"Never trust people who smile constantly. They're either selling something or not very bright." 

Laurell K. Hamilton  

~~~~~~~~~~~

When someone has to ask you a question six times in ten minutes, there's either something wrong with your answers or there's something wrong with the person asking.

And there's nothing wrong with my answers.

I lean against the embroidery wall in Red Ribbon's Crafts, not even attempting to hide the exasperation on my face.

Mrs. Baxter stands in front of me holding a spool of orange felt in one hand, and red flannel in the other. "Now I just don't know," she murmurs. "Ray has always liked orange—he used to work in construction, you know. But red just seems more cozy—oh, and he has that lovely tablecloth that his wife made that looks just like this!"

"Look," I sigh, taking both spools from her and holding them out, "we all know Ray is in his nineties; he probably can't even see what colors these are anyway. Besides, he's probably on his way out the door, if you know what I mean." I shrug.

Mrs. Baxter gasps in horror. "Well! If that's the way you're going to treat your customer, I'll just go find Sacha instead!"

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Finally."

Mrs. Baxter spins on her heel and disappears down the tulle aisle.

I roll my eyes and turn back to the cart parked behind me. I continue stocking the embroidery ribbon. I would've already been done twenty minutes ago if Mrs. Baxter hadn't come to me with her felt/flannel ordeal.

To cheer myself up, I think of the Hamburger Helper dinner and Friends marathon I'm having tonight.

Sacha might come over too, though I don't count on it. Unlike me, she enjoys going to town events and tonight they're having a party for a veteran who's coming home. Or something like that.

It isn't that I'm socially incapable of going to events because I don't know anybody...the problem is that I know everybody in Chestnut Ridge. And, worst of all, they know me.

I'm Beverly Curie—daughter of Jane and Townsend Curie (worst parents ever). College dropout. Sister of Aimee Curie (most successful Curie who had the right sense to get out of Chestnut Ridge while she still could). I still work at my post-high school job at Red Ribbon's. No respectable hobbies. No friends (except Sacha). Overall failure.

But I know they only think that because I didn't live up to their standards. I didn't get married at twenty-two. I didn't have three kids by the time I was twenty-five. I'm not a bank teller or secretary or soccer mom.

Heaven forbid I don't change the sheets every week or put up a Christmas tree the weekend after Thanksgiving!

So what if all I have in life is a minimum wage job and my overall attractive face to keep me going? That's more than most people can say.

Yet, I'm the only one in my family still stuck in Chestnut Ridge.

"Beverly?" Sacha peeks around the linens to see me. Her jolly face and ruddy cheeks are feverish with excitement.

"What's up?" I greet, shoving the last items in my cart to the back of the shelf where no one will see them. Who buys embroidery kits, anyway?

"You going to the welcome home party for Steven tonight?" Sacha asks.

"No way," I say, pushing the cart to the side.

"But it's for Steven!" Sacha prods. "We all went to school together all through middle school?"

I frown and roll my eyes upwards. "Mmm, doesn't ring a bell."

"He took you to prom!"

"Still nothing."

"He had a pet hamster named Rabbit?"

Realization dawns on me. "Oh, yeah! I remember Rabbit! I'll never forget the day he got smushed by that steamroller. I've never seen an animal so flat before."

Sacha nods sadly. "We all had a funeral for him at school."

I gaze into the distance, remembering the day. "Aimee made two dozen chocolate chip cookies with icing that said "RIP Rabbit" written on each one."

Sacha blinks and tilts her head. "I don't remember any cookies."

I sigh. "That's because I skipped first period and ate them all behind the school before anyone saw me."

Sacha shakes her head and her usual cheeriness immediately reappears. "Anyway! Steven finished his last tour in the Navy, so we're all getting together! I'm bringing potato salad, Marvin's bringing his famous ginger ale punch, and Jillian is doing the main course. It'll be fun!"

I snicker. "That's not exactly the word I would use."

Sacha lifts a suspicious eyebrow. "If I had to guess, you're having another Hamburger Helper, Gilmore Girls marathon, aren't you?"

I scoff. "I was planning to watch Friends this time."

Sacha sighs deeply, but her eyes brighten. I know she's thinking of a way to get me to come. Some way to put a positive spin on it to make it sound more appealing.

That's the thing about Sacha—she's the only person who sees the world in color. Everyone thinks she's sunshine and I'm...well, I'm just the loose screw at the base of a toilet that everyone hates cleaning around.

"Bev," she says, taking my hand, "you've gotta be more friendly. Poor Mrs. Baxter was almost in tears earlier because you said that Ray was about to die."

"The guy literally breaks a finger every time he picks his nose. He's too fragile to last much longer. It was the hard truth."

"You have to try," she pleads.

I squeeze her hands and say, "Look, everyone else is a loser, and I just...don't fit in. I'm sorry." I shrug innocently and grin. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I take off my Welcome to Red Ribbon's! apron and make my way to the backroom, where the owner, Miss Suzy, is working on arranging more summer bouquets.

Miss Suzy is a matriarch of Chestnut Ridge. She was among the first five business owners in town, back in the 60's. Ever since then, whenever somebody needs thread, glue, or googly eyes, they've always come here.

She looks up at me when I enter, her clear blue eyes sharp. "Turning in for the day, Bevvy?"

