“Thanks.”

Xander’s focus changes to something over my shoulder. When I turn around I’m surprised to see his dad behind me. “I thought you were here with the crew. I didn’t realize you were one of my son’s friends.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Blaine Spence.”

I take his hand. “Caymen Meyers,” I barely choke out. I’m still shocked he wanted to meet me at all. Did he want the camera back?

“Good to meet you,” he says, seeming very sincere. Was he using reverse psychology on his son? Then he turns to Xander. “Alexander, a lot of those pictures are great.”

Xander’s face instantly hardens. “Good. So I’m done, then.”

“I’d like you to work with the designer on a web layout and flyer.”

“I don’t have a lot of time for that, what with school and stuff, but maybe I can find some time in a few weeks.” He puts a hand on my lower back as if trying to direct me out of the room fast, and I jump in surprise but then let him guide me toward the door.

“Nice to meet you,” I call behind me.

“Alexander.”

He stops. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Mr. Spence emphasizes the s on the word, and Xander’s jaw tenses.

“Yes?” Xander emphasizes the s even more.

“Your mother’s benefit is in four weeks. Your presence is required. And you will have the flyers ready for that night.”

We step out into the hall, and Xander says, “I hope you’re taking notes. I’m so much better at pissing off my family than you are.”

“I’m taking notes.” Find the last person on earth my mom (or in his case, dad) would want me to date and pretend to be dating him. Of course, my mom would actually have to know about it. But that’s where we differ. I’m not using Xander. “Extensive notes. When my mom tells me to do something”—I point over my shoulder to the door we just exited—“I do it and pretend to be mad about it.”

“So rude.” He shoots me a half-smile, which I’m angry about because I thought that bit of sarcasm was at least worth a full smile.

He hits the Down button on the wall next to the elevator. “So, photography? Your future?”

“On the maybe list.”

“I thought you might like it because you said you like science, which requires observing things and noticing detail. You’re good at that and those traits serve well when looking through a viewfinder.”

I look up at him in surprise.

“What?” he asks.

I realize I must be staring at him in shock and turn back to look at the blurry reflection of us in the gold elevator doors. “I . . . thanks . . . for noticing.”

He shrugs. “I’m trying to find something you’ll actually like. So you’re up next.”

“Yes, I am. And since we’re all into this matching up the career day to our traits I guess I should find a career for you that involves ironing T-shirts or using lots of hair product.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I use very little hair product.” We ride the elevator back down. “So next Saturday, same time?”

I try to mentally picture the calendar on the back counter of the store. I don’t remember if there’s a birthday party written in. “Yeah . . . yes,” I correct myself, giving him a smile to let him know I found his dad’s correction irritating as well. “I think that’ll work.” We wait while the car is brought around. “Oh, and wear your crappiest clothes.”

Chapter 16

I meet Xander on the curb Saturday, trying to avoid the same situation as last week. My mom seems to be buying the “kid from school” routine and until she forces me to introduce him I’m going to stick with it. He turns off the car and gets out before he realizes I’m standing there.

He’s wearing nice jeans, an even nicer T-shirt, and some loafer-type shoes.

I point at his clothes. “Seriously? Didn’t I say the crappiest clothes you have?”

He walks straight up to me. Normally he’s a whole head taller than me, but with him in the gutter and me still on the curb, my eyes are level with his chin.

“Hi to you, too.”

I haven’t seen him for a week. He was traveling for some sort of business stuff with his dad. For a minute I think he’s going to hug me and my breath catches, but then he looks down at his outfit. “These are the crappiest clothes I have.”

I give him a shove, satisfying the urge I had to touch him. “You’re full of crap.” But I know he’s serious. “Okay, we’ll have to make a pit stop on the way there.”

We drive several blocks, and I point to the Salvation Army parking lot. “First stop, new outfit. Come. Let us reclothe you.”

We step inside and the musty smell that only exists in the presence of old furniture greets me. It reminds me of Skye because we spend so much time in places like this. “Shoe size?” I ask.

“Twelve . . . Wait . . . we’re getting shoes here? I don’t know if I can wear shoes other people have worn.”

“I think you just made a philosophical statement. Now suck it up, baby, because it’s that or ruin your pretty shoes.”

“I’m okay with ruining my shoes.”

“Wait. Did I give you a choice? Never mind, you obviously can’t be trusted with choices. We are buying your shoes here.” I drag him to the shoe section. There are only three choices in his size. I pick him out the most hideous ones—high tops with neon laces. Then I put him to work trying on clothes.

While he’s in the dressing room I look through the sweatshirt section. Flipping through the rack, I stop. In between an awful neon orange sweatshirt and a University blue one is a black dress. It has hand-sewn beading, a sweetheart neckline, and cap sleeves. I check the size. It would fit me. I bite my lip and look at the price tag: forty bucks. That’s expensive for a thrift store. But it’s priced right. The dress looks vintage. The best find I’ve ever come across. The fact that it’s hidden between two sweatshirts makes me know someone else has their eye on it, too, hiding it in hopes to come back later. But forty dollars is way beyond my price point. I still haven’t been paid this month and I’m debating whether I’m going to cash my paycheck anyway. My mom can’t afford to pay me. My piddly paycheck won’t make much of a difference to my mom’s debt, but it would make me feel a little better.

“I’m trying not to think about who wore these before,” Xander yells from the dressing room.

“Do you need a tissue or are you going to stop crying? Come out here and let me see.”

I move the next sweatshirt on the rack to cover the black dress. Even if I had forty bucks, where would I ever wear a dress like that anyway? To some fancy event with Xander? I hope I’m not turning into that girl, the one who daydreams about a guy she can never have.

The dressing room curtain slides open and Xander steps out while still buttoning the bottom few buttons of the flannel shirt. “I feel like a dork.”

“It’s good to feel like a dork once in a while. Now you just need a sweatshirt.”

“I have my jacket.”

“You mean your really expensive trench coat? Yeah, not going to work.” I pull a gray one off a hanger next to me and throw it over two racks of clothes to him.

“Okay, I’m going to change back into my clothes now.”

“No. You’re wearing those out of here, boy. Come on, meet me at the register.” I give the dress one last look and then walk away.

The lady at the register gives us the Seriously? look.

“Here,” I say, turning Xander around. I pull the tag for the jeans off the back belt loop. Then I snag the one off the sleeve of the shirt and hand her the sweatshirt and shoes.

“That’ll be fifteen dollars,” she says.

Xander hands her a twenty. “Fifteen bucks? For all this?”

As we walk back to the car Xander is still surprised. “I bought a pair of socks last week for thirty bucks.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot.”