The Girl You Thought I Was Read online

  “What did you do?” Sophie finally asks.

  “Nothing horrible.” I take off my glasses and pretend to wipe a smudge off them so I don’t have to look at my friends. “I don’t really want to get into it. Too embarrassing.”

  “Well, that . . . sucks,” Sophie says.

  “Yeah.” I put my glasses back on and their faces sharpen into focus. Sophie’s bottom lip sticks out in an exaggerated pout while Alyssa regards me thoughtfully, like she’s trying to figure out exactly what I’m holding back. She knows as well as I do that my father would only punish me if I did something really, really bad.

  When I walk into the apartment an hour later, I startle a little to see Dad sitting on the couch. Sometimes I forget that he’s off on Thursdays.

  “How was your exam?” he asks dully, like he’s not very interested in my answer.

  “Fine.” I move closer and notice he’s just sitting there, not watching TV or on his phone or laptop. A white piece of paper lies faceup on the coffee table in front of him. “What’s that?”

  He looks down at the paper, then back up at me. “This came in the mail today. Apparently, that nice police officer referred you to a diversion program.”

  His words make zero sense to me. I sit next to him on the couch and pick up the letter.

  “It’s for first-time offenders,” Dad continues, his voice sticking on the last word. “An alternative to prosecution. Instead of going to court, you’d need to complete certain requirements, like counseling, for instance. If you do what they ask, the charges will be withdrawn.”

  “So I don’t have to go to court?”

  He leans back and rubs a hand over his face. “Not if you agree to their requirements.”

  I scan the letter for this list of available “requirements,” one or more of which I will have to complete. Each one sounds more humiliating than the last. Counseling. Restitution. Apology letters. Charitable donations. Community service.

  “I spoke with the diversion coordinator this morning,” Dad says. “In your case, he’ll usually recommend a shoplifting education class, which you can do online, and restitution, meaning you pay the store back for what you took. But since they got the sunglasses back, that doesn’t apply to you.”

  I place the letter on the table and look at my father. His head is tilted away, as if he can’t even stand to look at me, and I feel a jolt of self-disgust. All this time, I never once thought about how my getting caught would affect him. How it would only add to his stress and burdens, and make him feel like he’s failed me somehow. Even though none of this is his fault at all.

  “Okay,” I say in a steady voice. “I’ll do the online course, then. And if it costs money, I’ll pay for it myself. I start my job next week and it won’t take me long to save up.”

  He turns his head toward me, meeting my eyes for the first time since I came in. “Yes, you’ll do the course and pay for it, but that’s not enough. You need to do something else too . . . something meaningful.”

  “Meaningful?”

  “You need to see how your actions affect other people,” he goes on. “You have to learn to give back instead of selfishly taking.” He leans forward and points to an item on the list. “The coordinator recommended this.”

  “Community service? But I’ll have work and—”

  “Thirty hours’ worth,” he cuts in. “Thirty hours of being an active, contributing member of the community this summer. That’s how you’re going to make up for what you did.”

  I open my mouth to protest, to reiterate about my summer job and time constraints and having to explain my sudden burst of “volunteerism” to my friends, but his expression is so stormy that all I can manage is, “So, what, will I have to pick up litter off the side of the highway or something?”

  He shakes his head. “Do you remember Rita Sloan? She was a receptionist at the dealership for a couple of years when you were about eight or nine.”

  I stare at him blankly. No, I don’t remember a receptionist from almost ten years ago. There seems to be someone new at the front desk every time I go in.

  “Anyway,” Dad goes on, “we’ve kept in touch over the years. She went to business school after she left the dealership, and now she manages a thrift store for a not-for-profit organization. I’m going to get in touch with her and see if she’ll give you a job.”

  A thief. Working in a store filled with potentially steal-worthy items. I stare at him, waiting for the irony to sink in, but he doesn’t even blink.

  “It’s either that or prosecution, Morgan,” he says, standing up. “Your choice.”

