Paige Turned

  “You want us to dance?” one kid yells from the football-tossing area.

  “I want you to sing!” Rick yodels the last word and everyone groans.

  Natalie shows up right then, Claire dangling from the weird fabric-wrap thing Natalie always carries her in. “Oh, perfect timing!” She grins and sets a plate of celery sticks swathed in peanut butter on the table.

  “Dieting?” I ask her.

  “No.” She is horribly offended. “We are clean eating. I just spent the entire day throwing out every artificial food in our home.”

  Fabulous. Anytime Natalie goes on a diet, Rick becomes the worst person on the face of the earth. He’s grouchy, he’s mean, and he tends to make me do tasks I think are purely for his twisted sense of enjoyment on those days. “Natural sugar” does not a happy Rick make.

  This is not the first time the clean-eating bug has bitten Natalie.

  “Pinterest?” I ask her.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Rick is professional tonight. He has a projection screen he set up right beside the stage and a Bluetooth microphone and speakers he’s using alongside his laptop.

  He starts blasting “All By Myself” and the crowd groans.

  “Seriously?” “Get with the right century, Rick.” “Can’t we hear something peppy?”

  I pat his shoulder. “Tough crowd tonight.”

  “Not for long.” *NSYNC starts blasting through the park and I just laugh. One of our not-shy-at-all boys reaches for the microphone and sings the song, complete with botched motions.

  The crowd is loving it. I watch all the kids’ faces. Some are eating; some are just sitting on the grass watching. Most are hollering and cheering and giving Zach a hard time.

  After that, the night takes off. There are song requests, groups of people go up to perform, and people eat their weight in sugar cookies made by the mom of one of my girls.

  This was a great idea.

  I look over during the commotion and Tyler is watching me. I smile. The corners of his mouth lift and he walks over, holding a plate with a couple of the cookies on it. He hands me one without saying anything, and we watch one of his freshmen boys and one of the freshmen girls sing one of the songs from High School Musical to the joy of the crowd.

  “She’s actually pretty good,” Tyler says.

  I finish off the cookie. “Wish I could say the same about him.”

  “Cruel, Alder. Just cruel.”

  He grins at me, though, and there’s this flash of normalcy after a summer of strained conversations and awkward pauses, and I just want to soak in that moment. But then it’s over because Rick is smashing a microphone into my shoulder.

  “You’re up, Paigey.”

  I blink at the microphone. “I don’t think so, Ricky.”

  Music starts playing and it’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” and I am immediately shaking my head.

  “Nope. No way. There is no way I’m going up there and fulfilling some sick goal you have of watching me sing the same song they sing in Remember the Titans.”

  Rick is grinning all crazy and looks at the group of kids. “Paige! Paige! Paige!” He gets them all chanting and I cover my face with my hands.

  Here’s the thing. I am not a public performer. When I was in school and had to give a report in front of the class, I could barely eat that morning, I would be so nervous.

  Tyler reaches for my elbow and grins at me. “Come on, Paige. I’ll do it with you.”

  There’s a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes and I love seeing it again. How can I say no to that?

  Knowing I’ll regret it, I yank the microphone away from Rick and shake my head as I climb onto the teetering stage as the kids go crazy. “That’s right, Paige!”

  “Yay, Paige!”

  I hate working with the youth. I miss my desk.

  Tyler grabs the extra mic and leans into it, dipping his head down to look at me as he starts singing, “Ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low . . .”

  He is loose and funny, exaggerating his dance steps and the vocals. I stand with both hands on the mic, straight as a board, and sing exactly the lines I am supposed to sing while Tyler fills in with ooos and ahhhs.

  This is the longest song ever in the history of the whole world.

  Tyler turns to look at me during the echoing chorus as it ends, reaches over, grabs my hand, and twirls me around, dipping me down into a grand-finale finish. I’m laughing by this point and his face is an inch from mine. He winks at me and then stands me back up.

