An Illusion of Control Read online

"She's the one holding the bottle! Not you. Not me." I so want to spin and walk head high out of the gymnasium, but I can't let him have the last word. "Let's talk about embarrassment, shall we? If you wanted Lucy Fox, you simply had to ask her, and not me, to the dance. You don't come to the dance with one girl and kiss another."

  "Great, let's talk about who I came to the dance with. It wasn't you. I couldn't even find you until an hour into the dance."

  I huff. "I have responsibilities. I thought you understood."

  "I don't want anything to do with Lucy Fox," he says.

  "You have a ridiculous way of showing it."

  By now people are starting to stare—and not in a good way.

  I finish with, "FYI, for your next girlfriend—Lucy or whoever—flowers, music, poetry, surprise picnics, phone calls, texts, coffee dates—those are positive ways to get her attention."

  I walk away.

  "FYI." He keeps stride with me. "For your next boyfriend, be around to accept the flowers, open the notes of poetry, answer the phone calls, and return the texts." He stops following and calls after me, "And you don't even like coffee."

  Well, I want a cup now.

  Or a cupful of that blasted punch.

  3

  nothing else will exist

  Wretched flower.

  I pull another long-stemmed rose from under my windshield wiper and toss it in the garbage. Thankfully I have an eight-hour day stretching ahead of me to lose myself in. Forget all about Marc and his attention-getting flowers. I've been finding them all week, some with poems, some without. On my homeroom desk, in my lit binder, in our mailbox, on my doorstep. Attached to this one had been:

  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

  My soul can reach — Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  I shred it and drop its pieces in my lap.

  What. A. Joke.

  Well, then he's no deeper than an evaporating rain puddle, no wider than the paper his plagiarized poem is scrawled across, and no taller than the dullest thorn on this rose. Because his love is nothing, not when he can kiss someone else, even if it's to mess with me, like he claims.

  I reverse out of my driveway.

  The first day back in school after the prom, he'd cornered me at my locker. "I needed your attention, Laine. She meant nothing, Laine. I don't want to kiss anyone but you, Laine. Ever. Again."

  "You may as well join the seminary then. 'Cuz you ain't kissin' these lips again."

  I'd stalked away from him, dropping petals and thorns at his feet. Child.

  I think he thought he'd play to my competitive side, that I couldn't stand losing him to someone else. That I'd fight for him. He didn't stop to think that I'm also meticulous with my time, and don't waste energy, effort, or minutes on causes not worthwhile. Namely, a two-faced, shallow imbecile who kisses stuck-up girls at prom.

  Okay, so a day or two after that, I'd had a not-so-proud moment myself when I'd dropped down to his elementary level. He'd stopped by my locker with an armful of flowers, spouting random verses about love:

  "Sweet love, leave me not. Sweet kisses, stop flowing not. Sweet voice, whisper forever. Tell me you love me. Sweet love, leave me not."

  I'd rolled my eyes, classic, I know, and grabbed the closest boy, a random junior whose locker happened to be near mine. Cute enough. Clasping his shirt in my fist, I'd kissed him full on the mouth, released him, and strode off, head high, hoping my cheeks weren't as red as they were hot. The plan: Marc would get it through his head we were O. V. E. R. Done. Kaput. Finit.

  It wasn't until I was home chewing on a pencil staring at calculus problems that I'd thought about how that unfortunate boy had felt. In hindsight, he seemed more familiar than someone I passed in the hallway on occasion. Then it dawned on me that he was a new hire at the coffee shop. I’d hoped he hadn't gotten the wrong idea, that I wanted to start a relationship with him.

  I think about all this as I maneuver out of my neighborhood and head downtown. Traffic is light and clouds dot the blue, blue sky. I crank open the windows and let the air rush into my car. It's a small Toyota, a little rusty, but it's all mine. With all the doctor bills and Dad's lack of hours at work, my finance woes rest mostly on me. I vacuum it daily, wash the windows weekly, and never leave empty water bottles or wrappers lying anywhere. This morning I took a pail with vinegar and water and wiped down the steering wheel, headboard, and seatbelt buckles. Clean is my life. Except, I let the torn pieces of poetry fly free through the air, letters trailing down a newly-tarred College Avenue. Air out my soul, let everything Marc go.

