I remember the day I finally asked her about the sloth pins and buttons on her apron.
She had said, “Sloths are my spirit animal.”
When I’d asked why, she explained, “Sloths are very clumsy on land. But in the water, they are very elegant. Graceful, even. Sort of like me. I’m not sure where my feet are most of the time when I’m walking around. But…” She’d hesitated, looked over her shoulder to be sure no one could hear, then continued in hushed tones, “I am on the synchronized swimming team at the YMCA. I’m about forty years younger than everyone else, but I don’t care. I love the water. It makes me forget how clumsy I am.”
Even so, I secretly love how clumsy she is.
I love everything about her.
Chapter 2
Lexi
“Seriously? He’s never kissed you? Never tried to feel you up? Nothing?” Heather pokes me playfully in the cheek with her index finger, fighting a grin. “Not even a peck right here?”
“Stop!” I swat her hand away. Living and working together has made us like sisters. “You don’t need to be all up in my Cheerios.”
I reach around to untie my apron, wrinkling my nose in melodramatic disgust. The dandelion-yellow fabric is dotted with bits of today’s special: deep-fried stuffed spinach cayenne tofu balls with basil kefir drizzle. The lady with too much perfume and the glittery ball cap knocked it all over me as I was setting down her plate. Apparently, whatever she was talking about required some especially expressive hand gestures.
I take a whiff of the apron and roll my eyes. Lucky I have plenty of quarters for the laundry. I wad it up, kefir side in, and stuff it into my messenger bag with the “Live slow. Die Whenever.” sloth patch sewn onto the front.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask Heather as she follows my lead and folds her apron neatly before putting it into her backpack.
“Not sure.” Heather tugs the rope on her raw cotton tunic tight at the waist then loops it into a loose bow. “There’s a PBS Hitler documentary on. It’s only a four-hour series, so after that…dunno.” She reaches up to tighten her messy bun. “Probably Salinger. Or Vonnegut.”
A single strand of golden hair hangs from the crown of her head, directly down her nose, and she does nothing about it. It’s driving me mad. But even so, I can’t help but think that hair like hers could send legions of men into battle, like some sort of heroic Greek saga. It’s that beautiful, hanging nearly to the center of her back in perfect Californian waves.
Not that she’s ever set foot out of Portland. Her parents were part of what’s known around here as a co-op. Everyone else would call it a cult.
You can check in, but you can’t check out sort of deal.
When she was eight or nine, even she isn’t sure, the Feds raided the compound, and Heather was removed, placed in state care due to severe neglect. She weighed just thirty pounds. Horrifying. And her hair, which is now so stunning she could pass for a Victoria’s Secret model, had to be shaved from her head; infested with lice, it was matted into one huge dreadlock, dulled to brown with muck.
Since then, it’s been foster homes and now probation. Like me. The probation, that is.
“I’ve got a half pound of filet coming my way,” she adds. “Ricky promised me.”
She’s a closet carnivore, which around here is the worst of the seven sins. And on our budget, most of our food comes from our job at Moe’s. Not that I’m complaining. One of the perks of this job is you get two full meals a day to eat in or take out. No charge. Even when you have the day off.
When I was seven, when my life was normal and my biggest worry was if I could stay up to watch another episode of something on Disney Junior, my parents took me to Kentucky Fried Chicken one night for dinner. I remember the moment of revelation that evening. That the drumstick I brought to my mouth was actually part of a chicken.
From that day on, my natural inclination has been to avoid meat. Since starting at Moe’s, I’ve sipped more of the Kool-Aid and slipped fairly easily into a vegan diet. Thank goodness for the free meals there, because eating vegan isn’t always for the budget conscious.
“Ricky?” I groan, adding an eye roll for good measure. “Please, don’t let him back in our room.”
Our efficiency is just around the corner from here. Another benefit of the Count On sponsorship program is we get a decent room in a good area of Portland. It’s not free but subsidized as part of the program which Rueger’s company funds.
“Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m picking it up in the back alley behind the butcher shop, like some sort of seedy drug deal.” She grins.
Ricky has a room in the same house as us and works part time at a local co-op, grass-fed, hand-raised, humane butcher shop.
That’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one.
Ricky is half Spicoli and half Rodney Dangerfield, with a bloodstained apron. He gives me the creeps because he’s just always around, you know?
“Okay.” I cross the strap of my bag over my body then reach around to try to discreetly tug my underwear wedgie free. “Well then, I guess I’m off.” I take a quick look in the cracked mirror over the sink. My hair is my hair. It’s not Heather’s, but I do love the little colorful rainbow tips she did for me last weekend.
Rueger and I have spent enough time together that I shouldn’t be so nervous. He’s always been the perfect gentleman. More than a gentleman, actually. Sort of a father figure. Makes it kind of awkward that I have all sorts of dirty thoughts about him, but still. I know his interest in me must be purely public relations, because he’s never stepped out of line. Not once.