After lunch Stacey tells me I seem a lot happier, launching into a speech about how she gets grumpy when she's hungry and protein always helps to get the blood sugar back up.  I just smile and nod at her babbling - she could be talking about how she rides a dinosaur to work every day for all I care. Just smile and nod. I'm busy thinking about seeing Jacob again tonight.  I can hardly wait the last four hours of work to check my phone again. When I finally get off work I fly to the back.

            His text says he’ll meet me at the bookstore at seven-thirty. I check my watch. It's seven now. Luckily it doesn't take too long to bus downtown.

            The bookstore is pretty quiet, and I spot Jacob right away sitting at one of the tables.  It's gratifying to see his face light up when he notices me looking for him.  He waves, nearly upsetting the cup sitting by his elbow.

            “Sam! Over here!” He's wearing a blue knit toque over his unruly curls today - he looks adorable. 

            “How was work?” he asks as I sit down.

            “Yuck,” I grumble. “Don’t ask.”

            “That bad, huh?”

            “Yup, but let’s not talk about it.  No comics today?”

            Jacob grins. “Well you never know.  I might be tempted to browse that particular section before long.”

             “I know what you mean - the books are calling me.”

            Jacob quirks one eyebrow. “Really?  What exactly are they saying to you?”

            “No, I’m not crazy.”

            “Not bad crazy.  A little crazy is always good though.”

            The conversation seems to just flow naturally with us. I don’t think I've ever experienced that with any of the guys at school.  It seems like we talk for hours. I try to keep the conversation light, not telling him too much about my trust issues with Mom, or how horrible work is or anything like that, but he seems interested in every little detail. I end up telling him a bit about what Dad is like, and how I'm nervous he might find out I've met my mom. He asks what Mom is like, what her art work is like; he even suggests we go to the gallery sometime so he can see it.  I feel like I'm dreaming. For once I don’t wish to be somewhere else, or someone else.

            The girls working in the Starbucks end up announcing that the book store is closing in five minutes, a nice way of telling us to stop blabbing and get out. 

It turns out we both ride the bus, since neither of us has a car, so Jacob walks me to the bus stop, and my bus comes way sooner then I'd like.

            I wear a giant grin all the way home, up my driveway and into the house - until my dad’s voice knocks it off my face as I come in the door.

               “Just where were you, Sam?”

               He's waiting in one of the armchairs in the living room, arms crossed against his chest. The living room is dark but I can still see his angry scowl.“I’ve waited up for you.”

               You mean you’ve been lurking in the dark living room, which is weird.

               “It’s only ten,” I manage to choke out.

               “You work tomorrow.”

               “Not until ten.”

               “Where were you, Sam? Don’t make me ask again,” his voice is low and rumbling, his hands shake with the anger he's barely holding in check.

               “At the library,” I say defensively.

               “The library closes at eight.”

               “I couldn’t find the book I wanted, so I went to the bookstore to see if it was there.”

Dad doesn't move from his dark seat. “You didn’t tell me where you were going. I was worried.”He doesn't sound worried, he sounds angry, but I say, “I’m sorry.”

               “Call next time you think you are going to be late.”

               “Sure....” I turn for the door, hoping he won't say anything else.

               “Go straight to sleep,” he orders.

               “I know.” I shoot up the staircase and into the safety of my room.

It's not as if he can control if I go straight to sleep or not. What am I, fourteen?

               At work on my lunch break I realize I left my cell phone on the kitchen counter while I made lunch this morning.  I eat with my face in a book, only able to concentrate partly on the chapter I’m reading. Will Jacob message me while I’m here?

               The morning goes smoothly for the most part, until about three when I have a customer who must have forgotten to take her pills this morning.  She insists she came in earlier and ordered a fresh package of carrot muffins.

               “These are fresh made.” I smile, attempting to offer her a package of muffins I’ve just put together.

               “I ordered it special!” the lady squawks.  She’s got on a long green raincoat and a hat that looks like it should have been a tea cosy.  Her eyes are small and close together; and they glare at me fiercely. Apparently, I'm single-handedly responsible for this muffin atrocity.

