Brittany Bends (2 page)

It’s hard to tell with my dad, because he lies all the time, except when he’s telling the truth. And usually the truth is harder to believe.

Like who my dad really is.

My dad is Zeus. Around here, they call him the Greek God Zeus, like there’s some other Zeus in the world.

There is only one Zeus. He’s my dad, and he’s a real pain in the rear most of the time, although when I said that to Mom shortly after arriving here, she pursed her lips together (which I would learn is something she does a lot when she disapproves) and reminded me that no matter what he does, he’s my father so I should show him some respect.

Yeah, what
ever
.

“You want me to drive you or not?” Eric asks. “Because if you sit here much longer, you’re going to be late.”

I sigh and open the car door, and this blast of totally frosty air hits me. I didn’t even have to get out to start shivering. I
hate
it that Eric’s right. I’m not sure how I can walk the six blocks to the shopping plaza without turning into some kind of gigantic blue ice cube.

I mean, it’s not like I’m dressed for this. I’m dressed for
success
, or at least, I’m dressed for success Johnson Family style.

Nine kids, all under the age of eighteen, two parents and only one with a full-time job. Even though Karl works as some kind of major project manager and has something called an engineering degree and gets paid pretty darn good (whatever that means), it doesn’t cover the cost of housing and feeding and dealing with all of us. Mom works part time in an accounting office (full time at tax season, whatever that means), but that doesn’t bring in enough to “make up the difference,” whatever
that
means.

Since I added a strain to their budget (and I do know what that means), I have to get a part-time job so I can start saving for school (whatever that means, since I’m already in school, not that I’m very good at it, because my education at Mount Olympus is nothing like my education here).

Which is all a long way of saying that what I’m wearing is a hand-me-down dress from my stepsister Lise (and the dang thing, while it’s a lovely sky blue, is one size too big for me) and panty hose that are all my own (and what a joy
those
things are [and Lise says no self-respecting teenager wears them, so I guess I’m not a self-respecting teenager]) and the only pair of dressy high heels that fit me (not that they really fit me; they’re one size too small because they’re my half sister Anna’s, which means they hurt like a son of a gun, as Karl would say).

“Last offer,” Eric says, “because I’m starting to get cold now.”

I look at him, and can’t really decide what the heck to do. Karl says you have to show up for a job interview looking like you don’t need the job, and Eric’s car screams
I need money
(at least, that’s what my half brother Ivan says). You can hear the car from miles away because it needs a muffler, and it needs a bumper and it needs—well, a lot of stuff. But Eric is giving it some TLC, which I don’t entirely understand but take to mean he’s trying to fix it, and—

“Screw it,” he says, and puts the car in drive. He starts to pull out, and I have to yank the door to close it, which is hard because there really is a wind, and it’s turning the door into a sail.

“Hey!” I say, because really, I can’t say much more given that I’m fighting with the door and something’s beeping and thank heavens I still have my seatbelt on.

“You don’t get a vote,” he says. “I’m driving you. You dithered.”

He has to stop before he pulls onto Caitlin Avenue, which is when I finally get the car door closed. I want to glare at him, but I’m still shivering and I think he might’ve saved my butt, since these heels aren’t that stable either.

He pulls onto Caitlin and I peer at the red brick buildings of the University of Wisconsin-Superior (which always look nice unlike the rest of the town, which needs paint) and then he turns onto Belknap Street and heads the few blocks toward the store.

It’s in this old plaza. There’s a grocery store “anchoring” it, at least that’s what Mom says, and a liquor store that’s been there “forever” (even though I don’t know how long
forever
could be since this town didn’t even exist until 1854, which certainly isn’t forever ago [and I know how old the town is because I had a stupid “forever” argument with Ivan, who’s ten and thinks he knows everything about everything, which I’m beginning to realize he doesn’t]).

There’s an AT&T store, which I keep wanting to go into, ever since my sister Crystal bought me and Tiff iPhones that our mothers made us give back, and a pizza place and a Subway across the parking lot, and a couple of other retail stores. One of them went out of business and a new one is opening, and it’s pretty easy to tell which one that is because it’s got a big sign on its only window that says,
Now Hiring
.
Apply Online
, which is exactly what I did (with Eric’s help).

The store is some kind of chain bargain store, at least that’s what Eric says, and he says they’re putting a toe into Superior to see if they want to open a big box store outside the city limits. I have no idea why a place that sells a little bit of everything wants to open a store outside of town that sells only large boxes, but hey, I don’t understand most things about this world I find myself in.

Eric seems to know that I’m nervous and he also seems to know that I don’t want anyone to see the car, so he parks behind Subway.

“Walk on over,” he says. “I’m getting a snack.” Then he smirks at me. “And don’t freeze.”

Sometimes he’s really nice, and sometimes he’s a real jerk, and sometimes he’s both at once.

Can you tell that I’m confused by just about everything? Including everyone in this town, I swear to God (as Anna always says before Mom tells her to stop swearing to anyone).

I get out and totter my way across the parking lot. Now I regret not having Eric’s coat no matter how terrible it would look. Every part of me is cold. And the wind reaches under my skirt like it works for my nephew Pan (who is waaaaaaay older than me, by the way, like by centuries).

I clutch the purse to my side, and the stupid bedazzled fake jewels are turning cold under my palm, which means that my hands are as cold as I think they are, which is just not a good thing.

I get to the sidewalk and almost trip climbing up the curb. Up close, the store looks dark and creepy and empty, but as I wonder if I should turn around, a woman opens the door.

“Are you Brittany Johnson?” she asks. I can barely see her through the gloom.

