9. Kieran
KIERAN
Longest. Week. Ever.
Every time I turn around, Roderick is there. I’m in hell, and I’m behaving like a teenage prick. And I feel like one, too. But I cannot have a casual chat about high school with Roderick. Not within earshot of customers or Zara. That’d be like turning my soul inside out.
He’s Mr. Charming, with that easy smile. Hey, about high school … Like that’s an easy conversation.
I’m in knots over it. And every time I catch a glimpse of his smile, I can picture him putting his mouth to other uses. He knows something about me that nobody else suspects—I watched him because I liked it. He knows something about me that I haven’t managed to tell a soul.
Including myself.
When Zara gets off the phone, my torture ends. “You can call it a day, Roddy,” she says.
He has a nickname already? That can’t be good.
“Audrey and I are going to have a chat about what we need in terms of hours. And we’ll be in touch. Here—I’m going to pay you in cash for these two days of work.”
Paying him in cash is good, right? It means he’s not actually on the payroll. Maybe they aren’t hiring him. Maybe I don’t have to feel exposed every time I set foot in this place.
My relief is short-lived. Audrey buzzes through the door a little later, and the two of them go into the kitchen to talk, while I serve the afternoon crowd.
As I’m cleaning up the coffee bar, I overhear them.
“So… Who’s going to tell Kieran?” Zara says. “I’ll flip you for it.”
My heart dives into my stomach as Audrey says, “You tell him. I’ll watch.”
“Tell me what?” I ask, sticking my head into the kitchen.
They both startle. “Um…” Audrey smiles.
“We hired Roderick,” Zara says.
“What?” I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’m still miserable. “He couldn’t possibly be the best choice.” There’s no way I can see his face every day and not think about the way I shamelessly and repeatedly invaded his privacy when I was a teenager. Or why.
Audrey and Zara exchange a glance.
“Buddy,” Audrey says slowly. “Why don’t you like this guy?”
“He’s a dick,” I say immediately. And then I feel a new crushing wave of shame. Because what I mean to say is, I saw his dick. And I liked it .
“Based on what, though? How do you know him?”
Shit .
“High school, right?” Zara offers.
“Yeah,” I grumble.
“So…” Audrey offers me the plate of muffins that they’ve been chowing. But I shake my head. “Is he still a dick? I mean, I don’t want to hire a dick. But is he presently a dick, or might he have outgrown it?”
I grind my teeth. “I dunno. I have to wipe down the machines and get going.”
It’s a chickenshit move, but I need a minute to wrap my head around this new development. The only person who ever glimpsed my hidden truths has invaded my life. It’s not his fault, but I want him gone.
I clock out. As I climb into my truck and head for Burlington and my second job, I’m as stressed out as I’ve ever been. He’s a dick , I’d told Audrey and Zara. I don’t even know the guy. And Zara and Audrey need a new employee.
I’d slandered him for no reason. Shame burns hotly inside me. I’d talked smack about a person I didn’t even know, only because I didn’t want to confront myself. That’s not the guy I am—is it?
Also, I have this nagging feeling that Roderick really needs the job. If that’s the case, then I’ve done something incredibly evil.
I park behind the advertising agency and go inside, heading straight to my desk, even before saying hello to Mr. Pratt, the owner. I sit down in my fancy ergonomic chair and dial my cousin’s wife’s phone.
“Hey!” Audrey says when she picks up. “Everything okay?” It’s unusual for me to call her after hours.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Look. What I said earlier?”
“You mean about Roderick?”
“Right.” Jesus, I don’t even like saying his name aloud. “It was just a stupid thing in high school. Nothing to worry about.”
She’s silent for a moment. “Are you sure? I trust your opinion.”
“I’m sure.” My voice is gravel. “It’s nothing. Just high school crap. Ancient history. I mean—I wouldn’t want to hire the high school version of me , even.”
“Oh, I would,” Audrey says easily. “You’re a little too serious, maybe, but you’re a solid guy. I’ll bet you were always like that. From birth.” She laughs.
“Um, thanks?” She’s right. I am too serious. People say that all the time. It’s just that I don’t know how to be anything else.