  A few of the youth-group girls get all giggly and twittery, and I just shake my head. Nothing like a little romance between the leaders to get the rumor mills going.

  Rick is cracking up by the computer as the song finishes. “Encore!” he yells.

  “Rick’s turn!” I announce into the microphone and the kids go nuts.

  He starts waving his hands. “Uh-uh. I’m the guy in charge. Public humiliation is for all you commoners.”

  “Give it up for Rick!” I yell into the microphone. The kids are chanting his name, whistling, yelling. Natalie is bouncing Claire in the back, grinning big time.

  “Yeah, baby!” she yells as a glaring Rick snatches the mic from me and stands on the stage.

  “Any requests?” I ask him, my voice all syrupy. I’m scrolling through the incredible collection of songs on the laptop.

  “Yes,” Rick says into the microphone. “Song number sixty-seven.”

  I laugh as I click it and the music starts. Rick grins at Natalie. “This one is for you, babe.”

  The music starts and everyone is dying by the time Rick starts singing Taylor Swift’s “I Knew You Were Trouble.” Rick is ridiculous. He was born for karaoke.

  I watch as the kids laugh and cheer and yell catcalls at Rick, and a warm, little knot starts in my chest.

  These kids love Rick. For all his weirdness, he really is a good man with a good heart that always points back to Jesus.

  The song ends. Rick blows a kiss to his laughing wife and hands the mic over to one of the kids.

  He joins me back by the computer and grins at me. “Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night, is it?”

  I watch the kids, catch Tyler’s sidelong gentle smile, and nod at Rick.

  Not a bad way at all.

  Monday morning and I am officially off of work duty. I am free as a little jaybird.

  And I’m about as bored as one. I watch a tiny sparrow hopping around on my porch railing and think about birds. No wonder they fly south for the winter. It’s incredibly boring to do nothing all day long.

  And it’s only three o’clock. I’ve barely even begun my break.

  Months of working around the clock, and you’d think I’d be dying for the rest, but I am just not used to sitting still.

  I’ve already been to the grocery store and the car wash and Target, and I’ve called my mother three times today.

  When we hung up the last time, she said, “Have you considered maybe asking if Rick would reconsider your break?”

  Apparently all those guilt trips in the past about how she wished I would call her more were just to fill conversational space.

  I pull out crafting stuff and turn on HGTV when I get home, but it only holds my attention for an hour before I’m ready to do something else. I love crafting and I love HGTV, but until I get my own home, there’s only so much I can do. My apartment manager has been kind so far by letting me paint one of the walls in the living room and by allowing me to hang up pictures and wreaths, but I doubt he would look kindly on me ripping up the carpeting and putting down hardwood floors or refinishing the kitchen cabinets.

  I find my sneakers and head down to the gym that’s part of my apartment rent. I used to go there several times a week. Then work at the adoption agency got busy, then I started dating Tyler, then I quit the agency and started working seventy-six hours a week.

  It’s kind of nice to be back. And it’s only four o
’clock, so I have my pick of all of the equipment. I get on the elliptical, turn the TV to HGTV since I’m the only one here, and start the machine.

  I glance over at the treadmill once, considering, but treadmills have a way of making me feel like a hamster with all the running and not getting anywhere, so I stick to the elliptical.

  I am not going to be able to move tomorrow.

  My phone rings as I walk back home. It’s Layla. “Hey,” I answer it.

  “Hi. So listen I’ve been doing all kinds of research and I think that my problem is centered on the fact that I don’t have any creative outlets for my frustration about the wedding.”

  Anytime Layla starts talking about creative outlets, it goes downhill and fast. One time she got so obsessed with even the idea of creative outlets that she took her outlet covers off at her apartment, spray painted them all bright pink, and put them back on. Her apartment manager came in later that month to spray for bugs, and he fined her fifty dollars.

  It’s best if Layla just steers away from creativity.

  “Well, I’m officially scared.”

