Never Been Texted Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, or events is entirely coincidental.

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  Never Been Texted © 2015 by Linda Joy Singleton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Leap Books, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  Cover Art & Typography by Quixcy Designs and Nina Gauthier Gee

  Interior Art by Shannon Delany

  Interior Layout by NovelNinjutsu.com

  Leap Books, LLC, P.O. Box 63, Otego, NY, 13825

  www.LeapBks.com

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  First Edition August 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-61603-048-3

  Published in the United States of America.

  DEDICATED TO:

  Melissa, Brian, Nikoli, Patrick and Breonna

  who share my love for books and animals.

  Also to Danna Smith and Linda Whalen,

  talented writers and wonderful friends.

  And with a huge thank you to Shannon Delany.

  She had to do hard work from morning until evening. And because she always looked dusty and dirty, they called her Cinderella. (Grimm)

  Sweet 16 and never been texted,” Rory teases me as she aims a plastic henna cone over my open palm. She presses her thumb to the top of the cone and greenish-brown paste oozes onto my skin. A henna tattoo doesn’t involve needles, so I have no fear of pain, but it’s hard to sit perfectly still when Rory’s in one of her wicked teasing moods.

  “A supportive best friend says happy birthday – no insults allowed.” I grin so she doesn’t know how much her words sting.

  “Happy, happy birthday to you, dear Ashlee,” she singsongs in her pitchy voice she freely admits is lethal enough to explode song birds. My tiny dog Toffee, curled up on the floor by my sneakers, whines in complaint.

  We’re in my kitchen, which smells of lemon juice, lavender, and sugar from the ingredients Rory mixed for her witchy henna brew. We always hang out at my place since Rory’s mother is a borderline hoarder, and if she orders any more from shopping channels, someone will have to move out. (Rory is hoping it’ll be one or both of her younger sisters.) We always have privacy at my house, especially with my stepdad, Blake, working longer hours than ever.

  I glance uneasily at the dark concoction staining my palm. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Overhead lights glint off the tiny gold arrow piercing Rory’s brow. “No worries. It’s not like henna can kill or mutilate you. And if I mess up, it’ll fade away in a few weeks.”

  “I’m so reassured. Not.”

  Rory has a habit of plunging into new projects only to grow bored and quit. To be fair, though, she’s a brilliant artist. The henna lizard she stained like a bracelet around her wrist looks real enough to gulp down unsuspecting flies. And a henna tattoo is a much better birthday gift than I expected. All day at school, Rory taunted me with hints like “you can’t wrap it” and “it’ll vanish in a few weeks.” I was seriously worried it was edible or alive.

  I admire how steady Rory’s hand is as she paints my palm. But I’m bristling inside like a cat rubbed the wrong way, annoyed by her “never been texted” comment, and I need to set things straight.

  “You’re wrong, you know,” I blurt out.

  “About what?” she asks without looking up.

  “I’ve sent and received lots and lots and lots of texts.”

  “But never from your own phone.” Rory flips back her naturally blond hair, which shimmers with very unnatural red, purple, and black streaks she calls her Cleopatra-blond style. “You always borrow a phone – usually mine.”

  Rory’s point made successfully, she returns to henna painting. I hunch slightly so my too curly brown hair tumbles over my face, hiding the blush I know is turning my skin a crimson shade of humiliated. I try to come up with an argument to prove Rory wrong. Yet what can I say? She knows me better than anyone else, only she doesn’t get how it feels to be a “have not” in a school of “haves.” She’s like most kids at Shoester High who charge through life with the best clothes, best cars, and best tech money can buy. Homeowners in our rural town of Castle Top, named for the hilltop house (well, mansion) where our mayor lives, are rich. And I mean RICH in caps – because of a weird smell that led to the discovery of underground gas and is now a pipeline to mega-riches for most of Castle Top.

  Except me.

