and then barf and choke to death on the vomit. Okay, that totally grosses me out. I turn off my computer and go back to bed.

  And that’s when I promise myself that I will never, ever do this stupid thing again. I will never drink enough to become intoxicated. Maybe I should promise myself never to drink again at all, but that might be going too far.

  I consider making a promise to God, but something stops me. Maybe it’s that feeling that I am turning into a real
hypocrite. Or maybe it’s because I think I’m still on my “spiritual vacation.” Finally I am able to put all this information and everything else out of my mind and go to sleep.

  But I feel like crud in the morning. My head hurts and my mouth tastes like dog vomit. I brush my teeth and use my strongest mouthwash, but it’s like this creepy taste just won’t go away.

  “No breakfast?” asks my mom as I head through the kitchen.

  “Not today.”

  “Feeling okay?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t sleep too well.”

  She frowns. “That’s too bad. I hope you girls didn’t study too late.”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Do you think your new job is wearing you out?”

  I brighten. “No, I probably just need to get moving. I’m sure I’ll feel better.”

  “Well, have a good day and don’t wear yourself out.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I head to my car, I wonder if she notices that I’ve been avoiding eye contact lately. I mean, I’m sure I’ve been doing this for nearly a week now, but it’s like parents must not pay much attention to those kinds of details—at least I hope they don’t.

  I am relieved to see that Claire looks no worse for wear this morning. I had been seriously worried that she might’ve gotten into a wreck last night.

  “So you made it home safe,” I say as she climbs into my car.

  “Of course.” She grins. “I always do.”

  “But doesn’t it worry you sometimes?” I ask.

  “Yeah, kind of. I guess I feel better when someone else—someone a little more sober—is doing the driving. I mean, I’m not stupid. I know something could go wrong. And if I get pulled over again, well, I just don’t want to think about that.”

  I consider telling her about the information I found on the Web last night, but to be honest, I can barely remember what it was I read—except that it was freaky. I suppose I was still somewhat wasted at the time. Note to self: Do not attempt alcohol research while drunk.