  “You haven’t even heard what I’m going to do.” Layla is giddy. “I kept reading and people kept suggesting this over and over and so I’m just going to do it.”

  I’m nearly audibly praying that she’s going to say something along the lines of read more books or plant those little rock gardens in barrels on her patio or learn how to bake.

  Actually, scratch the last one. Last time Layla decided she would become the next Pioneer Woman, she made scalloped potatoes with gelatin. The whole dish looked like it was breathing.

  Books. That’s where she needs to feed her energy. Not that Layla would ever sit still long enough to read.

  “What?” I ask when she waits for me to answer.

  “I’m getting . . . a dog,” she says it with flourish, and I am shaking my head before the word is completely out of her mouth.

  “Oh no, no, Layla, that is a terrible idea.”

  “Says the girl who hates dogs.”

  “I don’t hate dogs.” I don’t like dogs, but goodness knows that the hate category is already filled up with snakes, lizards, mice, rodents, and turtles.

  It’s the turtles’ feet that landed them in that category. I can’t stand the look of them, all wrinkly and weirdly colored and poking out crookedly from their shells. Ick.

  “You do too. You have ever since the sixth grade when Logan O’Neil’s boxer slimed your favorite pair of Doc Martens.”

  Now there was a throwback reference.

  “Those shoes were expensive,” I protest.

  “And now completely out of style. See? The dog was just saving you from yourself. He knew that if he didn’t destroy them, you would wear them forever.”

  “Layla, you live in an apartment.”

  “Yes. An apartment that allows dogs.”

  “Is that fair to the dog, though? To make it just sit in an apartment all day while you’re at work? Don’t they want to be out, you know, running through an open field or something? Or chasing cows? Or mailmen?”

  “You know nothing about dogs, do you?”

  I didn’t know much. I didn’t grow up with a dog. Dad liked having a nice backyard and Mom liked not having to clean up fur. Up until the point where Preslee went off the deep end, we had a calm childhood. None of those weird the-dog-dug-up-the-yard-and-found-the-skeleton-of-the-man-who-used-to-own-the-house stories.

  I watch too much TV.

  “Have you talked it over with Peter?” Surely he will have some sense. You can’t count on the man for a laugh or even a conversation, but maybe all the stoic silence is covering up a brain full of intuition.

  “Yep. He’s all for it. Says it will give me someone else to talk to.”

  Peter. Well, he is a fan of silence. Maybe he figures that if Layla is talking to the dog, then she won’t be talking to him.

  “Anyway, I’m going to look at the pound tonight. Want to come with me?”

  “I still think you need to rethink the whole keeping a dog cooped up in an apartment.” It’s my only argument that she hasn’t had a comeback for.

  “As opposed to them being killed in the pound?”

  Welp. It was a good try.

  I climb my stairs and rest my forehead against my front door. “Fine,” I mumble, eyes closed. “What time?”

  “I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”

  That did not leave me a lot of time to shower. I hang up with Layla, run for my bathroom, take a very fast shower while I moan as I reach for the bottom of my aching feet with the sponge, hop out, and towel dry my hair. I have ten minutes. My hair is going to just have to air dry.

  Now is when I usually start wishing for Katherine Heigl’s hair in 27 Dresses. The woman was caught in a rainstorm and still looked beautiful afterward.

  I don’t have that kind of luck. My hair is half wavy, half straight, and then there are like twelve strands that are completely crazy curly. Between that and the four different colors on my head, it’s like I was born with eight different people’s hair.

  I slap on some mascara and a little bit of eye shadow, pull on a red T-shirt and a pair of jeans, slide into my shoes, and I’m picking up my purse off the couch when Layla comes into my apartment. I gave her a key a long time ago after we watched an episode of NCIS or Bones or one of those crime shows where a girl lived alone and was murdered in her kitchen and no one even knew about it until she was completely decomposed.

  That freaked us both out, so we exchanged keys the next day. And I made my mother promise that if she ever tried calling me three times over two hours and I didn’t answer to send 911 out to my apartment.

