Smart Mouth Waitress (14 page)

“We didn't need those carrots,” I said.

“Two brothers?” Marc asked.

“God, no!” my father practically shouted. “Not that we don't love this one, here, Kyle. We love you, Kyle. This other one, Garnet is the fruit of my loins, along with Peridot.”

In unison, Garnet and I said, “Gross! Dad!”

He'd been using the
fruit of my loins
term since The Paternity Incident of 2009, and neither of us cared for it.

My father offered to take Marc on a grand tour of the house, and as soon as they disappeared, I allowed myself to jump up and down over the flowers. I'd never gotten flowers from a boy before.

“Gimme those,” Garnet said, yanking the folded paper towels that were lodged partially in my armpits, yet hanging out of my cap-sleeved dress.

I inhaled sharply. “Do you think he saw them?”

“Bro, it doesn't matter. Just play it cool,” Garnet said.

Kyle looked me up and down. “You look pretty, but you should put on more face-stuff.”

“Blush?”

Kyle shrugged. “I dunno. Stuff.”

I instructed them to set the plates out and I ran upstairs to check my face.

Showtime
, I told myself.
Be authentic
.

I put on one of my mother's lipstick shades, but it was all wrong and made my teeth look yellow. Shoot, were my teeth actually yellow? I didn't have time to do a session with Whitestrips. I rubbed the red lipstick off with some toilet paper and went over my lips with a sparkly pink.

In my vintage dress, I admired my feminine shape and my not-too-shabby cleavage. Damn it, why didn't I own a padded bra? I made a snap decision and stuffed a sports sock into the bottom of my bra cup on each side.

Turning sideways to admire my new silhouette, I congratulated myself on my quick thinking.

As we ate dinner, I came to regret the socks, because Kyle couldn't keep his eyes off my bosom. Up until that point, I'd all but assumed he was gay, what with his enthusiastic love of Glee and musicals, but there was nothing innocent about the way he looked at my chest.

Marc didn't seem to notice, what with my dad talking his ears off about specialties and Engineer stuff.

When the conversation died down, I mentioned how people frequently call cottage pie shepherd's pie.

“Why
cottage
, I wonder,” Marc said, taking the bait. “It should be named after the cow.”

I grinned broadly. “Because then it would be called COW PIE!”

My teen fans, Kyle and Garnet, laughed at the joke, but Marc looked down at his lap, avoiding eye contact with anyone. He wasn't rude, at least I didn't think so, but perhaps he was a bit shy, or socially awkward.

What was his deal?

I'd never understood people who don't simply say what they want and ask for what they need, but in a general sense, I did get that people are all different. If everyone in the world acted like me, movie theaters would have to shut down, because nobody would be able to hear Tom Cruise over all the talking.

Finally,
after several seconds of me staring and trying to read his mind, Marc looked up at my father, seated next to him, and asked about resumes and summer job postings.

The boys finished wolfing their food down and disappeared to play
Skyrim
in Garnet's room.

“Where'd you hide that wine?” my father asked me. “Let's finish that bottle before it oxidizes.”

I got up and retrieved the wine from the fridge. Couldn't my father get his own wine? I may have been looking after my family in my mom's absence, but I wasn't their servant. I wasn't the house waitress.

As patiently as I could, I waited for them to be finished talking.

“That's rude,” my father said when he realized I was playing
Cupcakes
on my iPhone. It's a silly app where you bake, decorate, and virtually eat cupcakes, and it makes long boring conversations much more tolerable.

“I don't want to interrupt you guys, but I have nothing to contribute to this conversation,” I said.

“We can talk about something else,” Marc said, which I appreciated.

I put on my most winning smile and encouraged them to keep talking, as it was the point of our little get-together, and I switched over to a game of
Doodle Jump
while they refilled their wine glasses. I don't like the taste of wine, so I didn't even try to get some for myself, though Dad did offer.

I was deeply engrossed in
Cut the Rope
when they got up from the table and went to my father's office without inviting me along.

While you might expect me to be upset about this new development, I was actually pleased. Dinner had turned out well enough and it seemed Marc and my dad
loved
each other. What girl doesn't want her guy to get along with her family like that?

Marc wasn't technically my guy yet, but I figured it was only a matter of time. I ran up to my room to call Courtney with a quick update, then took the socks out of my bra in anticipation of second-base action. My dress top looked empty, so I did a complete outfit change, jumping into a pair of yellow jeans and a flattering shirt with a draped neckline. The outfit said
I'm casual; I'm authentic; would you like to put your hands on my waist and kiss me?

Someone knocked on my door. My heart danced as I opened the door to find Marc. “Welcome to my boudoir,” I said, waving him in.

He remained just outside the perimeter of the room, surveying the pale pink walls. “I'm probably not allowed in your room.”

“You can come in, as long as we leave the door open.”

“I have pickles in my car.”

“You didn't get enough dinner?”

He smiled and kept looking around my bedroom, like he was searching for clues at a crime scene. “Pickles. She's my dog. She's a little Shih Tzu.”

“You should have brought her in!”

“She's little, but she's tough on hardwood floors when she hasn't had her nails trimmed.” He took one step in and poked at the decorated piece of driftwood I had on the wall just inside the door. It was a talking stick, a gag gift from one of my parents' vacations, when they used to go on exotic trips together. The instruction card reads that only
(s)he who holds the stick may speak.

