“No,” she said, folding her arms. “I don’t know.”
“He’s sweet,” I said. “But I don’t know if I could ever really go out with him. He’s a little out there. You understand that, Isabel.”
“No, I don’t understand that,” she said slowly. Morgan put down her salt shaker. “What I do know,” Isabel said, gathering steam, “is that when you showed up here all in black, with your friggin’ lip pierced and your hair a ratty mess, with more attitude than even I have, ‘out there’ did not even cover what I thought of you.”
“Isabel,” Morgan said.
Isabel held up a hand to stop her. “No,” she said. Then she turned back to me. “Look, Colie. Don’t let some cute guy make you forget yourself. I never would have encouraged you if I thought you would become like that girl who came in here and called you those things.”
“I’m not,” I said, hurt.
“Right now, you are.” She picked up her magazine again. “Norman is the nicest, sweetest boy I’ve ever met. If you think he’s not good enough for you, you must be better than any of us.”
“I didn’t say that,” I said. I could feel my throat getting tight. Even Morgan wouldn’t look at me.
“You didn’t have to,” Isabel said. “You, of all people, should know that what isn’t said can hurt the most.”
She was right. Mira’s words that morning should have taught me something. I took off my apron and balled it up, stuffing it beside the coffee machine. Then I walked out from behind the counter, down the hallway, and locked myself in the bathroom.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror: my new hair, my new eyebrows. My new me. If Isabel was right, I could never forgive myself. Just as my mother vowed never to forget the Fat Years, I could never let myself forget my Years of Shame. If I did, I was no better than Bea Williamson or Caroline Dawes.
I watched Norman from the bathroom window. He was bent over the tailgate, looking for something. He’d never been anything but nice to me.
For the rest of the day, I kept to myself. Isabel was gone by early afternoon, leaving Morgan and me to close together. Norman was in the kitchen finishing up.
All I knew about him was what I’d seen and assumed. So many times I’d sat watching from my room as he lugged strange objects into his apartment: dead fish mounted on plaques, someone’s old hockey trophies, a stack of TV trays decorated with the faces of presidents, even an antique waffle iron that was so heavy it got away from him, tumbling down the grass to hit the birdbath with a crash.
Then there were the portraits. That slow, loping way of moving. The sunglasses. And, finally, how I’d hurt him without even trying. When I finally asked Morgan about him, she looked up at me and smiled, as if she’d been waiting for the question.
“Oh, Norman,” she said as we sprayed trays with Windex. She glanced back into the kitchen, where he was in the walk-in cooler, examining a box of lemons. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“He is,” I said quietly. If anyone could forgive me for how I’d acted, it was Morgan. “What’s his story?”
She put her tray aside and folded her rag, neatly. “Well,” she said seriously, “he’s had a lot of family trouble. His dad is Big Norm Carswell. He owns that auto dealership, the one with the searchlight, right before you come over the bridge? You’ve probably seen the commercials. He’s got white hair and throws his arms around a lot, screaming about good deals.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. He was on a lot during wrestling. “I’ve seen those.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said. “Anyway, he’s a big deal around here. City Council, Tourism Board, all that. Norman’s two older brothers have both gone into the business. But Norman . . .”
She trailed off as the cooler door slammed, waiting until Norman emerged with a handful of lemons and went outside.
“Anyway,” she went on quietly, “Norman’s just not the car salesman type, you know? And a couple of years back, when he started talking about applying to art schools, his dad just freaked. Said he wouldn’t pay for it, that it was a waste of time, all that. It was so ridiculous. Norman had already gotten a scholarship; he starts this fall. He’s good, Colie. You should see his stuff.”
I thought of the portrait in Mira’s house, and the one I’d seen of Morgan and Isabel.
Norman was on the front stoop now, studying his lemons. He threw one up in the air and caught it.
“So,” she continued, pulling down another tray, “it finally got so bad that Norman moved out of his Dad’s house. This was, like, last year, when he was seventeen. He packed everything in his car and was just living back here, by the Dumpsters, until Mira told him to come stay with her. It was the same week that cat showed up near dead on her front step. So she took them both in.”
“Wow,” I said, looking out at Norman, who was still tossing and catching the lemons, studying their falling patterns. “That’s amazing. I mean, that his dad would be like that.”
“Well, he’d made up his mind about what he wanted Norman to be. He’d assumed too much.” She didn’t look at me as she said this, but I knew the lesson was there, and I was expected to take it. “And it’s so sad, that his dad just doesn’t get it,” she added. “He never has.”
“Get what?” I said, as Norman launched a lemon into the air, keeping it circling with one hand. After a moment he added another, using both hands now.