               “These are fresh,” I tell her patiently. “They came out of the oven just this morning.”

               “That doesn’t excuse the fact that you forgot about me!” she accuses me, waving her finger wildly in the air. “I live alone, you know.  I only want four muffins, and now you’re going to make me buy six! You think I can eat all six?”

               “You could freeze the other two?” I offer timidly.

               “Frozen muffins would taste terrible!” The woman throws her hands up in the air just as Mrs. Beth bustles out from the back where she's been lurking.

               “For crying out loud, Samantha. We can sell her four muffins.”

               “Okay.” I take two out of the package and hand the half empty package to the ridiculous woman.

               “Aren’t you going to ring me through the till?”

               I look over at Stacy, who is staring at the woman from behind the till.

               “I can take them here, ma’am.”

               “Fine,” she snarls, yanking the muffins from my hand and marching over to where Stacy is waiting.

               “Samantha.” Mrs. Beth scowls at me. “Come in the back with me, please.”

               Oh, here goes. This should be good.

               I trail after her reluctantly.

               Mrs. Beth is already giving me a hissing lecture as we pass the bread machine.

               “You’ve worked here almost a year now. You should know that we give the customer whatever they want. Don’t argue with them, just give them what they ask for.”

               I nod dumbly.

               “And another thing, I’ll thank you to pay more attention when someone orders something specially!”

               I hold up my hands in protest. “That wasn’t me...“

               “Don’t interrupt me, Samantha!” She glares at me while I silently hate her; hate how she says my name like she’s talking to a child. “Are you listening to me? I don’t care who it was! You girls all need to pay more attention - you especially. I swear, your head is permanently up in the clouds, girl! It’s like you're always day dreaming.”

               “Sorry,” I mumble.

               “Yes, well sorry doesn’t get muffins packaged.  I’m sick of your excuses and apologies just do the job I pay you to do.  You can go back up there and help Stacy now.” She turns away from me and I hear her grumble under her breath about “her stupid staff”.

               I turn and walk back up to the front, positively fuming.

               She is SO rude! I wish I could throw these muffins at her stupid face instead of packaging them. 

               I smile a little bit, imaging being able to chuck a large carrot muffin right at Mrs. Beth's head.  Maybe someday I'll snap completely and start chucking muffins wildly, slinging handfuls of baked goods at customers and pelting the chatty Crystal with them, staining her yoga pants with raspberries. Mrs. Beth will run out of the back screeching wildly and she’ll be met with a barrage of blueberry muffins, a blitz attack of bran. 

               “You look happy about something,” Crystal says.

               I know I must look like an old woman walking back home - shoulders slumped, feet dragging the entire way.  Every Saturday I walk like this, shuffling home. Sunday is a different story; Sunday I bounce.  Sunday is the day that Mrs. Beth isn't at work, the day that I go home knowing I don't have to go back to that horrid place for another four days. 

               I brighten a little when I think about my cell phone, sitting on the counter where I left it this morning. Maybe there's a text message waiting for me.  I hope Jacob's called.

               There is definitely something waiting for me when I get home, but it's not what I'm expecting.  Dad is standing in the doorway, my little pink cell phone in his hand. He looks furious. My stomach plummets into my tennis shoes.

               “Samantha,” he growls.

               There it is again, my name spoken at me like I’m a five year old, and this time I’m in trouble.

               I stare at him, not sure what to say. Did he find messages from Jacob or missed calls from Mom… or both?

               “Sit down.” He stomps into the house, indicating that I should sit across from him on the couch. 

               I obey numbly, and he holds out my cell phone to me.

               “You have incoming calls from someone called ‘mom’, this had better be some type of joke, Samantha.”

               “It’s Sam,” I can’t help saying it. I'm tired of Samantha.

               “You have never been Sam!” Dad thunders, his face is suddenly bright red.

I leaned backwards against the couch, startled by his reaction

               Dad rubs a shaking hand across his forehead. “You’re Samantha.” He stands up suddenly and paces to the living room window. I watch as he lowers his hands to his side, clenches his fists. Breathes. Trying to control his temper.

