Smart Mouth Waitress (24 page)

“I tried to be nice to Britain, but she made zero effort.”

“You shouldn't have gotten that eyebrow piercing she wanted.”

My voice got sarcastic and snippy. “Uh, I think there may be some more piercings available from the universe's hole supply. I didn't get the last one, ever.”

“And then, the theater incident.”

“You guys kept shushing me,” I said. “I wasn't having any fun, so what was the point?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe to watch the movie? Duh.”

“You don't need me anymore,” I said. “You want to have a new life, and leave behind everyone from your old life.”

“Perry, I'm just trying to get through each day as it happens.”

The sadness in her voice brought hot tears to my eyes. “I'm sorry,” I said, tapping the bench next to me. “Come, sit down.”

She looked at the back door, the clock on the wall, then down at the bench. I patted it again, and she sat down.

“What's going on? You seem sad,” I said.

She shrugged.

I said, “I haven't heard anything about your sculptures lately, or your mosaics. Did you talk to any of those people you met at the art show?”

“My parents are putting on the pressure. The art might have to wait for a few years.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. “You can do both. You can do anything. You're Courtney Badass Chow.”

“My parents aren't cool like yours. You're so lucky.”

I had to fight the urge to argue with her on that particular point. “Let's go buy some candy.”

“Candy's for kids,” she said.

“No kidding. Come on.”

She twirled her feathers and hair. “Thanks for the offer, but I'm going to go see Britain. I could use her company today.”

As Courtney stood and walked out the door, I felt a pain in my chest. I'd tried to bridge the gap between us, and failed. She wasn't going to come back to me.

Chapter 17

What are friends, anyway? You pick some people you have similar interests with, and you hang out and talk. You give each other little pep talks and listen to each other's problems. I could replace most of Courtney's job duties as best friend with a book of inspirational slogans and a journal.

And yet, I still craved her attention, and I hated myself for that weakness. I wished I could be one of those loner types who's content to eat breakfast alone and feels joy walking on the beach with nobody at her side.

As much as Courtney and I had made fun of Haylee for becoming attached-at-the-hip with Andrew, I knew I'd likely be the exact same way if I got a boyfriend. Until then, I'd always had Courtney to fill that spot of the last person I talked to before I went to bed at night. Lately, she hadn't been responding to my goodnight text messages.

Screw you, Courtney
, I thought as I got into the big SUV and started the engine.

The stereo clicked on with One Direction telling me how beautiful I was. Those five little liars.

Oh, but their songs gave me that dreamy, longing feeling.

I drove under magnolia trees with thick, promising flowerbuds. Soon the cherry blossoms would be raining down pink confetti on my street.

Maybe it was spring fever igniting my lust, but ever since the Sunday I'd seen the girl from
Bakery Confidential
and her cute boyfriend, giving each other the ooey-gooey eyes, I'd been craving a boyfriend of my very own. She and her boyfriend had put a spell on me.

When I got home, I downloaded some episodes from the new season of the bakery-based show, then I sat on my bed and hate-watched the girl. She had everything, including a stunning older sister who had recently left her job as a dental assistant and started working at the bakery. Maybe it was a trick of the editing, but there seemed to be a romance brewing between the sister, Melanie, and Angelo, the recently-separated and hunky bakery owner.

When the three episodes were finished playing on my laptop, my body was too heavy to move. The girl, Maddie, was barely a year older than me, and she had everything, including her own TV show.

My day's haul of tips didn't seem so remarkable anymore. I know,
poor me
, right? I had a good life and I knew it, but a good session of feeling sorry for one's self overrides all reason and intelligent thought. That
poor-me
feeling gets into your heart and poisons everything, making you hate even the sound of your inner voice whining in your own head.

I wasn't upset over not having the newest iPad or a car of my own or a perfect manicure. I wanted to have that thing everyone strives for in life—and I don't mean real estate. I wanted a partner I could hug and call silly names. He'd call me
schmoopie
or something equally revolting, and he'd look at me like I was the only girl in the world.

Sure, my curiosity about sex was also wrapped up in there, but being so inexperienced at both love and sex, it was hard for me to imagine the difference. People in love tend to have sex, and isn't sex the main difference between lovers and good friends? I'd been friends with Courtney for years, and she'd thrown me over for another girl she was having sex with. Therefore, intimacy had to be a pretty big deal.

All I knew was this: everything in my life would be better if I could have a special person who was—ugh, I hate this term—my
soul mate
.

