Smart Mouth Waitress (11 page)

When I got to work, Toph looked up from his half-peeled bowl of potatoes and told me I looked hot.

“Hot? Toph, are you flirting with me? Do you think you could handle all of this?”

He blushed at his potatoes.

Donny, who was oiling up his grill station, said, “Don't lord your unfair womanly advantage over him.”

“What advantage is that, exactly? The ability to do more work for less pay?”

“Have you been on those feminist blogs again?” Donny asked.

I grabbed some blueberries from a nearby crate and sampled them for quality. “Maybe. Seriously, though, do I look nice today? Do I look authentic?”

Donny came over to the island to stir the pancake batter and said to Toph, “Should I tell her she has blueberry skins all over her teeth?”

Toph laughed at me as I gave them both a proud grin.

After I rubbed my teeth with a napkin, I said, “Donny, what are your wife's best qualities?”

“That she doesn't request foreplay.”

Toph laughed like a hyena.

“How about when you first met? What did you like about her? What made her different from all the other girls?”

“She liked me, and she was easy.”

“You're a pig. I'm going to tell her you said that.”

He shrugged.

Toph said, “My brother likes insecure girls because they get so jealous, and they try harder.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I'd say my type is Megan Fox.”

I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my own saliva. “Really. Why am I not surprised? If Megan Fox is your type, then good luck.”

Drop it
, I told myself, but I couldn't.

I said to Toph, “Why is it guys like you, who look the way you do, think you deserve someone who looks like Megan Fox?”

Toph frowned at his potatoes. “I have a lot to offer.”

“Toph, honey, tens don't go out with ...” I paused because Donny was giving me a stern look, so I added two points to my assessment of Toph's
date-ability
. “Sevens.”

“If the kid here is a seven, what am I?” Donny asked.

“You're also a seven, seven and a half.”

“So are you,” Donny said to me.

“Six and a half,” Toph said.

I put my hands on my hips, playing up being mock-offended to cover the fact I really was hurt. “Toph, I'm half a point less attractive than you? How can you say that with a straight look on your face?”

“I'm being generous,” he said. “Courtney's an eight, that's why she always gets better tips than you.”

“You don't have to rub it in my face,” I said.

Donny ducked his head to peek out the window-opening to the dining room. “You have a customer, Little Miss Seven.”

“Call me that again and I'll tell everyone about how you had plantar warts on your hands and spread them to everyone in the kitchen via the utensils.”

Toph threw the potato peeler on the floor and jumped back.

“They're cured now,” Donny said to Toph. “We all had them burned off last summer. You're safe.”

I giggled as I went around the dividing wall to the dining area.

Courtney was running late that morning, as she did about half her shifts, so I sat the first few tables on my side.

Be authentic
, I told myself as I was telling the customers about the specials.

“What would you recommend?” the gentleman asked.

Typically, I would quip something about the place across the street, but instead, I said, “Today's special, with the french toast, is the best thing we offer. I tried to get it put on the permanent menu, but the price of fresh strawberries fluctuates too much. If you see it on our specials board, you should go for it.”

“That sounds terrific!” he said.

His friend, another gentleman in a sporty polar fleece zip-up, asked me about a hundred questions about ingredients, all of which I answered dutifully and authentically.

As I walked back to the kitchen with their order, I could feel my face frowning. Sure, I'd answered all their questions, but I felt used, cheap.
Subservient
. How dare they act so delighted at my answers and keep pressing for more, more, more? They weren't the bosses of me. I wasn't going to drool and jump around like a performing walrus in the hopes of getting a $4.50 tip instead of $3.00.

When the whistle blew with their order, I brought them their french toast and sides of crispy bacon, saying, “I want to see clean plates next time I come back.”

They completely ignored me and carried on with their conversation.

Courtney finally showed up, just as I was sweating over sitting four tables at once, and she took three of them. She'd done something new to her hair—feather extensions. Feathers! I had to touch them.

As we crossed paths over the next hour, she told me all about how wonderful and exciting her new girlfriend Britain was, and how they'd had a shopping spree the day before, after work, including a trip to Anthropologie.

I adjusted my mother's scarf I was wearing as a headband and tried not to show my shock over the betrayal.
The betrayal!
Anthropologie was
our
store; since it had opened the previous year, we always went together to look at the clothes to get ideas, while promising ourselves we'd go on a big thrift-store or H&M hunt for similar (but cheaper) items, then we'd cave and buy stuff like eighty-dollar blouses.

Courtney showed me the cute cords she'd bought at Anthropologie and said she'd gotten the feather extensions just up Granville Street.

“My hair's too normal now,” I said, wiping down the tables as she cleared. “I'm going to get some feathers. What did you say was the name of that place?”

“You can't copy me. This is my look.”

“Pluck a duck, you're kidding me, right?”

“I quack you not. Get your own look.”

I faked a stomach cramp and went to the staff washroom before I said something I would regret. With her being small and Asian and me not, I didn't think feather extensions would make us look like twins. I wondered if she'd deny Britain the same, or if Britain already had feathers in her short, brown hair.