  I really do watch too much TV. There’s only so much you can do when you live by yourself, I guess.

  “Ready?” Layla is ecstatic. She can’t even stand still, she’s so excited. She’s bouncing back and forth from foot to foot, grinning like a creepy cartoon character. I just shake my head and follow her out the door.

  “Last chance to heed my warning.” I lock the door behind us.

  “Save it, Dog Hater. I love animals. I am going to rescue a little dog from the shelter and she will be so overjoyed that she will never do anything wrong.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay.” We go to my car. I never ride in the car when Layla drives. The woman is the most-distracted driver on the planet. I’ve lost years of my life from being in the car with her.

  I drive to the closest shelter and park outside. “You can still change your mind,” I singsong and pull the key out of the ignition. I know as soon as Layla walks in to see the dogs, she is never going to walk out of there with empty arms.

  “No more, Paige. I’ve made my decision and I’m sticking with it.”

  Oh the awful memories that one sentence brings back. I tag along behind Layla as she marches into the building that smells very strongly like ammonia. Maybe that’s how they get people to take the dogs. They weaken their senses with the overpowering, poisonous smell.

  “Hey, girls.”

  Luke is standing there, leaning back against a wall, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, but unlike Tyler who wears that style all the time and looks like a lumberjack, Luke somehow makes it look all cool and hipsterish.

  Maybe it’s the knitted cap on his head or the dark hair poking out the front and the back.

  “What are you doing here?” I gape at him. Of all the dogs I knew were at the pound, Luke was not one I thought would be here.

  Yes, that was definitely meant to be an insult.

  Luke gives his sister a hug and shrugs at me. “Layla texted and said she was going to get a dog. I thought I’d come help pick it out.”

  Layla is even more excited now. “I’m so glad you’re here!” She grins, all giddy. “This is going to be so much fun!”

  Oh yes. So much.

  A man with a nose ring points the way to the kennels, and we all walk down a creepy, tiled hallway. The barking that starts off
muted becomes louder and louder until we reach a heavy blue steel door.

  Luke pulls it open for us and the barking is deafening. Surely this, beyond any of my arguments, will make Layla see the stupidity of this decision.

  But she’s totally in the moment. Hands clasped to her chest, eyes big and sad, mouth in a continual aww. “Aww, look at this one!” “Oh my goodness, did you read this dog’s story?” She flits from cage to cage, sticking her fingers through the fence, reading the dogs’ fake names, cooing and wiping tears at the idea that these dogs are stuck in the wire cages.

  I, meanwhile, am staying directly in the center of the path so I don’t get too close to the dogs. A couple of mean-looking shepherds are glaring at me, and one is snarling in a vicious, toothy, ready-to-attack mode.

  Luke is suddenly beside me. “So. I haven’t seen you in a while,” he yells over the noise, hands in his pockets.

  “I’ve been really busy.” I nod.

  “Busy or just avoiding me?”

  “Both.” If he’s going to be direct, I can be too.

  He looks away at a beagle mix, nodding. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For whatever I did that is making you avoid me. I really do want to be friends, Paige.”

  “No you don’t.” It’s hard having this conversation above eighteen dogs sounding off at us. Layla is totally oblivious to us, though. She’s found a litter of puppies in the last cage, and she’s talking with one of the guys who works here while the puppies lick her fingers through the chain link.

  Luke looks at me, takes my elbow, and leads me back out the door we came in. “I can’t handle the barking.” He rubs the bridge of his nose.

  “Me either. Layla is making a really bad decision.”

  We both stand there for a minute in the creepy hallway. Luke leans back against the wall, tucking his first two fingers into his pockets. “So . . .”

  “So.” I mimic his tone and his posture, leaning back against the other wall, and shove my hands in my pockets. We just stare each other down for what feels like half an hour but is probably closer to barely a minute.

  “What did you mean when you said I didn’t want to be friends?”