  Not because my stepdad didn’t get a share of the gas money. He did. But he put it all into our family business, Bow-Wow Boutique, and he’s old-school about earning your own money, so instead of bestowing me with a generous allowance, I’m his low-paid kennel slave. Working for dogs. Literally.

  “FYI, I won’t be tech deprived much longer,” I tell Rory, whose real name is Aurora, but try saying that three times without sounding like your mouth is full of peanut butter.

  “Oh?” She glances up, a glob of henna hanging from the cone.

  “I’m getting my own phone. Today.”

  “Seriously?” She arches her pierced brow. “Cheap as dirt Blake is finally going to let you to join the twenty-first century?”

  “Well, yeah.” I glance curiously at the greenish-brown design on my palm that’s shaping into some kind of animal. “Last time I asked him for a phone, he said to wait until my sixteenth birthday.”

  “How long ago was this?” Her voice sharpens, doubts obvious.

  “I don’t know exactly. A few weeks, maybe months. Still today is the big day, and he knows what I want. I hinted yesterday that I didn’t expect a party and I’d bake my own cake, that all I want is one special gift.” I don’t add that Blake rushed out of the house this morning without any mention of my birthday. But he’ll make up for it tonight. I’m sure.

  “What brand of phone will you get?” Rory gestures to her smart phone she left on the counter, the neon-green cover shining beneath the glow of kitchen lights. Her phone dings with a text, which she ignores.

  “Brand doesn’t matter. I just want the most amazing, gorgeous, wonderful phone ever.” I lift my free hand and wave it in the air like a magic wand. “My phone won’t be ordinary chrome or white or black, but a wicked blend of pink and purple — marvelous mauve.”

  Rory laughs. “And where will you find this marvelous phone? Not in Castle Top, that’s for sure.”

  “Blake promised to take me to Empire Mall,” I say with some pride and a little fear, too, because my stepdad’s promises are made of holes and excuses and sorrys. We used to be close, but now we’re just strangers sharing the same space. Thank God for Rory who has been there for me even in my darkest moments.

  “Ta da!” Rory exclaims, setting aside the henna cone. “You can look.”

  So I look, and the image on my palm is a delicate bird in flight. I’m not sure what species, but its face has an ethereal almost-human quality so I mentally dub it my fairy-bird.

  “I love it!” I say then start to rise to give Rory a hug, b
ut she pushes me back in the chair and orders me to stay still so it can dry properly. She gives me a spray gel and instructions to keep my hand wrapped in gauze overnight so it will last for several weeks.

  Rory’s cell dings with another text as I walk her to her car, and when she glances at it she gets this dreamy look, which means it’s from her latest boyfriend, Ian. I know she’ll wait ‘til she’s home to reply to her messages – that near magical connection of friends and family I envy, although I’m not swimming in that pity pool. Today isn’t a day for sinking like a rock dumped in a lake, but a day for strapping on wings and flying into dreams.

  I’m finally getting my marvelous phone!

  But first, I have chores.

  I check my list:

  1. Feed and water dogs.

  2. Clean kennels.

  3. Bake cake.

  It’ll take me about two hours – just enough time for Blake to come home from Bow-Wow Boutique and finish last minute gift wrapping. Only one gift matters, of course, and I can’t wait to unwrap my precious phone. I won’t even mind (much) if he’s forgotten my request for mauve or if it’s the cheapest model with a limited usage plan. My smart phone doesn’t have to be Grade A smart. I’ll be happy with a Grade C. As long as it’s my own.

  The house is quiet, but out back in the kennel the dogs await me. I go into the mud room and kick off my shoes, change into my overalls, tie back my curly hair, squeeze on latex gloves, and slip into my kennel boots. I head outside with Toffee wagging her tail behind me.

  After years of cleaning up after dogs, you get used to urine and dog-poop smells. The kennel isn’t large compared to major breeders; only fifteen cages but each is super-sized with cushions and chew toys to pamper our pedigreed, champion-bred beauties. We raise Queen Bee Terriers, a snow-white toy breed small enough to be carried in a purse. They look similar to West Highland White Terriers but with gold-tipped ears, amber-gold eyes, and golden curlicue tails. People come from around the world to buy Q-Bees because instead of barking like most terriers, they purr. Yeah, like cats.