Miss Suzy babysat my Mom when she was little. And my Dad. And, of course, Aimee and I. She might've even babysat the first settlers of Virginia—she'd be old enough.

"Yeah, I'll see ya."

Her shriveled old face looks sad for a moment, and she opens her mouth to say something, but then doesn't.

I almost ask what's wrong, but decide firmly against it. Once I open that door, I could be here for another three hours.

I turn and hurry outside, where the heat washes over me like a hot, sticky wave. The warmth sends tingles down my skin and I breathe in the thick, humid air.

The street is unusually crowded with people getting off work and they're basically sticking to each other like gummy bears left in a hot car. Some of them are actually sweating on purpose, I realize, as they jog by.

I always get sad when I see people sweating. Exercise is so overrated, and every time I spot someone basically drinking their own skin excretion, I'm reminded why I put as little effort as possible into whatever I do.

Downtown is busy with people getting off work, so I fairly race to get to Iris's before anyone can take my seat.

I skid to a stop outside the glass door that has an "Open" sign hanging on the front. I push it forward and a cuckoo bird squawks in my ear to announce my arrival.

The smell of coffee and butter blasts me in the face as I scramble for my seat in the corner.

The coffee shop/diner is decorated to be much fancier than the burgers, fries, coffee, and toaster pastries it offers.

Iris Barber, the old biddy who owns the place, has more money in the bank than I have pairs of mismatched socks in the hamper. Which is to say a lot.

The dark wood floors match the walls and ceiling, and a red carpet winds around the L-shaped layout. There's vintage furniture scattered everywhere, pictures of Paris on the walls, and a small chandelier hanging in the center of the ceiling.

A bar stretches across the back wall, where the new Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell are sharing a milkshake while gazing into each other's eyes. Sickening.

I pull out my three dollars and put it on the table just as Iris Barber comes with my big iced coffee that I get every day.

"You know it's four-fifty," she grunts as I hand over the three dollars.

I gasp. "Oh—I did know that, I'm sor—here." I pull out a penny and squint at it. "I could've sworn that was a half dollar coin." I scuffle around again in my purse to add effect. "Gee, Iris...I don't have the extra dollar fifty." I sigh heavily and go to stand up. "Guess I'll just have to leave this coffee here to waste..."

Iris mutters a few obscenities below the hearing of the customers. "Just siddown, Beverly. Maybe one day you'll grow a conscience."

I plop back down happily and wrap my fingers around the cold plastic cup. "I'll pay you back next time."

"Ha!" Iris scuffles away and exchanges dirty looks with someone at the bar.

I slurp down half of my iced coffee and take the rest to go.

My house is about one mile outside of town, but it feels like it's right in the middle of town. I remember when I was little, people would stop by every hour of every day.

My dad hated everyone, but my mom loved a good piece of gossip, which was the only reason anybody liked her.

Being a society lady in Chestnut Ridge back in the '90s was like being in the CIA. I remember people coming by to drop off bits of information or to gather intel. Like a network of bloodthirsty spies, trading gossip for gossip like it was a black market deal. It was amazing, really.

I check the mailbox that still has a faded Curie painted on the side. Nothing.

The front porch is shaded by a big oak tree in the yard and semi-covers the second story of the yellow house. It used to be cuter, but one time I hired a guy to come trim the trees, and he sawed off a giant branch that crushed the roof of the porch. It's never looked the same since.

The house was built in the '20s, so they say, and still has the original wood flooring.

The white walls brighten the house, and dusty florals are shoved in every vase on every side table.

The inside is like a strange time vortex—it hasn't changed since Aimee was born. When my parents died, they left everything to the both of us, but when Aimee moved to Colorado she decided she didn't want anything that reminded her of Chestnut Ridge.

In short, I'm left with a house full of junk and bad memories.

Am I really going to spend my money on buying a new couch? Redecorating Aimee's old bedroom? Not on my life.

But despite being a little dated, I don't mind the house. My mom loved home decorating, almost as much as she loved the money she spent making it perfect.

I turn on the TV and am judging everyone on The Bachelor by who I think has the highest net worth when the phone rings.

I frown at the number and ignore it. Whatever Miss Suzy wants, she can probably ask her assistant to do for her instead.

I usually let it go to voicemail the first time anyway, just because I like to hear it.

After four rings, my voice comes on the speaker. "Hello and thank you for calling the Sunnybrooke Mental Hospital. If you need to reach a patient, please press 1. If you are delusional, please press 2. If you have short term memory loss and you don't know who we are or why you called, please press 3 and we will remind you. If you are dying, this is the wrong number. If you want to sell us something... this number is no longer valid. Thank you for calling Sunnybrooke Mental Hospital and have a sunny day."

I laugh at myself. It never gets old.

I allow the phone to go off several more times, waiting for Miss Suzy to give it a rest. I'm busy.

But she keeps calling.

A girl named Priya comes onto The Bachelor, and I'm beginning to think it's almost like a sci-fi show. Instead of cyborgs, though, the humans are made of 75% plastic.

The phone rings for the fourth time around and I growl before picking it up. "Hello?"

"Beverly! I'm so glad—"

"I'm not here right now, but if you leave your name and number I'll think about calling you back."

"Bevvy," Miss Suzy reprimands.

"What can I help you with? This better be important; Genevieve is about to put thumbtacks in Jeremy's sauna."

Miss Suzy takes in a long breath. "I have some bad news..."