Читать книгу A Girl Called Shameless - Laura Steven - Страница 11

10.46 a.m.

After a long-ass Saturday spent working in the diner – thankfully without any major run-ins with Angela, the woman single-handedly keeping the town’s tanning salon afloat – I spend the rest of my Saturday night finishing up the remainder of my screenplay edits and sending them back to my agent.

I will literally never get tired of saying “my agent”. In fact, I may just start directing any and all enquiries I do not want to address myself to my agent instead. Izzy, would you please clean the burger-sauce spillage on Table Twelve? See my agent. Izzy, what’s the square root of an octagon? See my agent. Izzy, woof-woof-woof? See my agent. [That last one is Dumbledore asking me to take him out for a walk, in case you are not fluent in dachshund.]

This morning I treated myself to a lie-in until roughly nine thirty, at which point my darling grandmother decides to blare her 90s rap classics CD at full volume. I shit you not, the woman still has a CD player. I think Thomas Jefferson was the leader of the free world when she first brought it home. In fact, allow me to recount a charming conversation that took place roughly two weeks after she purchased it from a pawn shop for $1.50.

Me: Did you like the Ice Cube album I got you?

Betty: Mmmm, yes, very good.

Me: You didn’t listen, did you?

Betty: Well, I didn’t like to say anything, but . . .

Me: ???

Betty: It didn’t fit.

Me: What didn’t fit?

Betty: The CD you got me. It didn’t fit in the CD player.

Me: What are you talking about? All CDs are the same size??

Betty: Not the one you got me. It’s fat and has square edges.

Me: . . .

Turns out the crazy old bat hadn’t even taken it out of its case. She thought the case was the CD. I despair.

Anyway, the long sleep must’ve paid dividends in terms of melting away my anger, because I’m actually feeling refreshed and full to the brim of ludicrous jokes this morning. The last week has sapped my comedic energy somewhat, like a laughter leech. But now I’m back to best and ready to perform patronizing wildebeest impressions at the drop of a hat. [If you’ve never seen my patronizing wildebeest impressions I feel bad for you, son. I got ninety-nine problems but a gnu ain’t one? No, I don’t know what I’m talking about either.]

1.24 p.m.

Carson and I take Dumbledore for another walk in the park, except now that there are more than a few inches of snow on the ground, Dumbledore cannot actually touch the ground through said snow. He just kind of sinks into the powder with a disgruntled yelp. So really, a more accurate sentence would be “Carson and I take Dumbledore for a carry in the park.” I tuck him under my arm, dressed in his wizard’s robes, and he admires the view from a great height.

We reach the park and I wipe the snow from a bench, taking a seat with Dumbledore in my lap. He lies on his back and demands, with his eyes, that I tickle his tummy at my earliest convenience.

Carson begins immediately making a snow statue, compacting snowballs together to make . . . something. Really, it just looks like a pile of snow in a weird shape. Not that I don’t have full trust in his artistic abilities or anything.

“So how’re things going at home?” I ask Carson, Dumbledore squirming in creepy ecstasy.

“Not bad, not bad. Oh man, did I tell you Colbie’s super into basketball now?” He pounds snow into another tight ball and places it carefully. “Always stealing my jersey. Caught him checking himself out in the mirror while wearin’ it, even though it was down to his ankles. Five years old, man, and already thinks he’s the next LeBron.”

“That’s adorable. Has he ever, you know, played basketball?”

“Details.” Carson smirks, green hoodie making his eyes look even darker, and I honestly want to smooch his face off. “I’m savin’ up for one of those mini hoops for his bedroom wall. With the inflatable balls and whatnot. He’ll lose his shit when he sees it. Man, I can’t wait.”

“You’re so cute with your siblings,” I say, breath steaming up the air.

“It’s weird, y’know? We don’t have the same dad or anything, but we’re still so tight.”

“You ever talk to your dad?” I watch Dumbledore’s eyelids droop. “You don’t mention him much.”

His body stiffens slightly, but he bends down to disguise it. Picks up more snow, this time a smaller handful. Rolls it into a longer shape. “Nah, never. Ain’t seen him since I was in diapers. Doubt I’m missin’ much, from what my mom says.”

The slightly ethereal snowscape makes me want to talk. Like, properly talk.

“Still,” I murmur, “I know what it’s like to have that weird hole in your life.” The words feel horribly stark and honest against the quiet snow. But they feel right. Cathartic, somehow. I’ve always wanted to talk to Carson about this – this huge thing we share. I feel like it’ll bring us even closer together, having that connection. Truth be told, he’s the only person I’ve ever wanted to talk about it with. Ajita and Meg are amazing, but they can’t ever truly understand what it is to lose a parent.

But Carson just shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

He’s obviously not in the mood for Properly Talking, which I get. I’ve spent 99.9 percent of my life in the exact same frame of mind. And yet disappointment surges in my chest. I guess that’s something nobody tells you when they urge you to open up to the people around you. Sometimes the people around you just won’t be in the right place to listen.

So I keep my sentimental thoughts about parents and absence to myself, tucked away somewhere below my ribs.

“Whaddaya think?” Carson asks.

He steps back to reveal his finished sculpture, and I frown trying to make out what it is. Definitely an animal, of some sort, but it’s misshapen and lumpy.

“It’s an alpaca, dude!” he says, looking offended.

“Sorry. I just find its facial expression a little . . . a-llama-ing.”

“Oh my God.”

9.18 p.m.

For some reason my evening shift absolutely drags, despite the fact Betty is also working, which is all kinds of weird. We’re making a point of being overly formal with each other so our serpentine manager cannot accuse us of being unprofessional. I bow every time I see her, and she calls me Madam Hostess O’Neill, Probably One-Millionth of Her Name. I fail to see how we could possibly be any more professional than this.

But still. It. Is. Dragging. I think when you work the long ten-hour shifts they go quicker, because you’re not constantly looking at the clock. You just accept that you’re there for an eternity. But when it’s shorter the temptation to clock-watch is so much stronger, because you’re, like, surely I’m nearly done now? [This is obviously in my expert opinion, having worked a grand total of three shifts in my entire life.]

Also, while I’m peeling yet more potatoes, I cannot stop thinking about Hazel Parker. How is she feeling right now? Is she poring over the lewd comments, examining every inch of her naked body and sexual technique through the lens of public perception? Is she shutting herself away from the judgment of her parents, closing down when her friends try to talk to her about it? Has she stopped applying to colleges? Does she feel like I did – powerless and lost, like her whole future has been burned to the ground? I know how impossible it is to see past something like that. How nothing else seems to matter but the fact the world has seen you naked.

This meeting with Vaughan’s office cannot come soon enough.

Anyway, it’s still snowing outside, and Betty is doing a hilarious Canadian accent for little to no reason, and it’s only forty-two minutes until I can go home and have my knees cleansed by my pubescent dachshund. So all is not lost.