Smart Mouth Waitress (23 page)

Marc said to him, “We're expanding your mind.”

I said, “You didn't mind when it was all boobies.”

Garnet smiled. “Oh, yeah.”

Too soon, the movie was over, and Marc got up to leave.

To say the evening had not gone as I'd planned would be an understatement. First there was the pot-eating-door-breaking fiasco. And then, not only had Marc and I not crossed the friend barrier, but I hadn't mentioned my mistaken kiss with his friend. Then again, he hadn't mentioned it either, so I hoped he didn't know.

I walked Marc out to his car, and I'll admit it, I had high hopes for a kiss.

Instead, he gave me a very chaste hug, complete with a back pat. “See you Monday,” he said as he pulled away.

He looked like he might be about to say something else, but I'd forgotten about counting to five, so I said, “No kidding. Bring your crossword puzzle.”

“Right.” He pointed a finger at me and made a click-click finger-gun noise.

I turned and walked back to the house, but he called after me, “Perry, wait, I have something for you.”

He loped after me, his hand extended.

I put my hand out, palm up, and he gave me a handful of stuff: bottle caps, a coin, a single star-shaped earring, and a heart-shaped rock.

“For your art,” he said.

I heard a water noise and looked down to see Pickles having a pee on the lawn.

“Thanks,” I said. “I can totally use these. It was good to see you tonight.”

Marc scooped up Pickles and put her in the back of his hatchback. “See you Monday.”

Not wanting to look like a loser, shivering on the front steps in my jeans and thin gray shirt, I went inside the house and watched through the front window as he drove away.

I went back to the TV den and found Garnet fast asleep, snoring away on the sofa.
Now he falls asleep
, I thought. Not earlier, when I could have used some privacy.

My father was still quietly working or playing on his computer in his office.

I wasn't quite ready for bed, so I glued two of Marc's bottle caps, as eyes, onto my pink-striped Forgotten Creature. The eyes were perfect.

I couldn't believe he'd remembered about promising me the bottle caps. Because I'd talked to Cooper and shown
him
my Forgotten Creatures, I'd almost forgotten I'd showed them to Marc as well.

Marc had given me his heart.

Well, a heart-shaped stone.

That had to mean something.

In
bed
that night, my mind wandered to some more-than-friends places with Marc. I'd start by pulling off his glasses so they wouldn't get in the way. I'd kiss him like he'd never been kissed before, and he'd slide his hands up under my plain gray shirt.

He'd say sexy things in my ear and then—
hey, who's that?

Cooper appeared in my fantasy, with his spiky hair and his confident swagger. He'd take me by the hand and pull me away from Marc, whirling me out onto a crowded dance floor filled with people in fancy clothes. My dress was gorgeous, like that of a fairy princess, with armloads of tulle and lace. People held fancy masks up in front of their eyes, like a scene in
a movie.

After twirling me around the dance floor—in this fantasy, we were both expert ballroom dancers—Cooper pulled me off to the side and kissed me. I would melt in his strong arms.

And then, when I was about to die of happiness, I'd think of Marc again, and his soft brown eyes closing as he reached for me.

The two guys blurred together, because it was my fantasy, where I made the rules, and physics and reality did not apply.

I had feelings for both of them, but not the same feelings. 

Even in my fantasy, the imaginary version of Cooper was so easy to be with. When I talked, I wasn't cutting off his thoughts, but complementing them. He was fun, outrageous, and hot.

Marc was withdrawn and quiet, but deeply passionate once you got through to him. I should say: my fantasy version of Marc was passionate. In real life, I'd not so much as held his hand, so for all I knew, he kissed like a sea bass.

“Oh, Marc,” I sighed into my pillow that night. And then—I'm not ashamed to admit it—a few seconds later, I buried my face in my pillow and moaned, just to see what it sounded like, “Oh, Cooper.”

Sunday morning at work, my newly-darkened hair and eyebrow piercing got good reviews from my co-workers.

“Do I look like Megan Fox?” I asked Toph as he chopped onions.

“Close enough,” he said. “I'd
do
you.”

“Not likely,” I said. “I wouldn't screw you with a borrowed vagina.”

Toph laughed, assuming I was joking.

Donny stroked his pointy sideburns. “Looks like I have some competition in the good looking department.”

“I'm gonna steal your wife and make her mine,” I said.

Donny flipped a row of sizzling, orange-yolked eggs. “Don't forget to take the kids.”

Courtney popped up on the dining area side of the pass-through, saying, “I didn't know you were recruiting for us.”

“It's about what's best for Donny's wife,” I said, pointing to his back, where his tattoo was visible through his thin shirt. “He's got that big assassin tattoo on his back. That thing must scare the crap out of her when she wakes up in the morning with a robot's gun in her face.”

Courtney wrinkled her little nose. “So phallic.”

“Speaking of dicks and hairy balls, how's Britain?” I asked.

“Since you ditched us at the theater, she's not your biggest fan.”