  He heads for the kitchen, leaving me alone on the couch. His words linger in my head. Your choice. But the more I think about it, the more it seems like I don’t have any choice at all.

  Chapter Six

  RITA’S RERUNS.

  I spot the square wooden sign on my left, at the bottom of a long paved driveway. The Rs beginning both words are oversized and curled on the edges, underscoring the rest of the letters. “Guess this is it,” I mumble to myself as I turn my car into the driveway. My nonpaying, mandatory second summer job.

  I was half hoping this ex-coworker of Dad’s would refuse to let me fulfill my community service hours here. But no. After I met with my diversion coordinator and he okayed the idea, Dad called Rita Sloan and set everything up, no problem. I was sure she’d at least ask to meet with me first before trusting me around her cash till, but she must owe my dad a huge favor or something, because she hired me sight unseen.

  Not that I’d ever steal from a charity. Even I have my limits.

  The thrift store itself is attached to a small community center. I can hear voices echoing from inside as I pull closer to the old building. At least I assume it’s old. The red siding is chipped and worn, and most of the buildings in this part of the city have been here for a century or so. The parking lot has been freshly paved, though, and a row of orange flowers near the store’s entrance make the place look cute and cheerful.

  Thump.

  I slam on my brakes. Did I . . . ? Yes, I definitely just ran over something with my car. Heart pounding, I shift into park and get out. At first I don’t see anything, but when I circle around to the front of the car, I spot a crumpled cardboard box trapped beneath my right front wheel. Shards of light green glass are scattered across the pavement.

  “It wasn’t that ugly.”

  I gasp and spin around. Standing a few feet away, next to a pair of donation bins, is a tall, hulking guy with biceps the size of my head. Where the hell did he come from?

  “What?” I say, squinting at him through the glare in my glasses. He’s about my age, maybe a little older, and he’s wearing jeans with rips in the knees, a faded black T-shirt, and work gloves.

  “That green vase I just pulled out of the donation bin.” He grins and motions toward the glass, shimmering in the sun. “I mean, it was hideous, but you didn’t have to smash it into a million pieces.”

  Oh Jesus. “I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush. “I was looking at the flowers and didn’t realize there was a box sitting in the middle of the driveway.”

  The guy comes closer and bends down to inspect the carnage under my wheel. He shakes his head before straightening back up. “Yeah, those marigolds are pretty distracting.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He runs a large hand through his short, dirty-blond hair. “The flowers out front. They’re marigolds. I planted them myself a couple of months ago.”

  “Oh. Well.” I inch toward the car door. “I should probably go inside now.”

  He nods and backs away, still eyeing what’s left of the vase. “Hope that glass didn’t get embedded in your tire.”

  That’s all I need. To get a flat and have to stay here for who knows how long while this dude talks to me about gardening.

  I wave awkwardly at him and get back into my car. Luckily, nothing happens as I continue on to the parking lot. As I slide my car into a space, I glance in the mirro
r and see the tall guy hefting another box out of the donation bin. It’s clearly heavy, because he loses his grip on it for a moment, the cardboard sliding between his gloved hands. But at the last second he steadies it, avoiding another mess on the pavement.

  When I enter the store, I expect to be greeted by this Rita woman or at least a few customers, but it’s completely empty. I glance at my phone. Eight fifty-three. I’m seven minutes early, even after the vase-smashing incident.

  I pocket my phone and look around. The place looks like any other thrift store—racks of clothes, sorted by gender and age. Shelves crammed with old dishes and decor. Baby toys and furniture, barely used. Hand-printed signs labeling each rack and section. I notice the M in Men’s Tops & Bottoms is curled at the end, just like the Rs on the sign outside. Elaborate lettering must be Rita’s thing.

  A door opens at the far end of the room and a plump, dark-haired woman bustles in.

  “Oh!” she says when she sees me. “You’re Morgan.”