  And I love them – the bitches anyway. Not so much my stepdad’s pampered champion sires, Brutus and Cretin. They aren’t confined to cages and have plush carpeted canine condos in the house, freely roaming via doggie doors between the house and kennels. They strut around like kings, pooping wherever they please, which does not please me, the person who has to clean up after them.

  Brutus and Cretin are waiting for me inside the kennel, teeth bared as if the kennel is a castle and they rule. If I don’t feed them first, they’ll nip at my ankles. My stepdad refuses to discipline them and says they don’t obey me because I’m too tough on them. Me? Slave to a kennel of furry masters? Blake has to be joking, and not the knock-knock groaners he used to tell. If I’m tough, it’s only because someone has to teach the stud tyrants discipline, and Blake sure won’t. If I’m sandpaper tough with them, he’s as soft as four-ply tissue.

  I’m careful with my gauze-covered left hand as I scoop out precisely a cup of kibble blended with healthy herbs and vitamins for my dog bosses. While they eat, I kneel down to the newspapered floor and roll up the soiled papers from one end of the cage to the other. Once the soggy, stinky papers are tossed away, I spread out clean ones.

  Cacophonies of purrs rumble as I turn my attention to the female Q-Bees. I cuddle and pet the darlings, pour kibble, and refill water dishes. Daisy gets extra helpings because she’s going to have her first litter soon. Honey loves getting her neck scratched. Sugar is the proud mom of four, and I giggle as the furry pups wiggle around my ankles. I save Toffee for last; she’s supposed to stay in her cage, but mostly she stays with me. She’s almost a year old but will never be bred because her markings are inferior quality for a pedigreed Q-Bee. Only one of her eyes is gold; the other is dark brown, almost the same shade as my hair. When she was born imperfect, my stepdad wanted to drown her (sounds shocking but it’s more common than you’d think). But I begged and sobbed and promised to work extra hours if he’d let me keep her. She may not measure up to her breed in looks, but she’s super smart, sweet, and quick to learn acrobatic tricks. And when Toffee licks my cheek, I whisper that I love her best.

  Humming “happy birthday” to myself, I practically dance back to the house to start on my cake. Before Mom died, on every birthday, she’d bake me a carrot cake from scratch, with extra cream cheese frosting. I never knew my birth father, who died of a stroke before I was born, but Mom told me carrot cake was his favorite. So, it became my favorite, too. After the car crash one year and two months ago, I couldn’t bear to look at Mom’s recipe book. Today, though, I feel like she’s close-by, celebrating my birthday with me, so I open the book and bake my own birthday cake.

  I’m licking frosting from my fingers when I hear a car outside. Blake. We don’t talk much, isolated in moats of silence since losing Mom, but I’m feeling hopeful, like we can start over – not as polite roommates but as a family. I’ll fake surprise when he gives me my gift then immediately text Rory so she’ll text back. My first text on my very own phone!

  “Ashlee!” my stepdad shouts as the front door bangs behind him. “Ashlee, where are you?”

  “In the kitchen,” I call.

  “Well, come here,” he snaps.

  I toss the frosting spoon in the sink and hurry to the living room. Blake’s wearing his Bow-Wow Boutique name badge and paw-print tie. He’s tall, six-three, and not yet forty, although with his shoulders bowed and dark circles under his eyes he seems older, like he’s aging in dog years. I want to tell him not to work so hard, and that I miss Mom, too. Instead, I glance at his hands, hoping for a phone-shaped gift box. He’s only holding a pet carrier, which he thrusts at me.

  “Take this and go fetch Brutus. He’ll need food, water, and a blanket.”

  I take the carrier, frowning. “What’s going on?”

  “I have a rush stud job for him.”