Also adorning my walls were three shadow boxes, containing the Forgotten Creatures I made back in art class, using only discarded objects. Their stuffed bodies were made from socks and other articles of clothing from the Lost'n'Found at school, and their faces were made from things I found on the beach and sidewalks, plus metal and plastic parts from a bunch of old kids' toys my mother found in the back yard while gardening.

My brother Garnet had really loved the Forgotten Creature I made with a red sock and sea glass eyes, so I gave it to him for Christmas last year, leaving me with just three on my wall, which was a more pleasing number for composition.

Besides the pale pink paint, I thought my space looked pretty cool and not like a little girl's room. Over the head of my four-poster bed was a circular wreath made of fallen tree branches.

“Is my room how you pictured it?” I asked.

He let out a short laugh that was half-cough. “I don't think I have pictured your room, but now that I see you here, with your family, things make a little more sense.”

“What do you mean sense? You don't even know me, except as your waitress. You've barely asked me anything about myself. All you have to go on is my appearance.”

He leaned against the door frame. “You don't know much about me either.”

“What's your favorite color?” I asked.

“Not green.”

The way he said it, I felt like I'd just been slapped. He'd come to my house, eaten my food, monopolized my father, and then insulted me.

“That's mean,” I said.

He smacked his forehead. “Oh, right, Peridot is green. I didn't mean you. I don't know why I said that.”

I took a big breath and let out an enormous sigh.

“Green's okay,” he said, then he yawned.

Yawning was not a good sign. There would be no second-base action that night. “I guess I should walk you out,” I said.

“Do you want to come say hi to Pickles?”

I grabbed a warm hoodie from my closet. “Sure, why not.”

Chapter 11

Pickles was adorable. She had that little underbite most Shih Tzus have, soft brown ears, and a cream-colored body. When Marc picked her up out of the back of his hatchback, she snorted excitedly and licked his face. He petted her vigorously and said sweet nothings to her, which I'll spare you the verbatim description of. I wished he'd pat my head and talk to me that same sick-sweet way. I'd wag my tail.

“Do you want to take her to the park?” I offered. “There's one a block away. It's not an off-leash, technically, but you can let her run around and people don't mind.”

“Sure,” he said. “Unless I'm keeping you from something else.”

“No, Marc, I invited you over to my house for a date, but secretly I'd rather be doing laundry.”

He clipped the leash onto Pickles' collar. “Oh.”

“Though I guess it wasn't much of a date, was it? You came over to pick my dad's brain for career advice, which was, after all, what I offered you. Never mind.”

We walked together along the sidewalk, toward the park. The sun had set already, and the night was chilly.

Sneaking a quick glance at me, he said, “I'm not very good at this.”

“You think?”

When he didn't respond, I started to feel terrible. How had things gone so terribly wrong? He'd been so sweet and relaxed on Monday after catching me in his arms, and by Tuesday night, he was back to being Crossword Guy again, quiet and simmering with something unknowable.

“I really liked the flowers,” I said. “I guess having dinner with my family was a lot of pressure for a first date.”

We got to the park, where Pickles snorted and cavorted in the damp grass.

“Sometimes it feels like spring will never come,” Marc said.

“And it'll be dark forever.”

We sat on a park bench and watched Pickles sniff for treasures.

Marc said, “I just got out of a long-term relationship, and I haven't been myself. I don't think I'm ready for dating.”

“We'll start with being friends,” I said. “If green's not your favorite color, what is?”

“Sometimes I say the opposite of what I really think. I actually do like green, a lot. I almost wore a green shirt tonight, but I didn't want you to think I was sucking up.”

“Wait, you say the opposite of what you think?”

“Sometimes.”

I tried to imagine what that would be like, but couldn't. “I always say what I think, sometimes even before I think it.”

He made a laugh that sounded like
heh
.

I didn't feel cold, not really, but my body was on the verge of shivering. However, I didn't want to get up and leave the park bench, ending the night, so I tensed my muscles to create some warmth and tucked my hands in my kangaroo pocket.

I asked Marc some more questions, more personal than favorite colors, and he opened up a bit, telling me about growing up in a small town in Alberta, and how he missed his parents since he'd moved to Vancouver for school. He did not, however, miss the rednecks, the country music, and small-town life, where everybody was into everybody else's business.

Pickles came to our feet and put her front paws up on Marc's legs until he picked her up and held her on his lap. “You're Daddy's lap dog tonight.
A-wubba-wubba-wubbs.
”

“Have you had her for long?” I petted her wagging back end while she tried to lick my hands. “What made you pick this one?”

“She picked me. I found her behind my apartment building last year, bone-skinny and filthy. I thought she was dark brown, not this pretty light cream.” He leaned down and kissed her ears.

“She was a stray? Did you put up posters and stuff?”

“First I gave her a bath and a big bowl of food, then I took her to the pound, where they checked her for a microchip, but she didn't have one. They said I could leave her there, but I couldn't. I took her back to my place. Nobody claimed her.” He grabbed her ears and waved them around like propellers. “
Wubba-wubba.
And that's when Daddy's troubles started.”