When I finally got outside, I leaned against the glass window, closing my eyes. Layla paid for her stuff, and then we walked back to Seaside, where we settled into our booth and continued our homework. This time, though, Layla was the only one who got anything done. I just sat there, my textbook open in front of me. Whenever I tried to focus, I saw not the words or even David Ibarra’s face. Instead, it was that rainbow of galoshes, mismatched and displaced.
It wasn’t until I was leaving and Layla handed me a bag that I realized that not only had I dropped the stuff she’d picked out for me at SuperThrift, but she’d collected it, adding it to her own purchases. I didn’t want to be rude, so I took the things, pushing them deep into my closet once I was home. I knew my mom, in her donating mode, would eventually find them and ask if they were important. I’d have to tell her yes. Like so much else, even if I wanted to be rid of them, they were now with me for good.
* * *
For obvious reasons, I was not in the mood to shop in the week that followed. Layla, however, had her eye on some stuff at her favorite consignment store. Which meant she also had a plan.
“Girls delivering pizzas in pairs,” she announced to her dad one afternoon. She’d asked him to take a seat so she could present what she’d referred to as “an important business proposal.” “Just picture it: a market niche. We’ll establish a specific, visual brand of customer service.”
I raised my eyebrows. She’d recently found a how-to book on small-business marketing at the annual library sale. Despite her dislike of school, she’d devour any instruction manual or romance novel in hours.
“Bad idea,” said Mac, who had not been invited to the table but was listening, as always.
“Nobody asked you,” Layla told him.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not safe,” he replied. “You’ll be walking up to people’s houses, strange apartments . . .”
“But Sydney and I will be together,” she told him. I blinked—I had not realized I was involved. “And we’ll leave you the runs to sketchy neighborhoods.”
“What if all the calls are from bad neighborhoods?”
“Then we probably need to rethink our marketing, wouldn’t you say?” She turned back to her dad. “You said yourself deliveries are up, especially on the weekends with game days. We can help. Keep it in the family. And I need to start getting more experience here at the shop if I’m going to do it full-time after I graduate.”
Hearing this, Mac looked up. “Nobody’s talking about that happening, as far as I know.”
“Which is exactly why we should be,” Layla replied without missing a beat. “It’s pretty sexist to just assume a girl can’t move into a leadership position, don’t you think?”
“Leadership?” Mr. Chatham said. “I thought we were talking about delivering pizzas.”
“We were talking about the business.” Layla sighed. “The bottom line is, you need more delivery help. I need hands-on experience. It’s a win-win.”
Mr. Chatham rubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t said no yet, but he was clearly a ways from agreeing. “If I were to consider the delivery thing—”
“You shouldn’t,” Mac said.
“—there would have to be some rules, for sure.”
Layla, sensing victory anyway, shot me a grin. “Like I said, we’d always be together. And we’d both go up to the door, every time.”
Her dad mulled this over as Mac, shaking his head, spread some sauce on an empty crust. “I could see offices,” Mr. Chatham said finally. “And maybe some residential areas on weekends, during the daytime. But not evenings, and no apartment complexes.”
“Oh, Daddy, that’s great! Thank you!”
“But,” he said loudly, holding up a hand, “Mac trains you first, and we have a trial run on Saturday, during the game, with no promise of a commitment on my part. Understood?”
“Yes,” Layla told him solidly. Then she kicked me under the table so I’d say it, too.
And so it was decided. Our training happened two days later, on Thursday evening. I told my mom I was going over to Jenn’s, assuming she might not be thrilled to know I was taking on a job, much less this one. I’d really only agreed for Layla’s sake, so I was surprised to discover how much I enjoyed it.
I couldn’t say why, exactly. We were with Mac: there was nothing not to like about that, at least for me. Since the night I’d stayed over, we’d definitely been more friendly with each other, although I could sense he felt it important to keep our distance when we were around Layla. I had not forgotten the way she’d talked so angrily about Kimmie Crandall dating, then dumping him. I didn’t want to break any rules, although it was difficult when you weren’t certain what they were.
It wasn’t just Mac, though. As he went over the various rules and procedures in substantial detail, Layla—despite her leadership aspirations—got bored immediately. I, however, was intrigued by the whole idea of the delivery business. There was something about going up to strangers’ houses, getting a glimpse of another place and the lives within it, that appealed to me. Maybe it was because I felt that for so long, people had been outside my family, peering in. It was nice, for once, to be on the other end of things.
At our first stop, the guy answered the door in his bathrobe. It was dark in the living room behind him, the only light coming from two TVs set to the same channel and a row of laptops lined up on the coffee table. He squinted at us and the light like a mole, as if it hurt him, before paying and taking the pie wordlessly, then shutting the door in our faces.
At the next stop, we interrupted a teenage Bible study and were greeted at the door by a beaming girl with braces, who invited us in for a slice and some testimony. Even though we declined, she tipped generously. Jesus would have approved.