After I couldn't take the sound of my voice in my head for one more minute, I had to do something to escape. I pulled a pillow over my head to block out the world—carefully, to avoid my still-tender eyebrow piercing—and took a very angry nap.

Sunday night was educational. I made macaroni and cheese with crumbled ground beef. My father, Garnet, and I ate in silence, each staring at his or her own phone, playing apps or checking email. If my mother had been there, she never would have allowed the phones out at the table, but it was a good way to avoid talking about the pot-eating incident. 

By the time we finished eating, I felt lonelier than ever, after sitting across from two people ignoring me. It made me realize why my mother had that particular rule.

Darn you, Mom, and all your sneaky life lessons!

Jay came over Sunday night after dinner to do his regular housekeeping. He was wearing a new chain belt that I coveted.

I said, “Just so you know, I'm staring at your amazing belt, wondering if you'd consider a trade.”

“This won't go with your new, softer image,” he said, shaking out the keyboard for my desktop computer.

“Jay, I don't even use that keyboard since I got my laptop,” I said.

“Still gets dirty,” he said.

As he finished dusting, I asked him, “Do you think some people really
have it all
, or do you think that's an illusion?”

“Life's not about getting what you want. It's about appreciating what you have.”

“I don't agree. If we're totally satisfied, we'll never go after anything new, never go to college, never try to better ourselves.”

“Sweetie, I clean houses for a living,” he said. “Once upon a time, I had it all. The fancy job, the big-money lifestyle. It's not as great as it looks from the outside.”

“I don't mean material things. I mean love. Having a boyfriend.”

“Oh.” He sat on the bed next to me. “I'm going to be honest with you. Some people are happy being single. I am not one of those people. That's why, if I have a boyfriend, plus I can fit into these jeans, those two things make me deliriously happy.”

“That's what I suspected.”

“Patience,” he said. “You look gorgeous. You're eighteen. You've got your hair figured out. The love will follow.”

I smiled and pretended I believed him.

Monday morning, I woke up with determination. The sun was shining and bluebirds fluttered in through my window and helped me get dressed.

Marc was going to put away the crossword puzzles and be my boyfriend, whether he wanted to or not.
We'd
already had three dates, if you counted the art show, the dinner with my family, and the weird art movie. There was so much sex and nudity in that movie, the date practically counted double.

Marc had put me in the friend zone, but I could work with that. A couple dates every week and soon he'd get accustomed to me—spoiled by me—and he'd come to his senses. Summer was coming, and I'd be his summer girl.

I wore a summer girl outfit: a dress halfway between pink and lavender, with a thick, black elastic belt that cinched in my waist nicely. The Spanx underneath the dress, borrowed from my mother's drawer, certainly helped.

For my makeup, I tried a
dewy
look, with tinted foundation all over, minimal makeup, and clear gloss over pink lipliner that was just a few shades off the dress. I'd bought one of those new Revlon eyelash curlers, and the goofy-looking thing actually worked, making my lashes more visible. My eyebrow piercing was healing nicely and looked calm and seasoned. The glint of the metal picked up the sparkle in my eyes.

When I arrived at work, the schedule had been changed for that Monday. Courtney had rearranged her shifts, and instead of working with her, I'd be joined by Nigel, who usually worked evenings.

Nigel was nice enough, though reluctant to help out with the other servers' tables, citing his fear of “overstepping his bounds.” No matter how many times I told him that bringing my tables their utensils or ketchup wasn't overstepping, he refused to jump on the clue train.

Nigel is thirty-something and self-described as
light brownish
 due to mixed ethnic heritage, the specifics of which he coyly refuses to reveal. He has chronic bed-head hair that, coupled with his heavily-lidded eyes, makes him look like he's just come back from a nap or is heading off for one. The kitchen staff swears he's gay, even though he often mentions a girlfriend we've never met.

I could have strangled him that Monday morning, when he sat Marc—as in, my future boyfriend Marc—in his section.

My annoyance quickly escalated to full-scale shit-fit when I realized Marc was sitting with a girl, and not just any girl, but Sunshine, his ex-girlfriend, who, as you may recall, is also Cooper's sister.

My pink-purple dress dress clung to my front, just under my bra, where I'd broken out in a miserable sweat.

Sunshine had her blue hair up in a high ponytail and was sporting 2003-era-Gwen-Stefani look, with a jewel between her eyebrows, a short athletic top showing actual ab muscles, and track pants with racing stripes.