  I nod, smiling, and she starts toward me, jingling with each step. It takes me a moment to realize the sound is coming from the half dozen bracelets on her wrist. Her blue eyes scan my features like I’m an interesting relic someone dropped in the donation box. I don’t remember her from the dealership at all. Maybe she looked different ten years ago.

  “I haven’t seen you since you were a little bitty thing. Goodness, you grew up to look like Charles! The red hair. The smile. Except you’re a lot prettier, of course.” She holds out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Rita Sloan. You probably don’t remember me. I was a lot thinner a decade ago, not to mention a blonde. Welcome.”

  “Thanks.” I shake her hand, a little taken aback by her openness and rapid-fire way of speaking. Not to mention her appearance. She looks kind of like an aging movie starlet with her bright red lipstick and blunt, even bangs.

  “So today will be mostly training,” she says, walking toward the back of the store and motioning for me to follow. “I’ll teach you how to use the register—which is old and sometimes sticky—and show you how to sort and tag donations. Have you ever worked in retail before?”

  I keep my eyes on her long skirt, which flows out around her as she walks. “Um, I just started working at Royal Smoothie on Gerard Street. But all I do is blend fruit and yogurt all day, so no. No retail. I can use a cash register, though.”

  She turns to face me, and for a moment I think she’s going to ask me if I’ve ever stolen money. Which I definitely would never do, because it’s much too risky. Besides, taking money isn’t my thing. Things are my thing. Things I can hold and keep and collect.

  But all she says is “Your father said you can commit to three hours a week, every Saturday morning. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” I would have preferred more hours so I can get this over with as quickly as possible, but I work at Royal Smoothie on Saturday afternoons, Rita’s is closed on Sundays, and apparently she doesn’t need help during the week. But one short shift a week is nothing, and I’ll be home free by the end of summer. Hours served. Charges dropped. Like it never even happened.

  “I’m very fond of your dad,” she tells me, and starts walking again, circling back to the checkout area. “When I worked there, he was the best salesperson on the team. He always went above and beyond to get his customers a low monthly payment. I’m sure he still does. A lot of salespeople are slimy, you know? But Charles isn’t.”

  I nod, even though she’s not looking at me. Slimy perfectly describes Gary Ellsworth, the guy my mother has been sleeping with for years. The worst thing about him was his ability to hide exactly how slimy he was. He and Dad were good friends at one point, and two of the top salespeople at the dealership. They’d get customers the “best deal possible” and then send them to my mother, who worked in the finance department. Everything was great until last May, when Dad inadvertently saw incriminating texts from Gary on my mom’s phone, exposing their affair. No one told me this—I learned it from listening to them argue one night when they thought Rachel and I were asleep. The next day, Mom sat us down to tell us she’d fallen in love with Gary and that she and Dad were getting a divorce. Rachel cried and asked questions, but I said nothing and went to my room. I couldn’t even look at her.

  A month later, Mom and Gary quit the dealership and moved away together, leaving their jilted spouses in the dust. So, yeah. Apparently, slimy people like to stick together.

  “He told me all about your . . . situation,” Rita goes on, lowering her voice on situation like my shoplifting charge is a terminal disease. She stops at the register and faces me again. “At first I was wary, because, you know . . .” She gestures in the direction of the clothing racks. “But Charles has been good to me, and I trust him. So I decided I’m going to trust you too.”

  My face warms as a rush of shame washes over me. I clear my throat and force myself to look her in the eye. “Thanks. You definitely can. Trust me, I mean. I—I appreciate you taking a chance on me.”

  She reaches up to smooth her sleek hair, making the bracelets chime again. “I believe in giving people a fair shot in life. That’s why I do this job. Okay,” she says brightly, punching a button on the register. “Come over here so I can teach you how to use this monster.”

  For the next twenty minutes, she goes over how to handle various forms of payment. It’s stuff I already learned last week at Royal Smoothie, but I pay attention anyway. Before I left this morning, Dad lectured me about taking this job seriously, even though I’m not getting paid. And how it’s a good opportunity for me to learn something about myself. And how helping out a charity—even if it’s to satisfy a community service obligation—will improve my life and make me a better human being.

