“I don’t have asthma, moron,” I screech. “It’s not asthma attacking me, it’s you!”

He wipes both hands down his face, then interlaces them behind his neck as if trying to appear harmless. “I wasn’t attacking you. I was … subduing you.”

“For real? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Ohmigod, I can’t talk to you! You’re impossible to deal with!”

“I’m impossible? You took my bike—again! Then you … you…”

“I’ll give your bike back. I’m sorry I sub—took actions to neutralize your anger. I knew you wouldn’t listen to me.”

I cross my arms and start to walk in a circle. A tight circle that traumatized people walk in when they’re trying to get a grip. “He’s stalking me,” I say more to myself than to him. “Why is he stalking me?” I stop and face him. “Why would you stalk me?”

He looks mortified at the thought. “That’s reaching a bit, don’t you think?”

“Look up the definition of stalker, then get back to me on that one.”

He shakes his head, cussing under his breath. Then he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a folded-up piece of paper. Slowly, he hands it to me. “This is the restaurant. They need a waitress for Saturday and Sunday mornings. You’ll need to talk to Miss May. She’s the manager. Tell her I sent you and you’ve got the job.”

I open up the paper and examine it:

Uppity Rooster Café

Miss May

Saturday + Sunday from 6 am to 1 pm

I’ve never seen Arden’s handwriting before, but I’m betting it’s his. It’s definitely boy-scrawl, anyway. It doesn’t have all the frilly loops and neatness of a woman’s penmanship. “I don’t understand” is all I can say.

He sniffs. “Look, I know I’ve pissed you off worse than an alligator in a bathtub. But I’m trying to make it up to you. This is a good-paying job. These two shifts are the best, and I guarantee you’ll make more money there than the Breeze Mart. I talked to one of the servers who used to work there. She said she can make up to three hundred dollars a shift. Cash.”

Three hundred bucks a shift. That’s nearly six hundred dollars a week. That’s more than double what I make at the Breeze Mart. “I’ve never waitressed before,” I admit, awestruck at the revelation. Julio would melt in my hands if I brought home that kind of money.

“How hard can it be? You learn the menu, take people’s orders, then bring it to their table. Believe me, if Rose can be a waitress, you can.”

I don’t know who Rose is, but Arden’s argument seems valid. I’m not helpless. I’m a hard worker—that is, if there was actually hard work to do at the Breeze Mart. “But then I’d be working seven days a week.” I say this more to myself than to Arden.

Standing at the Breeze Mart cash register isn’t exactly strenuous, but never getting a day off? Could I really do that? In the back of my mind, I think about my grades. I know it’s wrong to think about myself at a time like this, to think about what if. What if I can keep my grades up and get a scholarship after my family gets back to the States? What if I can make something of myself? But I have to let go of selfish thoughts like that. I have to keep focused on the most important thing. As Julio says, family first.

But the disappointment frothing in my stomach betrays me.

“Why would you need to work at both places?” Arden says. “Think how much more time you’ll have during the week if you just work weekends.”

I shake my head. “I don’t need time. I need money.”

Arden bites his lip. “Can I just interject something here without getting you all pissed off again?”

Knowing Arden, probably not. “Sure.”

“Well, it just seems that you’re uptight all the time. I know you and your brother need money, and I don’t blame you for wanting to take on both jobs. It’s just … what about you? This is supposed to be the best time of your life. Geez, we’re in high school. We’re supposed to look back on this time in our life and remember how fun it was. How can you do that if you work yourself to death?”

“When I look back, I’ll have something to be proud of. That I helped my family.” I don’t expect Arden to understand. Really and truly I don’t. But I don’t want to have to explain it to him, either. Especially when doubt has become a congealed puddle in my gut.

“You said that if you didn’t have to work so much you’d spend time with me. That you wouldn’t mind having a little fun. Was that a bunch of BS?”

I look down at the paper in my hands. He’s gone to a lot of trouble on my behalf. This boy who has pulled a gun on me, scared my friend half to death, stolen my bike (twice), insulted me in front of practically the entire school (accounting for gossip), and held me hostage for one-point-five minutes.

This boy who stood up for me in the hall, gave me a ride home, let me dump a carton of milk on him without retribution, checked on me at the store in the middle of the night, and has now procured me a good-paying job if I so want it.

God, but Arden Moss is confusing. Confusing, and persistent.

I meet his eyes. “I’ll check into this restaurant thing. And we’ll go from there. No promises.”

His eyes light up. “Awesome. You’ll need to see Miss May this Saturday at two p.m. That’s when things slow down at the café.”