“I'm glad our mutual dislike is out in the open,” I said. “I don't have to pretend to be nice to her anymore.”

“So, before, that was you being nice? You're bananas.” Courtney grabbed the platters of food Donny set on the pass-through and walked away. The order was for my table, but I was still standing on the kitchen side, munching a day-old brioche as my breakfast.

“Bananas,” Donny said, then he began to sing a song about bananas and tallying them.

We had some bananas ripening on the counter, and they were the perfect shade, so I grabbed one and peeled it. With a mouth full of fruit, I sang along with Donny, though it sounded like, “Bavavaz.”

“I used to be afraid of girls my age,” Toph said to me. “Now that I've worked with you and Courtney, it's really taken away all the mystery.”

“You're welcome,” I said, and then, to Toph's amusement, I made dirty porno noises and shoved the rest of the banana in my mouth.

“I think I'll stick with my wife,” Donny said.

“Your loss,” I said.

Toph's eyes were watering.

I said, “Oh, sweetie, did I make you cry? My singing's not that bad.”

“Onions,” he said, still chopping away.

Seeing him with red eyes and tears pooling up gave me a new feeling for Toph. Even though it was simply a reaction to the chemicals released from the onions, I kinda wanted to hold his head to my bosom and tell him everything was going to be okay.

Soon the restaurant was packed with the Sunday brunch crowd. Unlike the Saturday crowd, who all have things they want to get done over the weekend, and don't linger long over refills, Sunday people are in no hurry. If anything, they're reluctant to leave, because it means admitting the weekend's as good as over.

I don't even work a Monday to Friday shift, and I still get bummed out on Sunday evenings, feeling the weight of non-existent homework. My father typically gets a headache Sunday afternoon, and he calls it his Sunday headache, which I realize is not terribly creative, but that's my dad for you. He's an engineer, not a songwriter.

That Sunday at The Whistle was typical, with couples writing out grocery lists on the backs of receipts and discussing who would drop off whom for work Monday morning.

However, despite that normalcy, something strange was happening at the bar counter. That's where we always seat the single guys, so they can watch cartoons on the flatscreen while shoveling down their giant breakfasts. It took nearly my entire shift to clue in to what was different: the guys were totally flirting with me.

Normally, guys will sass back or give my jokes a courtesy chuckle, but they don't make a lot of eye contact, and they don't linger. Until recently, I'd had a lot of wild dreadlocked hair to study, rather than my actual face. It was like our regulars were all seeing me for the first time. They were looking at my chest, too, I guess because I'd stopped wearing the frumpy sweater.

I walked back and forth behind the bar counter on made-up errands, testing my theory. Instead of keeping their attention on the TV, the guys at the counter—all ages, from eighteen to sixty—would follow me with their eyes. They kept watching as I bustled around behind the bar, slicing lemon wedges and scooping ice for water. When I looked up and caught them, they'd smile back at me.

I wore one of my typical waitress outfits: a white blouse and a plaid skirt, with knee socks and lace-up boots. That day, however, I'd gotten a coffee stain on the hem of the shirt, so I had tied the bottom of the blouse around my waist,
like Megan Fox would have done
. Checking my reflection in the bar glass, behind the rows of bottles, I noted the tying of the shirt did nip in my waist, showing off the curve from my waist to my hips. What had Cooper said about ladies' waists? That guys liked to get a visual of them so they could tell the girl wasn't pregnant.

I snorted at the idea, which seemed so caveman-like. All people like that curvy shape, similar to the iconic glass Coke bottles. It's just a pretty shape. Had I really gotten so desperate for a boyfriend that I was catering to caveman lust?

I flicked my newly-darkened hair back and admired my Megan-Fox-like makeup. Yes, I was
that
desperate.

The rest of my shift went by pleasantly enough.

When Courtney and I sat in the back of the kitchen by the window facing the alley, cashing out, I got another nice surprise. For the first time ever, I'd made more tips than Courtney. She seemed to grow even more sour each time I mentioned it.

Fanning my cash out, I said, “Whatever shall we do today before the stores all close?”

She twirled some black strands of her hair along with her feather extensions, and then she fed me a total lie about having to run some tedious errands.

“Don't lie to me,” I said.

“Why don't you count your money again.”

“Fine, I will.”

I knew she was going to hang out with Britain, and her lying to me was infuriating.

I'd driven my mom's Land Rover in that morning, because I'd been running too late to walk and figured it was worth the gas, though I probably don't have to tell you it's not cheap to fill the beast with fuel.

“I have the truck, so I can drop you at Britain's place,” I said, calling her bluff.

“Don't be bitter,” she said.

I couldn't read her facial expression to tell if she was mostly joking or actually ticked at me.

“You love Britain more than me,” I said.

“She is my girlfriend.”

“But you'd pick her over me, if you had to make the choice.”

Courtney stood and grabbed her brown leather jacket. I knew that jacket. I was with her when she bought it, from a consignment store.
Because I was her best friend.

“Enough drama,” Courtney said.