“Um, yeah,” I say, even though technically, I’m not a Johnson. Mom just decided to give me Karl’s last name to avoid the confusion. Because my birth certificate calls me Lundquist, which is Mom’s old last name, and Mom doesn’t want me explaining to everyone why all her other kids are Johnson and she has one Lundquist because no one in town, apparently, knows she gave birth “out of wedlock,” which is, I guess, something totally frowned on here.

(Pretty dang common where I come from. In fact, all except like a handful of my half siblings on my father’s side are the product of his wandering eye. His wife Hera has other choice words for us kids, which I don’t want to use. She doesn’t like the fact that he’s spent the past several thousand years fathering kids on other women, but she can’t really complain too much since her eye wanders too. Which I said to Mom once, and she held up her hands and said,
I don’t want to hear it, Brittany, I really don’t
in a tone I haven’t heard her use before or since.)

“Well, come on in,” the store lady says, “before we both freeze.”

I want to pump my hand in the air and say,
Yes!
, like Leif does when his favorite sports team scores, but I don’t. Instead I smile and slip inside.

The store is warm, and I let out a little sigh. It’s nice to be out of the wind.

It’s not dark and gloomy in here as it looked from the outside. It only seemed that way because the store lady has the lights off up front. Toward the back, there are lots and lots of fluorescent lights, and shelves that are in pieces, and boxes everywhere. Some tubby guy who’s older than Karl and wears a plaid shirt that makes Eric’s coat look stylish is piling even more boxes against a far wall.

The store lady smiles at me. She’s wearing blue jeans and a denim shirt that would actually look pretty good with my ugly purse. She has on no makeup (which is unusual around here), and her dark brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She pulls off some big gloves and extends a hand toward me.

“I’m Jill Larson,” she says. “I’m the manager here. And, I’ll be honest, I know your mom.”

Ah, nepotism. I know the word because it was the center of my life not too long ago. My dad excels at nepotism.

That’s why he chose me and Tiff and Crystal to become the Interim Fates. And that’s how we got approved. You see, my dad decided (in a fit of pique, Hera says) to get rid of true love, and he figured the best way to do that was to make the actual Fates step down.

The Fates are like the judges over life and all of magic and in that capacity also handle true love. And somehow (well, I know how, but for the sake of long-story-short), my dad convinced the Powers That Be (who are in charge of everything [and my dad was/is one of them, depending on whether or not he’s still being punished]) to fire the Fates and have them reapply for their old jobs.

Me, and Tiff and Crystal became Fates in the interim (hence Interim Fates) and we sucked at it. (Sorry, Mom.
Sucked
is the only word.) The only thing we did right was we didn’t let Daddy screw up true love. Somehow we blocked that. But the rest of it? Oh, man. Imagine if a first grader replaced Judge Judy.

So, nepotism. It’s like the story of my life.

Mrs. Larson smiles at me. (Mom told me I should always call adults by “Mr. or Mrs.” and their last name, to be respectful, even though a few women have corrected me and said that I should just call them Miz, which really confuses me.)

“Your mom,” Mrs. Larson says, “told me about—you know—your special circumstances.”

I frown at her. I’m not sure what special circumstances she means, although she did lower her voice. That, in the sideways speak of this strange town, sometimes means that the person who is talking doesn’t want anyone else to overhear the “sensitive” subject being raised.

“Um,” I say, feeling a blush start to warm my neck, “what, exactly, did Mom say?”

“Oh, you know. How she gave you up and then your family situation…well, you know…wasn’t ideal, and so she brought you back here.”

That blush climbed up my face and down my chest at the same time. I went from being too cold to being embarrassingly hot. (Or maybe that isn’t why I was embarrassed at all.)

“She’s a good woman, your mom,” Mrs. Larson says. “She also said you were brought up overseas, and you don’t know a lot about the US, but you’re a quick study.”

“Oh.” I can’t manage much more than that.

“She didn’t tell me, though, that you’re the spitting image of her at that same age. Your mom was the great beauty of our high school, doncha know, and she could’ve had any man, but that Karl Johnson, he had his eye on her. If it weren’t for the scheming of that Ava, his first wife—well, I’m not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But your mom and Karl, they were meant for each other. They were prom king and queen, you know. I’ll bet she never told you that.”

“She didn’t,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I know about prom king and queen, partly because of the movie
Carrie
(both versions) and partly because of
Never Been Kissed,
one of my favorite movies of all time. Yes, I’m a romantic. Yes, my sisters tease me about it. (Yes, I miss them.)

“Well, they were, and oh, they were perfect together,” Mrs. Larson says, still talking about Mom and Karl. “But that’s neither here nor there. Your mom asked me to give you an interview, nothing more, and I’m going to do that, even though I’m doing all the talking. So, let’s head to my office, shall we?”

She turns around and weaves through the boxes. They’re all labeled, and none of them are really big, so I figure they’re going to supply the store rather than be the boxes that the store wants to sell outside of town.

But what do I know? I hadn’t really had to deal with stores much at all until I moved here. At Mount Olympus, I could wave my hand and conjure anything I want.

Megan, my counselor (yes, I have a counselor, and yes, she’s magic—kinda. Another long-story-short), she says that the ability to do magic from such a young age was corrupting me and Crystal and Tiff, and it’s good for us to live without it. Yeah, maybe, but that doesn’t stop me from missing it.

Particularly now, when I’d use the magic to help me figure out how to deal with all the people and strangeness in Superior, Wisconsin.

Or maybe even in this building.

Mrs. Larson skirts around the last pile of boxes and goes into this tiny room in the back.

A plywood door separates it from the main part of the building (and yes, I know what plywood is, thanks to projects my siblings here are working on). Inside, the fluorescent lights are even brighter, making everything this kind of squinchy gray color.