Then it was on to the Walker Hotel, where we sat out front with three large pies until the guest who’d made the order came down to retrieve them. (Mac explained that, because of its own room-service business, the Walker frowned on deliveries to the rooms themselves.) While we waited, he joked around with the red-shirted valets who were hanging around a key cabinet, shooting the breeze.
In just an hour, we’d seen all these little pieces of various lives, like a collage of Lakeview itself. Layla, still bored, spent most of the time on her phone, although she perked up at the hotel because the valets were cute. But when it was eight o’clock and she had to get back to help with Mrs. Chatham, I sort of wished I could stick around.
Mac must have put a good spin on this experience, because we were allowed to go ahead with our trial run that weekend. On Saturday, just after eleven thirty a.m., Layla and I stood in the parking lot, waiting for him to bring out a magnetic sign for my car from the office. Ten minutes later, he still had not emerged.
“I swear, it’s like he’ll do anything to keep me from cutting into his tip profits,” Layla complained, adjusting her outfit—SEASIDE T-shirt, jeans, black motorcycle boots—for the umpteenth time. Thanks to her small-business book, she’d emphasized the importance of our “brand look.” As I did not have any motorcycle boots, I was wearing a pair of Rosie’s, which were easily a size too small. My brand, apparently, involved limping. “I’m trying to help him out in the long run, too, as far as college goes. You’d think he’d be happy to share the wealth.”
“I think it’s more of a protective thing,” I told her. “He’s worried about you.”
“Well, he shouldn’t be. It’s delivering pizza, not going into warfare.”
I laughed, but once Mac had arrived, I kind of had to wonder if she wasn’t sort of right. First, he repeated what he’d already told us about handling the money and keeping the car locked even if you were only out of it for a second. Then he moved on to the importance of stepping far enough back from the door after knocking that no one could touch you when it opened. He was just segueing into a few cautionary tales from his own exper
ience to emphasize these points when Layla looked at her wrist and said, “Can we start now?”
He made a face at her. “You’re not wearing a watch.”
“True. But if I were, it would say you’ve been talking too long.” She turned on her heel, starting back to Seaside. “I’m going to get our first order, Sydney. Warm up the car!”
We both watched her go, her steps light. She was more excited than she’d been at any point during the training. “Don’t let her go to a door alone even if she insists she’s fine,” he said as she disappeared inside. “And if she starts talking too much to customers, cut her off. Get the money, give the pie, and go. Should take no more than five minutes.”
“Right,” I said, again feeling like I was being prepped to infiltrate enemy lines.
“And only take the cash you’ll need to the door with you. If you have to make change, turn your back.”
“Got it.”
“If you’re ever in doubt or feel weird, just leave the pizza. It’s not worth it.”
I nodded just as Layla emerged from Seaside’s door, carrying a warmer in her hands. She was beaming as she approached. “It’s our maiden voyage! And in your neighborhood, Sydney.”
“Really?” She held out the slip: sure enough, it was an Arbors address, although not one I recognized.
“We need to be careful, though,” she said, shooting Mac a serious look. “You know how dangerous those rich people can be.”
“Ha-ha,” he said as she opened the back door, putting the pizza on the floor as he’d taught us. (There was less risk there of cheese slide, apparently a cardinal sin in the delivery business.) Then, to me, he said, “Drive safe.”
“I will.”
The ride over was uneventful, marked mostly by Layla making grand plans for what we would do with all our tip money once it started rolling in. By the time we pulled up to a large Colonial in my neighborhood, she’d spent more than I figured we’d ever make, unless we planned to do this into our thirties. Little did I know that as soon as the door opened, our new endeavor would pretty much be over before it even began.
“Pizza’s here!” a voice called, and then there were footsteps, followed by the sound of a lock flipping. We both stepped back—Mac would have been proud—as the door opened, revealing a guy about our age, blond, with blue eyes and broad shoulders, wearing a U football jersey. When he saw us, he smiled.
“Do you need me to come pay?” a woman’s voice, older, called from down the hallway behind him.
“No, I’ve got it,” he replied, then stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. I took another step back, but Layla stayed where she was.
“Extra large half cheese, half ham-pineapple,” I said. “That’s fifteen-oh-nine with tax.” (“Recite the order and price first thing, even if they’ve already paid over the phone. It’s like a verbal contract they can’t renege on, plus they’ll know how much they should tip.”)
Although I’d spoken, it was Layla he was looking at as he pulled out some bills. “How much for the delivery?”
“For you, it’s free,” she told him.
“It’s my lucky day, then,” he said, peeling off a twenty and handing it to her. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you!” she said cheerfully, pocketing it as I opened the warmer and handed him the pie. “I hope you enjoy your lunch.”
“I would, if it meant you weren’t leaving,” he told her.
“Duty calls,” she replied. But I was pretty sure I saw her blush. “Pies to deliver, money to make.”
I turned around, hoping to give the signal that she should do the same. But of course, she was lingering, following me down one step but not the next.
“If I were to order another,” he said, his hand now on the knob, “would you deliver it?”
“Maybe.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Or it might be my big brother.”