  I pull into the parking lot behind Mocha Monkey and breathe a sigh of relief. Work, where I'll be able to breathe. Where my heart will pitter patter on without any thought from me. Time will move, yet stand still all at once, the only thing that will matter will be the customers, the coffee, the cleaning . . . nothing else in life will exist.

  Mocha Monkey is one of my favorite places on earth. It's cozy and it smells of coffee. Ruth has an eclectic style that suits me. It's all classic modern, tans and grays with splotches of red and blue. And yet there are antique armchairs and modern square ottomans. The light fixtures are straight and silver, but the lamps are brass and bulky.

  I breeze through the back door into the staff lounge, which looks more like an oversized closet, hang up my jacket, and think about that "Cute enough boy" that I kissed. Hired maybe a month ago, he's worked only a day or so a week. We've barely had shifts together. I work practically every single day, but when he was being trained, I was busy, always helping twice as many customers as anyone else, organizing and reorganizing inventory, doing office work. That's why I didn't make the connection between seeing him here and seeing him at school right away. For better or for worse, I tend to focus on my goals, not always on the people around me. I've been waiting for the opportunity to move up to manager. In fact, I'm hoping that within the month, as soon as graduation rolls around, I'll be promoted and will spend the summer busy, in charge, and making extra dough for college.

  College. My acceptance to Johns Hopkins University hasn't come yet. I am a shoo-in, naturally, but they're not beating down my door as I'd expected. I shake my head. Can't dwell on that today. Right now I'm off to check my mailbox for my check stub and need to peek out front to see if my unfortunate kiss is working today. I'm hoping not.

  There's an envelope in my mailbox. Allen, the MOD, is nowhere to be seen. In fact, the tiny space seems larger than a closet with nobody else in it . . . really silent. I'm about to tear open the envelope when someone else slams through the door. It's none other than the boy I’d kissed. My stomach drops. Rather than look mad at me, or intimidated by me, however, he smiles.

  This could be . . . uncomfortable.

  "Well, hello," he says, eyebrow raised.

  I clear my throat, stand up straight, slide the envelope back in its slot. "Hi." I turn to face him. He comes right up and stops in front of me. "About the other day." I think maybe he'll be gracious and shoo away my next words, make excuses for me, but he stands there . . . amused and waiting.

  "Yeah?" He re-raises that eyebrow, unsuccessfully wipes a smile from his lips.

  I try clearing my throat again. "Sorry about that."

  "Sorry?" He squints, narrowing pale green eyes at me. He's got this tanned skin and this blond hair that hangs down over his eyes. I don't remember his lips feeling full, but there they are.

  "Yeah, well. It was impulsive. I didn't know you were there. It was my boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend, actually—he'd made me really mad . . . ."

  "He was the one with the flowers?"

  "Yeah."

  "Ooh, I can understand the anger."

  "Sarcasm." I lick my lips. "Um, well."

  "You didn't know I was there?" He crosses his arms. "So, you thought you were lip-locking with a locker then?"

  "Well, no."

  "Your boyfriend? Only you missed? You have poor depth perception?"

  That could be a good out. B
ut, "No."

  "Huh. You've stumped me."

  He was being more difficult than I expected. Him in his skinny black jeans, black button-up shirt and black tie.

  "I just." I drag my eyes around the room since his are now drilling into me. "He'd made me mad, not leaving me alone . . . and stuff." Smooth. "He couldn't get it through his head that I wanted nothing to do with him, so I . . ."

  "You . . . ?"

  "Decided to grab you and kiss you. Only not you, necessarily. Just somebody. And . . ."

  "And?"

  "You were there. So I kissed you. And now I'm sorry." Really sorry. "Well, I was sorry then, too, but I did it, and he's still bothering me, so I'm sorry."

  "Because your plan failed, or because you kissed me?"

  "Because I kissed you." I drop my stress-raised shoulders. "Both." I huff. "Please. Can we move past this?"

  He shrugs. "Sure." He checks his mailbox.

  "Sure?"