“Thanks for telling me,” Audrey says. “I feel better about him now.”
“Yeah…” I sigh. “Forget I even said anything.”
“All right. Will I see you at Thursday Dinner?”
“I don’t think so,” I admit. “My dad’s surgery is that day.”
“Oh! Of course. Let me know if you need me to adjust the schedule.”
“No, it’s fine. And he’ll be okay.” There’s really no reason why she should be stressed out over the old grump. Enough people are busy worrying about him already. “See you tomorrow?”
“Of course! Be well!”
I hang up the phone feeling slightly better about myself.
Just slightly.
Mr. Pratt ambles over. “Top of the morning to you!”
“Likewise.” That’s our little joke. He lets me work from two or three in the afternoon until I’m done, which is always somewhere between six and nine at night.
It’s a strange arrangement, but Pratt needs me. He isn’t an artist. His specialty is writing snappy copy. He used to have a business partner who did all the art, but that guy retired to Florida.
These days, Mr. Pratt has his lazy son Deacon working here during the day. And he has me here, from late afternoon into the evening, to do all the art that Deacon can’t manage and to fix all the messes that Deacon makes.
It’s not a terrific situation. But the pay isn’t too bad, the hours are flexible, and I’m getting paid to make art. Most weeknights I do my thing and leave the Photoshop files for Mr. Pratt to inspect in the morning.
“So, I love what you did with the vinyl records.” Pratt holds up a printout of some work I did last night. “Very slick placement of the text on version three.”
“Thank you.” I always create several versions of each draft, which is easy enough to do digitally.
“I’m not sold on version one, though.” He holds up another printout. The design looks horrible, because someone has completely fucked up my lettering. And by “someone” I mean Deacon Pratt.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I wanted that text in charcoal. And that typeface is too vintage for this brand, I think. That’s not the one I used.”
He frowns. “Switch it back, would you?”
“Sure,” I say, holding back a sigh. “What else do you have for me?”
“A few logo ideas for Winooski River Savings. Let me grab ’em.” He goes back to his desk while I fire up Photoshop on the computer.
In spite of the Pratt family dynamic, I do love this job.
I’ve been taking online design courses, and I hope to take a real class at Moo U next year.
If I could make a real living in graphic design someday, that would be amazing.
My family doesn’t know any of this, though.
They think I’m selling advertising, and I haven’t bothered to correct them.
Keeping my work a secret isn’t a normal thing to do. I realize this. But I started keeping secrets when I was a teenager, and I’ve never learned how to stop. And I also don’t see the point of telling everyone what’s in my heart. I don’t want to listen to their opinions about it.
Who’s got time for that?
“Let’s see,” Mr. Pratt says, flipping through his notebook. “Their old logo was circular, see?” He holds up a page with a familiar image on it. “I’d like you to keep the paddles and the canoe from their old logo. But I think it should be brighter somehow. Bolder.”
I consider the old logo for a moment. “I’m glad they’re updating this. Sketch art doesn’t really say bank to me. But neither does a canoe…”
This is a tricky design problem. My favorite kind.
“What do you think we should try?”
He says we . But he means me. “Let me play with the shape of the boat and the paddle, and see what I can do. I think if we put a wave form under it—like river rapids—it could be splashier.”
“Good, good!” he says, passing me the page. “Try that.”
And I get to work.
Four hours later, I lock the place up and stagger out to my car. Working two jobs is no picnic, but it’s very good for my bank account. At least I’d told Kyle that all the farming work was his tonight. No exceptions.
It’s a long drive home. On the way, I stop in Colebury to buy a burrito and wolf it down. It’s dark when I hit the two-lane highway toward Hardwick. The shops are all shuttered, and there’s no traffic, but I go slow, because the cops love to use this stretch as a speed trap.
That’s how I happen to spot the blue Volkswagen parked behind the pet-grooming place. I notice it because of the blue glow coming from somebody’s phone on the passenger side of the car.
Roderick. What’s he doing in there?
I look away, because I can’t afford to think about blue Volkswagens or the people who drive them.