  “Now? And why is Brutus going to a customer’s house? Usually the bitch is brought here.”

  “Not for Mrs. Evanston,” he says, and it takes me a minute to remember. Oh, yeah. The agoraphobic client who refuses to leave her home and spends the fortune her husband left her on her dogs.

  “If I bring Brutus to her tonight, my fee is doubled,” my stepfather adds in a rush. “It’s a long drive so I have to hurry.”

  “But don’t you remember what today is?”

  “Tuesday.” He shrugs.

  “Yeah, but that’s not all.” I gnaw my lip, looking up at him. “Isn’t there something else…I mean…you want to say to me?”

  “Of course.” He pats my head like I’m one of the dogs. “Don’t forget to give Daisy her vitamins and check on Sugar’s litter.” He sniffs the air. “Something smells good. Is it dinner?”

  “No. Dessert.” I swallow hard. “Cake for my – “

  “I’m sure it’s delicious,” he cuts me off and picks up a stack of mail piled on the table. Creases deepen in his brow as he studies an official-looking envelope. He doesn’t open it, folding it in half before slipping it into his pocket.

  I look at him hopefully. “Blake, what time will you be home for dinner?”

  “Too late,” he says in a foggy way like he isn’t listening. “It’ll be midnight before I’m back. Have dinner without me. Take care of things here while I’m gone.”

  I stare at him, too hurt to do more than nod. Not one word about my birthday. Nothing.

  “That’s a good girl, Ashlee,” he says. “I can always count on you.”

  If only I could say the same about him.

  “I wish I could. I wish I could.” She was not able to speak the rest, being interrupted by her tears and sobbing. (Perrault)

  I put off calling Rory, the lump in my throat so painful I’ll choke if I try to talk. Besides, she’ll only get mad at Blake, and spew swear words sharp enough to skin him alive, which will make me feel worse. I was stupid to expect my stepdad to care about my feelings. Maybe he did, once upon a tim
e when Mom was alive, but that ended in a crash that took her life and their unborn baby.

  When Blake leaves, off to pimp out Brutus for a ridiculous stud fee, I stomp into the kitchen and glare at the cake. It’s beautiful. I hate it. I dump it into the trash.

  I need to move, not to think or feel. So I grab a leash and free Toffee from her cage. It’s too late for a walk, almost dark, but I leave anyway.

  Toffee seems to sense my mood, and instead of heeling beside me as she’s been trained to do, she takes off running. So I run, too, paying no mind to where I’m going. Although I know my neighborhood well, tonight everything takes on a shadowy strangeness. Buildings blur by as I run faster, dim lights shining from windows.

  I don’t slow to say hi to Mr. Baker even though he waves from his porch. The Kabkee’s must be barbequing again, I think, as a delicious aroma of barbequed chicken makes my mouth water. I stop only when I reach Othello Road, where the Dunwilly family and Mr. Shakespeare live, because it’s a dead-end street.

  Clomping hooves startle me until I whirl around to Granny Dermott driving her goat cart. She’s always so sweet to me and I love her goats, so I jog after her. She makes a right turn onto Second Street. The cart turns right again but when turn the corner, Granny Dermott and her goat cart are gone.

  Toffee stops abruptly in front of a building I’ve never seen before. The tiny shop has a peaked roof and round windows glowing like spying eyes. An amber lamp over the doorway shines on a sign reading: W.I.S.H.

  Hmmm, what kind of store is this? There’s an “open” sign in the window, so I grasp the knob and step inside. Wow!

  Walls sparkle with brilliant electronics. Tablets, computers, game devices, flat-screen TVs – everything tech imaginable. In the center of the room is a table with a sign announcing: Special Cell Phone Sale!

  “May I help you?” a small voice asks, but when I turn toward the register, I don’t see anyone. I only hear a throat-clearing sound.

  “Is someone here?” I feel like I’m dream-walking. This can’t be real. There are no electronic stores in Castle Top. And I’ve never heard of any store called W.I.S.H.