  "Yeah." He rips his envelope open, not meeting my eyes. "It's fine."

  "Oh, ugh."

  He glances at me. "What?"

  "I hate that word."

  He shifts his eyes left, then right, like he's thinking hard, laughing at me, mocking me. "Which. Word?"

  "Fine." I grab my envelope out of my slot again. Aren't I the older one here? Height should come with age and wisdom. I should not feel intimidated by him, even if he is like 6'7. He should be intimidated by me. Everyone else is. "Nothing's ever fine. I don't believe in the word."

  "You don't believe in the word fine?"

  "I don't." I tear my envelope open. It's not a pay stub; it's a letter. His eyes are scanning his already. Then he plucks mine out of my hands.

  "Hey!" I grab for it, but he holds it out of my reach. "What are you doing? Give that back!" I jump for it.

  "Look," he says. "Clearly, you don't know who I am, but I have a feeling I know a little about you." He shakes my letter. "You don't want to read this. Not right now when you're not in control of your faculties."

  "My what? My faculties? What are you talking about?"

  He shrugs again. "I heard that once. Sounded right. Anyway, knowing what I know about you, don't read this."

  "Whatever you—" I jump for my letter again. "—think you know about me. You're wrong. I can handle whatever that letter says." My mind races. What could it say? Who's it from? Am I not going to get the manager position?

  "Laine." Allen pokes his head in the room. "Need you out front." His eyes flick down at my hands and his face reddens. "You okay?"

  I press my lips together. "Yes?"

  "Good. Out front, then."

  Cute enough boy, whose name I still haven't learned, has let his hands lower and slacken. I grab my letter and skim while heading out to the storefront.

  Words like "sorry" and "closing" and "final payment" and "May 31st" jump out at me.

  I stop dead in my tracks and What's His Name bumps into me. I turn around and crane my neck to look at his face. "I'm losing my job?"

  He nods. "Seems we all are."

  4

  thought you should know

  With shaking hands, I hand off a tall, skinny, vanilla mocha. With a faltering smile no amount of strength will keep in place, I stare past the customer asking for a short, black coffee and scone. Without my normal oomph, I wipe down all the mugs, sugar containers, and machines. I love to sanitize, but today it's not doing it for me. When the closed sign is turned toward College Avenue and the floor lights are dimmed, I find Allen in the employee breakroom.

  "What does this mean?" I remove the letter that's been in my apron since I first skimmed it and shake it in front of him. It's crumpled now, like my nerves.

  He nods, tight-lipped. "I'm sorry, Laine. Ruth has to close the store, and unfortunately that means there'll be no work for you. She wanted to tell you all in person, and she'll be in at the staff meeting later this week. She wanted us to know sooner rather than later." He grabs his jacket. "That's the reason for the letter."

  "But I was going to be manager. I need the money." I slide, defeated, into one of the fold-up chairs around a tiny table in the center of the room. "What am I supposed to do now?"

  "Chin up, my friend." Unfortunate Kiss Boy walks in and puts his hands on my shoulders and begins to massage. "From what I hear, you are a go-getter, a fighter. You will rise above this."

  Underneath the nervous pallor creeping through my body, I wonder if he really did get the wrong idea about that kiss. What with his hands on my shoulders and his thumbs kneading the stress in my back.

  "Maybe you can get a job in whatever opens in Mocha Monkey's place," Allen suggests.

  "That'll take too long." I shrug gentle hands off. "I can't have a lapse of paychecks in between. I need a job now."

  Allen moves toward the door and places his hand on the light switch. "Well, you have until the end of the month to line something else up." He juts up his chin. "Let's go."

  I reverse the pallor, feel the fire spread red through my cheeks and stand, shoulders back. I'm ready, I think.

  Before following the two out the door, I check Cute Enough Boy's mail slot for his name. Chase. Okay, as long as he doesn't plan to chase me. I definitely don't have time to fend off two boys this summer.

  For as long as I can remember, I've been racing toward the finish line, aka graduation and summer. Now, summer doesn't look far enough away. The sky is still blue and cloud-free. A month ago, it was twilight when I finished this shift. Tonight, the sun is low, but still shining bright even though it's creeping near evening. Time is already running out. But, I remind myself, tomorrow is another day, and I will take charge of it.