In the bathroom, I removed the scarf from my head, because it looked like I was trying too hard. I put some water on my hands to smooth out my hair. The fluffy stuff kept getting in my face, ever since I'd lost the dreadlocks, and I hadn't gotten used to the tickly feeling of it on my cheeks. I had figured out that the hair product stuff other people used wasn't simply optional, but that if you wanted to have nice-looking hair, you had to use something. I'd raided my brother's stash and tried something called wax that day, but the tiny dab they recommended wasn't doing much to tame my fly-aways.
Fly-aways!
You don't have those when you wear dreadlocks.

I grabbed some of the hair from the top and front and quickly gave myself three messy little braids, then fastened them with some twist-ties borrowed from the kitchen. I looked ridiculous, but I figured it would get a laugh from Courtney at the very least.

Out in the dining area, I was surprised to find a new person sitting in my section. He had broad shoulders and blond hair, cut short on the sides and spiking up high in the middle. From the side, he had an appealing profile, with a really nice jawline. It wasn't until he looked up at me with dazzling blue eyes I realized he was Cooper, Marc's artist friend.

Chapter 8

When I approached the table, Cooper said, “Don't spare the smart mouth on account of knowing me.”

“Don't spare the tip on account of my new hairdo. Trust me, it looks funny, but the braids will reduce the amount of hair content in your meal by fifty percent.” I shook my twist-tie-fastened braids.

“I'm a bad boy,” he said.

“Tell me about it.”

“I brought my Starbucks,” he said, lifting his paper cup.

“Oh goody! I get to charge you a dollar twenty-five.”

“And I don't have to drink the coffee you guys brew here. Totally worth it. What exactly is the secret to your coffee?”

“I put the new grinds on top of the old ones,” I said, which wasn't true at all. Our coffee was decent for a diner, but we liked to play it up for laughs.

His light-brown eyebrows shot up, so either he was surprised or good at faking it. “Do you add banana peels too?”

“Only on Fridays. And it's Thursday today, so you might be safe.”

“My lucky day,” he said.

“These laminated rectangles contain words about food,” I said, handing him a menu.

“No need to look. I'll have the clubhouse,” he said.

Taking a stab at flirting, I let my voice get bubbly as I said, “How do you know we have a clubhouse sandwich? We might not.”

Still grinning, he said, “Don't you have a little message pad you should be writing this down on?”

“Only if I care about getting the orders right.”

“What time are you off?”

Behind me, a guy said, “I think that's enough, now.”

I jumped, startled, and turned to find Marc, standing by the door and looking bewildered.

“Thank you for helping me fend off untoward advances,” I said to Marc.

“Not him,
you
,” he said, pointing at me. “You leave him alone, you beast.” Marc grinned as he took the chair across from his friend.

My jaw dropped. It literally dropped right open, leaving my mouth open and speechless.

But not for long.

“Do you know what you want?” I asked impatiently. “Or are you going to deliberate over the menu for ten minutes then order the same boring thing you always have?”

“Burn,” Cooper said to me. “Keep 'em coming. Make him cry and I'll add a zero to your tip.”

The way Marc pursed his lips at the teasing melted my heart.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “You did have the special that one time. We have a great one today with fresh strawberries and french toast. Or I could get you a menu.”

“I'll have the special,” he said, turning his head just enough to meet my gaze.

Softening, I said, “I think you'll enjoy it.”

He swallowed. “Thank you. I've had a stressful day.”

I reached down and squeezed his shoulder. He jerked a little, but didn't push me away. “I'll take good care of you,” I said. “Starting with coffee, right?”

“Yes, thank you, Perry.”

When he said my name, electricity shot through me.

As I walked away, I wondered what had just happened. I had squeezed a customer's shoulder? What was next? Calling everyone
honey
and
sweetie
, like some truckstop-diner mom-substitute?

I punched the order into the computer. Sometimes, if we just have a couple of tables, we'll tell the kitchen the orders, but most of the time we use our Squirrel software, which puts the order into the kitchen and also does up the bill.

I tapped away at the buttons, messing up the simplest things, like hitting hot chocolate instead of coffee.

Every time I looked up, Marc was staring my way. He'd quickly turn away again, but I knew he was watching me.

This went on for an uncomfortable forty minutes; I could feel his gaze on me the whole time he and Cooper were there.

When they finally left, even though I was surrounded by people, I felt strangely alone.

They'd both been so sweet to me, almost competitive about getting my attention whenever I'd gone by their table. Marc had asked if he could feel one of my braids, and Cooper had insisted on pulling on the other one.

Never before had I wished so much to sit at a table and be a customer instead of a waitress.

As of Thursday, Marc had come in three days that week. That had to mean something.

“He likes you,” Courtney said by the waitress station.

Smirking and giddy, I said, “You may be right.”

“What's your next move?” she asked. Courtney was all about moves, apparently.

“Next time I see him, I'll ask him out,” I said.

“Unless he asks you first.”

I jumped up and down on the spot, saying, “Eee!”

My head felt twirly and light. Just the
idea
of asking a guy out on a date made me crazy nervous. I had to drink a big glass of orange juice to get my legs to stop shaking.