“Fifty-fifty chance?” He smiled. “I’ll take those odds.”
To this, Layla said nothing, instead just following me back to the car. Once safely inside, engine on, I said, “You do realize you just broke, like, every one of Mac’s rules.”
“Do you know him?” she replied. “Like, from the neighborhood?”
“No,” I said flatly. He was still on the steps, watching us, as if he thought maybe she might get out of the car. I backed out of the driveway, quick. “Never seen him in my life.”
When we got back to Seaside, another order had been placed from the same address. So we doubled back across town, this time with Layla primping the entire way. More flirting ensued and another five was tipped, while I stood by feeling awkward, to say the least. This time, when we returned, Mac was waiting, the warmer in hand.
“Same address?” he asked. “Three pizzas?”
“They’re very hungry,” she said, reaching for it.
He pulled it back, out of her reach. “We’re running a restaurant here, not a dating service.”
“It’s an order, and I’m a professional. It needs to be delivered!”
He just looked at her. “Then I’ll do it. You’re done for the day.”
“Mac,” she protested, but I could tell he wasn’t budging. “We’ll see what Dad says.”
With that, she went inside. Mac said, “At least tell me the guy is her age.”
“He is,” I told him. I glanced at my watch. “You know, I can deliver that on my way home. Save you a trip.”
“No,” he said.
“It’s my neighborhood,” I said. “And he’s already had two chances to kill us, if that’s what he really wanted.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s how you’re selling it? Really?”
“Just give me the pizza.”
After hesitating another moment, he pulled a pen from his back pocket, then scribbled something on the back of the ticket. “My number,” he said. “You text when you’re leaving. Got it?”
“Got it.”
He handed me the warmer and watched as I put it on the floor in the backseat. Then I went in to say good-bye to Layla, who was pouting at a table, a strawberry YumYum in her mouth. She cheered up a bit when I handed over her half of the tips.
“We’ll really hit it hard next time,” I told her. “Big money.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving her lollipop at me. “Whatever.”
Back in the Arbors, I rang the bell, then waited for the door to open. When it did, it was the same guy, although he’d changed his shirt into a nicer button-down and put on shoes. When he saw me, he made no effort to hide his disappointment.
“Fifteen-oh-nine with tax,” I said, keeping my voice cheerful anyway. “Thanks for your business.”
He glanced at me, then pulled yet another twenty from his pocket. “Your friend,” he said. “What’s her name?”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
He thought for a minute. “Okay. But if she wonders if I was asking about her”—he scribbled a number on the flap of the box, a name beneath it, then ripped it off—“give her this.”
I didn’t agree or say no outright. I just took it and went back to my car, where I texted Mac.
Leaving now, I told him. Alive and well.
I was pulling up to my own house when he replied. She wants to know if he asked for her number.
I thought for a second, trying to figure out where my loyalties lay in this situation. Then I typed No, which was not a lie. And waited. My phone beeped. This time, it was Layla.
Did he give you his for me?
I smiled. As tricky as I thought I was, she was again one step ahead. If I had to be behind, though, there was no one else I’d rather follow.
Yes.
A beep. A row of smiley faces filled my screen, then another. But it was Mac’s text I was focused on as I cut my engine. ADD TO CONTACTS? my phone was asking, a
s it did whenever an unknown number came in. It felt like a leap of faith, or even an assumption. But as I typed in his name and hit SAVE, I looked back at those rows of faces and smiled, too.
CHAPTER
14
HIS NAME was Mason Albert Spencer, but everyone called him Spence. He’d just moved to Lakeview and went to W. Hunt Academy, the military school just outside town. When he officially became Layla’s boyfriend, everything began to change.
Well, not everything. We still hung out at lunch every day, as well as at Seaside after school. Spence had a packed extracurricular schedule in the afternoon, so he could only see Layla on weekends, and even then he had a tight curfew. At first, I’d just assumed he was like so many other kids in the Arbors, where the number of activities you participated in reflected the money available to do them. And Spence’s stepfather, a plastic surgeon, could afford just about anything. Pretty soon, though, I began to recognize certain aspects of Spence that gave me pause. I didn’t want to say anything to Layla, though. She was just so happy.
“He’s just the sweetest,” she told me one day as we sat in our customary booth, only crusts left of our pizza slices between us. Her phone, which had always been close at hand, was now our permanent third. She checked it constantly, hopeful for even the smallest missive. “I mean, he’s, like, chivalrous. Who’s like that? And did I tell you the way he eats his French fries?”
She had: with mustard, using a knife and fork. Based on that alone, they were clearly meant for each other. Unfortunately, there were other facts, too.
Like that W. Hunt was his third school in three years. He’d ended up there only after leaving two separate boarding schools. He told Layla that things “just hadn’t worked out,” but it sounded a bit too much like Peyton’s history for my comfort. Plus, he volunteered several hours a week—at the senior center, an animal shelter, and a local after-school program—more than even Jenn, the most altruistic person I knew. Sure, maybe he had a big heart and wanted to give back. But I knew mandatory community service when I saw it.