  Chase hesitates at his car door and looks over at me. "Laine," he calls.

  I sigh. "Yeah?"

  He starts to make his way over to me, so I turn and lean against my Toyota, keys in hand.

  "You really will be fine."

  I throw my chin up. "I know." I had my moment of weakness, got it out of my system. Now I'm nothing but strength. If I can handle my parents with their issues, alone, since my brother is off pretending we don't exist at college, I can handle this minor setback. "Why aren't you worried? Work more extra-curricular for you; you don't need the money?"

  There's his amused, mocking grin again. "I roll with the punches. Comes with the territory."

  "What territory is that?" I try to move away from him without being obvious. He's leaning in too close. Do I need to bring up the non-kiss kiss again? Draw the line a little thicker?

  "The territory of being one of five kids with a mom who works double shifts but still doesn't have enough to buy both food and clothes." His tone is all matter of fact, like he's accepted his lot and doesn't feel one way or the other about it. "Food usually wins."

  My eyes rove over his body again. I can't believe he can dress that nicely on what he makes a day or two a week here.

  He laughs, like he can read my mind. "I'm head waiter at De la Vache on South Avenue. That's why I don't have a lot of available time for selling caffeine."

  "So you are a mind reader." I flick a fuzz off my black skirt, afraid to look up at him. "Any openings?"

  I glance up to catch the edges of his mouth turn down, and he nods slowly, thinking it over. "Actually, we might need a hostess."

  I can't hold in my snort. "Sorry, my dreams are evaporating. From manager to hostess."

  He shrugs and takes a step closer. "I may be able to get you in the door. I work tomorrow. Stop in and I'll get you an application. Dress nice. Maybe you'll get in for an interview right away."

  He tweaks my nose. "And you can stop backing away from me."

  I raise my eyebrows, widen my eyes. "I'm not . . . ."

  He laughs at me again, throws his head back and everything. "I'd go for Marc before I'd ever be interested in you that way. No insult intended. Just the way it is." He makes his way for his car and throws over his shoulder, "Thought you should know."

  My cheeks are engulfed in flame.


  Great. Just great. No wonder my kiss did nothing to deter Marc.

  5

  own it

  A day later the sunset is again smeared across the horizon, all pink and peach and pale yellow. Dazzling, really. In between the trees and over the crest of the looming hill, another day is drawing to a close, which means I'm running late.

  Mom couldn't find her cell phone, and apparently Dad was up from what has become a routine afternoon nap, talking strangely. She was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I debated staying home, but she insisted I leave. She said she'd stress out more if I missed an opportunity. After pacing between the driveway and back door five times, stuck between obeying and leaving or worrying and staying, here I am, crawling between university buildings and neighborhood homes. Stoplight after stoplight. I’m ready to stomp the brake through the floor.

  A string of text messages chime on my phone inside my purse. I grasp the steering wheel and grit my teeth. I'm 98 percent sure it's Marc. But what if it's Mom because Dad took a turn for the worse? I fumble for my purse with my right hand while my left steers. Once the stoplight switches from yellow to red and I'm once again being held against my will, I scroll through the texts.

  Marc.

  A rose emoji.

  Another one.

  And another.

  On and on.

  Then, a final text: A dozen roses for you. There aren't enough roses in the world to express how deeply sorry I am and how deeply I love you.

  Puke.

  I toss the phone into the passenger seat and follow the cars ahead of me through the intersection between the green lights.

  The Fox Valley is a chain of villages and cities along the Fox River in the eastern and central portion of Wisconsin. My parents live in an old, protected ward in the city of Appleton. Our home is at least 150 years old, renovated some, with all the old charm kept intact. Before my dad got sick, they were part of a home and garden tour each summer. I think it was mandatory or something because they receive money to keep the house in its original state. Anyway, even though I'm blocks and blocks from home, I'm still passing what must have been a ritzy neighborhood when my great-grandparents were kids. The homes are all unique, complete with boldly painted trim and accents, pillars, wrap-around porches, and climbing vines.