Page 34 of That's Not My Name

I scan the drink section of the menu but all I can think about is that cinnamon roll. “Ummm, I guess water too.” I flip the menu over and giant pictures of real fruit smoothies jump out at me. “Actually, can I make that a strawberry smoothie?”

“You got it,” Sandra says, scribbling that down. “Small or large?”

“Large, please,” Wayne says with a wink, and points at the display case. “Could we also grab a couple of those vegan cinnamon rolls?”

I blink at him in surprise and smile from ear to ear. “How did you—”

He waves me off. “Oh, please. You love cinnamon rolls.”

Sandra nods with a bright smile and heads straight for the display case. In moments, one of those glorious cinnamon and icing-covered pastries slides across the table in front of me and I almost clap because up close it’s evenbiggerthan my face, nearly the size of the salad plate it sits on. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this excited about eating something in my whole life.

I don’t notice when she returns with our drinks. Or when Wayne orders real food. I demolish the whole thing.

When it’s gone, I sit back and sigh.

I’m not really hungry anymore, but I pick at the other food he ordered for me. The grilled cheese and French fries don’t hold a candle to the sugar. I leave most of it uneaten.

Wayne asks for the bill, and silence settles around us as Sandra walks away. Now that we’re not stuffing our faces, it’s kinda awkward.

I start to ask him a question, but it dies in my throat when I see him staring at my shirt with an almost angry expression. “What’s wrong?”

His look intensifies and he glances around the diner. “I guess Iwasn’t paying close enough attention in the thrift store. I didn’t realize your shirt was so low cut.”

I look down at my T-shirt. It’s a V-neck, but it’s not all that low. The bottom of theVlands about an inch below my collarbone. “Is that…bad?”

He shakes his head. “It’s inappropriate. We can get rid of it when we get home, don’t worry. I’ll pay more attention the next time we pick out clothes. You can’t remember. You don’t know the rules.”

What. The. Hell.

His attention trails out the window and stays there.

You can’t remember. You don’t know the rules.There’s clothing I’m not allowed to wear? Along with the “clean” books I read? I look down at my shirt again. What’s wrong with a V-neck?

The silence stretches on and makes me uncomfortable. I search for a change in subject, and the utter lack of topics that come to mind gives me an idea. “Since we’re waiting for the check, how about another round of Mary facts? To pass the time?”

He slides the remains of his BLT away, still looking a little irritated. “What do you want to know?”

I shrug. “Whatever you can think of. Rapid-fire-Mary.”

He smiles and it relieves some of my tension. “Okay…your favorite color is purple. Has been since you were about five years old.”

I make a face. Really? Purple? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering there are about twelve shades of purple on my sleeves right now.

Okay. Time to update the list.

Mary Ellen Boone. Seventeen. Good student. Senior. Lizzo. Egg allergy. Floral jackets. Dead mom. Bit of a homebody. Cinnamon rolls. Purple.

Not too bad for two full days in the life of a stranger.

“Keep going,” I say, taking the first sip of the smoothie I’d totally forgotten.

He blows out a breath. “Okay…um… We got really close after your mother’s accident. Even closer when we started homeschooling. You’re part of some homeschool groups back in McMinnville—they’re a great group of kids, really solid friends. No troublemakers.”

I forgot I’m homeschooled.

Why does that feel so weird to me? I can practically see the insides of a high school hallway in my mind. The desks. The gym. I can feel myself walking down the hall with too many books in my bag, talking to friends in a cafeteria. Maybe they’re remnants of my freshman year? He said I was in regular school until then.

“Why am I homeschooled?” I ask. “I mean, why did I start after freshman year? Was that my choice?”

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