Paige Rewritten by Erynn Mangum Page A

across the mountains, fleeing the Nazis or whatever while a bunch of nuns sing a song for him.
    I would just look ridiculous, like when I caught the end of the unfortunate stirrup pant craze in late elementary school.
    I have told my mother to burn those pictures.
    â€œShe might come work for me, buddy.” Rick whacks Tyler with a friendly but painful-looking thump to the shoulder.
    Boys are weird. If I greeted a girl like that, I’d get sued. Or written in some awful slam book.
    These days, I’m not sure what’s worse.
    â€œAre you really?” Tyler asks me.
    â€œNow, now. What’s that tone?” Rick says.
    â€œNo tone. I’m just surprised. I thought you were hoping to get promoted to counselor someday,” Tyler says to me.
    â€œThat day is looking bleaker,” I say.
    â€œDid they hire someone else?”
    â€œNo, but they offered me a raise.” I sigh. I still haven’t taken it. I just try to avoid the subject when I am talking with Mark.
    Part of me thinks that taking the raise is the smart thing to do. I could start building up my savings again. I’d have more spending money, which means I could finally start looking at some of the cute summer clothes in all the stores, and I could stop eating cheese sticks for dinner.
    The other part of me is just depressed to think of spending my life answering the phone.
    No one prepares you for this stage in life. Someday, very far in the future, I’d ideally like to get married and hopefully have kids. Then I’d fit back into our church. There’s youth group. There’s college group. There’s young marrieds and then the family circles.
    Nothing for the out-of-college working single who doesn’t quite know what she wants out of life yet. SINGLE AND CONFUSED CLASS. I haven’t seen that sign on any of the classroom doors yet.
    Which is why I am here. Back in high school.
    I look around and grab another Nutter Butter. Might as well enjoy being here.

Chapter
    8
    L ayla calls me at nine o’clock on Saturday morning.
    â€œFrench Cottage or Sparrow Eggshell?” she asks, not bothering with a hello.
    I rub my eyes, having trouble focusing on the coffeemaker in front of me while I’m spooning the dark grounds in, much less what Layla has just asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œPaint, Paige. Which one?”
    â€œWhat are you painting?” Layla lives in an apartment. As far as I know, her management would not look kindly on Layla repainting the walls.
    â€œWake up, Paige! Remember that armoire I found on the side of the road?”
    I do not remember Layla ever saying the word armoire to me, much less picking one up on the side of the road. I don’t have any trouble believing her, though. Ever since she started reading some trash-to-treasure blog a few weeks back, she’s been waking up early, going to garage sales, and picking up the weirdest things.
    Two weeks ago, she brought home an entire box filled with old, empty Chef Boyardee cans.
    â€œSo you are painting the armoire,” I say slowly back to her.
    She sighs. “Yes, Paige.”
    â€œWith paint.”
    â€œYou just got up, huh?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMaking coffee?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood. It’s a beautiful morning and you are missing it.”
    Says the woman who used to sleep until eleven and tell me that a.m. stood for “absolute morons,” as in only absolute morons got up when the clock still said a.m.
    â€œWhat is the color difference? I don’t memorize paint samples, you know,” I tell her, turning on the coffeemaker.
    â€œSo the French Cottage is more of a rustic, creamy color like what that brown sweater I have looks like on the outside edge of that bleach spot I accidentally got on it. And the Sparrow Eggshell is almost the same color but maybe with a slight bluish tinge to it.”
    â€œSorry about that sweater,” I say.
    â€œYeah. I really wish that