               “I found mom,” I blurt, immediately regretting it when I see him spin around from the window.  His face turns from angry to thunder-storm.

               “You went looking for her?” 

               “No,” I protest. “Her paintings are in this art gallery and I saw them...“

               “Why were you at an art gallery?” He’s glaring at me like I've done something horribly wrong.

               “There’s nothing wrong with an art gallery!”

               “And yet you lied and said you were at the library.”

               What am I supposed to say? Tell him that I didn't have a choice because he acts like a lunatic when anyone brings up art?  He‘d always been that way.  I couldn’t mention art or painting; he wouldn’t even have a picture in the house. I scowled at him furiously, remembering the time in grade seven when I’d painted him a water-colour bowl of fruit. I had brought it home expecting him to be pleased and he’d looked at it like I was presenting him with a dead rat.

               “How many times have you seen that woman?” he spits out.

               “Twice. But dad, she’s actually really...”

               “She’s a bad influence!” he thunders, his face is red again. “She’s irresponsible and juvenile. I don’t want you to see her again.” He throws up his arms in frustration. “I can’t believe I didn’t know she was in town still. You would think she'd give up like she gave up on every other thing in her life. I will not allow her to influence you.”

               I blink back the tears that suddenly threaten. “But she’s my mother.”

               “She hasn’t been your mother since you were two, since she walked out on the both of us.”  To my surprise, Dad’s expression softens a little. “Sam, I’m only trying to save you from getting hurt. I know her, she isn’t trustworthy. You’re going to form a bond with her, and then she’ll take off out of nowhere without even saying goodbye.”

               I blink again, refusing to let the tears escape.  He's pretty much saying what I'm afraid of.

               “She said she’s changed.” The words sound weak, even to me.

               Dad’s expression grows dark again. “Believe me, Sam; I’ve heard those words before. When she first came back to town. Why do you think I wouldn’t let her near you?  She’s going to break your heart.”

               “Like she broke your heart?” The words slip out, and I inhale sharply as dad stands up.

               “You’re grounded for lying to me, Sam. I don’t want you seeing her. I don’t want you speaking to her. From now on you go to work, and you go to the library, and you call me from the library when you go there. That’s it.”

               I stare after him as he leaves the living room. The tears finally make their escape.

               Anastasia is still frozen in time, stuck in the forest, motionless.  There are no words to get her blood pumping again, to drive life back into her, to give her movement and voice.  There is nothing left in me.

               Work on Sunday is foggy; I feel like I’m in a dream.  Everything is surreal and slow.  I get through it and that’s all.

               When I get home, Dad checks my cell phone. That should have enraged me, but it didn’t. I just leave the cell phone on the counter and plod upstairs. 

Surprisingly, he doesn't even ask about Jacob. Apparently Mom is more threatening to him. 

               I go downstairs to collect my cell phone off the table after he's had gone to bed, and make myself a cup of herbal tea.  The peppermint tea in the cupboard reminds me of mom; it’s silly but it makes me want to cry.  I flick the kettle on and then pause, hearing a little blip from my phone that indicates I've received a text message.  I lunge for it, looking around in case Dad has heard it from all the way upstairs in his bedroom. 

               It's a note from Jacob asking if I want to hang out tomorrow night. I message him back, briefly explaining the grounded bit, and ask if he wants to meet me at the library tomorrow, since that’s as much fun as I'm going to have for the next few weeks.  It makes my night a little less depressing when I get his next message - he tells me to cheer up. “I'll see you at the library at lunchtime – say 12:30?”  I sip my tea and read his message over again.  I can't wait to see him.

               Does Dad know he'll have a mutiny on his hands if he tries to ban me from seeing Jacob as well? Maybe he thinks Jacob is someone from school, no one to bother about. Or it’s possible that he was so obsessed with keeping me from Mom that my call display could have said: “Binky, the Killer Clown” and he would have just skimmed over it, as long as it didn’t say “Mom”. 

               I stick my empty tea cup in the dishwasher and slouch up the stairs like a backwards slinky, dragging my foot on each step.  I know I won't sleep well, if I sleep at all.