Page 5 of Age of Shade

Doctor Roth would notice.

My heart performs its usual flip-flop at the thought of my boss, and I roll to the edge of the couch, feeling blindly for the little slip of paper I found waiting for me last night.

We’ve been doing this for years, passing little letters back and forth, ever since that first offer he slipped under the door about taking over cleaning the practice. Some of them are all business, me telling him the office manager forgot to order more toilet paper or that the radiator in exam room three is doing that weird clanking noise again. Other times, he asks me about college or I tell him jokes.

We’re friends, if you can call two people friends who’ve only met once and now communicate exclusively via sticky notes.

It’s pretty ridiculous to be this attracted to a man I’ve only seen properly on a dentist office website, who calls meby the wrong name (though this is, admittedly, my fault), and is probably twice my age, but I can’t help it. My feelings for Asher Roth have grown steadily over the years, beginning as admiration and gratitude, and took anadultturn somewhere along the way.

My first impression of Doctor Roth couldn’t have been further from the truth. On top of everything he’s done for me, this whole practice is littered with evidence of what a good person he is: thank-you notes from grateful parents and clumsy crayon drawings of the dentist with—judging by the names on the employee lockers—the same loyal staff working for him as when I started cleaning the practice three years ago.

Groaning quietly, I give myself a silent pep talk—and proper shaming—to get my butt up. Difficulty with this is a common side effect of the four-hour rule, and all the practice I’ve had doesn’t make it any easier to force my body into a sitting position.

Sunlight is just beginning to filter in through the small, narrow window that runs along the top of the wall behind Doctor Roth’s desk, illuminating the familiar room in all its glory—faded linoleum, generic art, and all. The most colorful aspect of the whole room is the wall to my right. It’s bedecked with what must be hundreds of thank-you notes, Christmas cards, and drawings that range from crayon scribbles to carefully shaded pencil masterpieces on torn binder paper.

My eyes catch on one of a tall, mostly anatomically correct person wearing glasses and a technicolor lab coat, and I feel the corners of my lips twitch as I get to my feet.

In the corner of the office, there’s a closet where Doctor Roth lets me keep a plastic storage bin filled with my things. Inside the closet, I see the familiar assortment of scrubs and about a dozen lab coats that were obviously designed to make his patients laugh. Some of them have silly buttons, and oneis made of leopard print and trimmed in pink fur. Last year for Christmas, I went to the craft store and got a huge bag of multicolored rhinestones. I spent the better part of a weekend sewing them onto the collar and into the shape of a tooth on the front pocket.

He wears it more than any of the others, and it makes warmth expand inside me every time I spot it back from the cleaners.

The men I grew up around were always so dedicated to appearing tough or masculine. They wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a sparkling coat to make a child more comfortable at a scary dentist’s office, but Doctor Roth is nothing like them.

My back-up alarm chimes threateningly and I dress quickly, darting to the employee bathroom to brush my teeth and run my fingers through my hair. I’ve been cleaning the office long enough that I must have been moving on autopilot last night, because everything is clean despite my level of exhaustion.

Confident that my job is done, I carefully fold my blankets back into the bin and grab my backpack, doing a quick sweep over the office to make sure I’ve left no trace of my presence here. I know Doctor Roth would never throw me out for leaving a dirty sock on the floor, but that splinter of fear has buried so far inside me, I doubt I could ever dig it out.

I may technically be a squatter, but this is the safest, happiest place I’ve ever lived. Nobody has ever hurt me here, and the anxiety I feel about the circumstances is entirely self-inflicted. It’smy home, but as I head toward the front door, the familiar, sick swoop of fear makes my pace falter. I pause with my hand outstretched, fingers resting on the cool, metal deadbolt. I know better than anyone how fast things can go from good to a total shitstorm, and every day a little part of me wants to run right back to the safety of Doctor Roth’s couch.

Defiantly, I stare through the glass and suck in a long, slow breath.

Letting my past make me afraid and cowering away from the world is easy. Going out there with my head held high, fighting tooth and nail for the life I want, is hard. I’m not a coward, and I’m not afraid of working my ass off.

Not wasting another second, I turn the lock and step outside.

CHAPTER THREE

ADINA

I met Ruby Johnson three years ago during freshman orientation.

Everyone else seemed to be worried about finding friends and scoping out the best parties, but I had other things on my mind. The home healthcare job I’d snagged had fallen through, and I was frantically trying to find something else in order to pay for books and other supplies I’d need for my first ever semester of college.

All the social-work majors had been invited to attend a mixer with the faculty at one of the activity rooms in the student center. While I had no particular desire to“mixer”with anyone, I’d gone to suck up to my future professors, and regretted it almost immediately.

Nobody else seemed to have a problem talking to people they’d never met. They all wore the right things anddidn’thover beside the snack tray like a hungry raccoon. If they were worried they’d say something wrong or that someone would notice they didn’t belong here, none of them showed it. Dressed in their best blazers, my future classmates were prepared to charm our professors—the future reference givers—with wholesome anecdotes about why they chose social work as a major.

Meanwhile, I lingered at the edge of the room wishing I’d worn something,anything, nicer than jeans, a T-shirt, and beat-up flip-flops.

Over and over again, I tried to convince myself to go talk to someone. College was step one in my grand ambition of living a normal, reasonably happy life, so shouldn’t I be attempting to be normal and reasonably happy? I must have come up with a dozen charming and self-deprecating ways to laugh off my fashion faux pas, because surely it wasn’t eventhatbig of a deal. Shit happens, right?

Over and over again, I lost my nerve.

In retrospect, I can hardly blame my former self for being anxious. After all, at that point I had eighteen years of experience in being the dirty, weird-smelling kid in stained clothes who sometimes wouldn’t show up to school for weeks at a time. Then, I was the teenager who wrote on the bathroom walls and talked back to teachers. After that, I was the foster kid parents told their kids to be nice to, but never wanted them to hang out with. Hated. Pitied.Other.

My life had changed, but did that really matter? Surely anyone who looked my way would be able to see me for what I was.

Ruby seemed to appear out of nowhere, offering a pained, commiserating smile that I didn’t return. Tall, blonde, and perfect, she reminded me of a Barbie doll in ripped black jeans and a death metal T-shirt. Apparently oblivious to my internal spiral, she proceeded to matter-of-factly tell me every single detail of her life story in between bites of cheese and pepperoni from the tray beside us. Her childhood had been almost as shitty as my own, and she’d decided to change the system from the inside. Or, if that didn’t work, she was going to marry rich and spend her days designing lip rings.

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