If I Tell

too?
    I pictured Grandma smashing her good china on Simon’s head. I swallowed the permanent wedge in my throat and added an image of my mom collapsing on the floor in a ladylike faint to my fantasy. But then I imagined her grabbing her stomach. Losing the baby.
    “Jasmine?” Grandma said.
    I glanced up.
    “This is great news, isn’t it?” Grandma spoke in a soft voice that told me she suspected something.
    “Clearly much happier than it was seventeen years ago when she made the same announcement,” I said and stood, almost knocking the plate of cinnamon buns off the table with my knee. “I have to get going.” If I stayed another moment, I’d burst into tears. Or spill the secret. And I didn’t want to do either.
    “Jasmine,” Mom and Grandma said at the same time with equal unhappiness in their voices. I had the urge to yell, “Jinx. You owe me a beer,” at them.
    “Where do you have to go right now?” The wrinkles on Grandma’s face deepened as she stared up at me. “This is a celebration.”
    I started coughing and couldn’t stop.
    When I got myself under control, I saw a look pass between Simon and Mom as if they felt sorry for me. As if I was acting like a jerk because I was jealous of their baby or something. As if I was the one doing something wrong.
    “I have to work.” True. Even if it wasn’t for an hour.
    I ran from the living room and raced upstairs to change into my work stuff and grab my guitar. I hurried back down with my guitar case slung over my shoulder.
    “Can I use Grandpa’s car to go to work?” I called to Grandma in the living room. I didn’t drive it often because I was afraid of getting in an accident and ruining our only connection to him. Funny that Grandpa had been gone so long, but it was still his car. It always would be. It even had the faint smell of him lingering in the cloth seats.
    “Why’re you taking your guitar to work?” Grandma yelled.
    “I’ll be jamming after work. At Lacey’s,” I lied. That was the last place I’d go, but I’d find somewhere to play.
    “Fine. Drive carefully.”
    I went to the front door to grab the key off the hook where Grandma kept it.
    “She’s the one acting like a baby,” I heard Grandma say as the door banged behind me. “But she’ll get used to the idea. It’ll grow on her.”
    I had the urge to sit down on the front lawn and cry. Simon had gotten drunk and made out with my best friend while my pregnant mom waited at home.
    But I was the one who got to be the bad guy. And keep his secret.

chapter three
    I rushed through the parking lot of Grinds, wiping my clammy hands on my pants. I only had two minutes to spare before my shift started. I’d gone for a long drive to try to clear my messed-up thoughts. Hurrying inside, I slipped through the employee entrance and clocked in.
    A long line of impatient customers swirled around the café. Lacey looked up from the cash register, her eyes staring right into mine, before turning back to a woman in line. I blew out a breath of relief that she was too busy to talk, pulled my blue apron off a hook, and joined Amber in the Pit. I didn’t deal with customers most shifts. Amber knew that wasn’t my forte.
    “Thank goodness you’re here. It’s crazy.” Amber squirted caramel in a decorative flower pattern on top of a mug of foam. “Some convention across the street. They all want their coffee yesterday.”
    Lacey called out coffee orders while Amber and I slipped into a busy but comfortable groove. The rush lasted for almost an hour. As soon as it ended, Amber said she was heading into the office to do paperwork.
    “How come you hired Jackson Morgan?” I asked as Amber pulled off her apron and smoothed out her whiskey-colored hair. I kind of hoped she’d tell me more about him. How he ended up working at Grinds. What his favorite color was. If he was into girls like me.
    “You have a problem with him?” She folded her apron into a square.
    My cheeks burned. “No, of course not. He just doesn’t seem, I don’t know, like the coffee-shop type.” I rubbed at my guitar charm and glanced out into the café.
    “There is no type, honey. Do you know how hard it is to get part-time workers these days? Unless he’s not doing his job or he’s stealing from me, he’s more than welcome to work here. He’s a good kid.”
    “That’s probably not what his parole officer says,” I mumbled, and my cheeks flamed again. By trying to hide my interest, I sounded