  I’m not sure how standing behind a cash register for three hours a week is supposed to turn me into a good person, but okay.

  Next, Rita takes me to a small stockroom where donations are stored and sorted. The cramped space is overflowing with boxes and bags of clothing.

  “You’ll never have to lift any really heavy things,” Rita says as she paws through one of the boxes. “That’s what my nephew, Eli, is for. He helps me out for a few hours on weekends. Did you notice the marigolds out front? He planted those for me. Eli’s a good boy.”

  Just as I’m about to tell her that her nephew and I met—sort of—outside earlier, the sound of a door slamming echoes into the stockroom.

  “Speak of the devil.” Rita closes the box and stacks it on top of another one. “Or angel, as it were. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  I follow her back into the store area, a knot forming in my stomach. Only a few people know about my sticky-fingers habit, and that’s the way I’d like to keep it. It’s bad enough that Rita knows; I don’t want her nephew to always have to wonder about me too. But there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Rita’s doing me a favor—she can tell people whatever she wants.

  The tall guy—Eli—is standing by the side doors and gulping from a water bottle when we walk in. His work gloves are off, and there’s a long streak of dust across the front of his shirt.

  “Eli,” Rita says with a shake of her head. “The door?”

  Eli swallows the water in his mouth. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “I always know when it’s Eli coming in because the entire floor shakes,” she explains to me. “I told him if he breaks the door, he has to work off the cost of repairs by sorting through the occasional bag of used underwear we find in the donation bins.”

  I can’t tell if she’s joking or not, so I just smile thinly. Gross. I hope that won’t be one of my jobs.

  “Eli, this is Morgan,” Rita says, gesturing to me. “She’ll be doing some volunteering here this summer. Morgan, this is my favorite nephew, Eli.”

  The knot in my stomach loosens. She’s not going to tell him why I’m really here, at least for now.

  “Also her only nephew,” Eli adds as he walks over to me. I notice he has a slight limp, so slight that I wonder if I’m mistake
n. He holds out his hand and we shake, my fingers disappearing completely inside his. “So you’re going to be working here, huh?” he says with a smirk. “Better hide the glassware.”

  My cheeks burn again, this time from embarrassment. I glance at Rita. She’s smiling at him like what he said was perfectly normal, even though she couldn’t possibly know about the crushed vase. Maybe he says random things all the time and she’s used to it.

  “Morgan goes to . . .” Rita looks at me. “What high school do you go to? Your dad mentioned it, but I forget.”

  “Nicholson,” I say. “I’ll be a senior in the fall.”

  Eli drains the rest of his water and crushes the bottle in his hand. “Cool. I just graduated from Waverly.”

  I nod, unsure what to say next. Small talk has never been my strong suit. And all I know about Waverly High is that their football team consistently kicks our football team’s ass. I wonder if Eli plays football. He has the build for it.

  The door opens then, and all three of us turn toward it. A woman carrying a baby in a car seat walks in. Rita greets her with a smile before returning her gaze to Eli.

  “Off you go.” She shoos him away. “Morgan’s going to take care of her very first customer.”

  “Sure thing.” He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I still have a huge mess to clean up in the driveway, anyway.”

  I look back at him, keeping my face blank. If he thinks he’s going to win me over by mocking me, he’s only going to end up disappointed. I’m short with red hair, and I have an older sister—I’ve been immune to teasing since I was about six.

  “Whoa, okay,” he says cheerfully when I don’t give him the laugh he was probably expecting. Without another word, he heads for the side door and outside. I watch him closely to see if I can pick up on the limp I detected earlier. I was right—he definitely favors his right leg, though it’s barely noticeable.

  For a moment, I find myself wondering what happened to him, but I shut the thoughts down as quickly as they arrive. I’m not here to make friends. I have enough friends. I’m here to get this punishment over with and move on with my life.