Smart Mouth Waitress (26 page)

“Me too.” I stood and started clearing the plates. “Hey, do you want to borrow some books I have? They might answer some questions you didn't even know you had.”

He nodded hesitantly, so I ran to my room and brought down my collection of teen sexuality books for him.

He was most interested in the one about puberty for women, which made sense. Women are pretty private about cramps and periods. The whole thing must be mystifying to guys; I know it sure was to me before I got my first period.

Garnet said, “You should let Mom know we had this talk so she doesn't have to tell me anything.”

“You'll miss out on mother-son bonding time,” I said, draping a damp dish towel over his head for giggles.

He tucked the sides behind his ears and moved on to the next book in the pile. “Oh my God!” he yelled, slamming the book shut.

“
The Joy of Sex
is a classic,” I said. “Don't tell me you haven't seen so much more than this on the internet.”

“That's different,” he said. “That stuff's not real. Can I take these to my room?”

“Sure, but no solo time using those books. They're still mine and I don't want spankies in them.”

He held the books tight to his chest. “Don't worry, Dad busted my doorjamb.”

“Poor little monkey,” I said as he disappeared upstairs.

As my brother learned about the birds and bees from a non-pornography source, I cleaned up the dinner dishes and wondered how that scenario would have gone if Mom had been there, and if Garnet would have even talked about sex at all.

My mother is a loving person, but at times she treats us more like cousins or friends than her actual children. My friends think she's so casual because she was young when she had us—barely twenty when she had me.

I haven't told you very much about my mother, partly because I've been trained from a very young age to never talk about her. We found out the hard way that so-called
journalists
 aren't above paying to get information, even from the parents of my and Garnet's friends.

My mother's fears fed into mine, so when I was at a friend's house and her mother asked questions, such as, “Does your mother buy this brand of soup?” I'd get cagey and refuse to answer.

Mom and Dad had drilled into us that whatever went on in our home was nobody's business, and besides, getting big dough for a biography about my mother was
my
big plan for being a future millionaire.

I kid! I kid!

Selling my mother out was not my plan, though secretly I hoped her sixth album would make us tons of money. Her fifth one had not done well, so, understandably, the pressure was on.

While she could have recorded in Vancouver, she felt the only way she could make a hit again was to
become
a rock star again, which meant time away from taking care of her family. I could understand how making tuna casserole and picking up Garnet's smelly laundry was not the fuel for inspiring an album that spoke to people's emotions.

Mom says the music industry is always changing, and now more than ever, it's about touching people's emotions. An album like Adele's, that makes people cry, does better than one with a great dance beat. I don't know why people like crying so much. I think crying's overrated.

The truth about my mother is, I don't have that much dirt on her. She reads trashy romance novels and hides them in the couch cushions where she thinks we won't find them. She has Jay come in once a week to give the house a thorough cleaning, but then she lies about it when people ask for a referral, saying he only comes once a month, and that he's booked solid and not taking new clients. She's even referred to him as
Kevin
instead of
Jay
to throw particularly nosy friends off the scent.

I don't know why she'd lie about such a thing, but it's not hurting anyone, except Jay, who probably wouldn't mind a few more clients.

Before she went to LA, Mom instructed us to only call her at most once a week, because she wanted to “feel the loneliness” of not being in contact, and let that inspire her work.

I'd sent her more than one email hinting that the one suffering most from loneliness was my father, but she'd reply back with a sunny email about how lovely the weather was and how she didn't miss the Vancouver rain. I had to assume she wasn't even reading my emails at all. I'd considered sending her a test message, saying the house had burned down, but stopped short because I didn't want to get blamed for ruining her creative vibe.

She had big plans for licensing on this one, as in film and TV. She'd made a name for herself with the unusual stuff, but she was getting too old to compete with the batshit-crazy women like Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj. Gone are the Alanis Morissette days, where you can have a hit album without air-humping a bunch of backup dancers in your video.

Nobody wants to see their mother air-humping backup dancers.

I looked up at the sky from the kitchen window, and the soothing blue gradient reminded me of one of Cooper's abstract paintings.

I pulled out my phone and sent a Facebook message to Cooper:
Totally just gave my little
brother the birds and the bees speech.

I put the phone in my pocket and felt a bit guilty about texting him. He was so out of my league, way too gorgeous, and he'd probably be annoyed by me bugging him. I'd awkwardly kissed him the last time we'd seen each other, so I figured he'd message me back to give me the just-friends speech.

Minutes later, I got a message from Cooper:
Is there a presentation? Was this a prepared speech? How do I get a copy?

Unlike Marc, Cooper was no stranger to using the question mark in communications, which I appreciated.

I messaged Cooper:
I made another Creature. Turned out okay.

Cooper:
Can I come over and see it … sometime?

Me:
Yes.

Cooper:
How about now?

Did he want to give me the just-friends speech in person?

My brother was up in his room with the books and Dad was in his office. The perverted parts of my brain flashed a movie-style preview of me and Cooper taking our clothes off and getting tangled up in each other like the illustrations in
The Joy of Sex
.

Would that happen before or after the just-friends speech? Did I even care?

Don't be a perv
, I told myself. Cooper had practically run away from me after the kissing incident, and if there was a possibility of us being more than friends, I didn't want to scare him off. We would take it slow. Maybe some light fondling and groping. 

I was enjoying my little fantasies so much I nearly forgot to text him back that yes, he should come over.

I ran up to my room and brought the new Creature down to the front, formal sitting room. That space was tidy and the lighting could be dimmed, but it was wide open, with no door, and not conducive to making out.

Back up the stairs I ran with the newly-made pink-and-grey-striped Creature with bottlecap eyes. All of this had made me sweaty, so I had to change, but I couldn't figure out what to wear. The purple dress I'd worn to work was still clean, but I'd have to put the Spanx back on, and if groping happened, I didn't want Cooper to find girdle-like lycra squeezing me like a sausage.

It was too late to shower, because I wouldn't be able to hear the door, so I used a washcloth to freshen up, then put on my Good Old Standbys: black jeans and a v-neck black tshirt with stretch-lace along the neckline. With my darkened hair, I looked a little goth, so I added a pink scarf, which looked ridiculous, so I tossed it aside. Then I picked the pink scarf up and tried it on again. The lace on my shirt made it look like underwear. I looked weird, and I didn't know what to do.

I sat on the edge of my bed, close to hysterical tears.

Stupid Mom
, I thought.

I didn't know what my mother could have done to help me, but I was angry she wasn't around when I needed her. Garnet had me, but I had nobody. She was so selfish to ditch us and forget us, leaving me responsible for everyone and nobody looking after me.

I missed Courtney too.

I bunched up the pink scarf and stuffed it in my big, stupid mouth.

The doorbell rang.

I opened the door to find Cooper, standing on the front porch with his hands in his jean pockets, his feet in flip-flops.

“Hi,” I said shyly as I pulled some pink threads out of my mouth.

We both looked down at our feet. In his flip-flops, he had nice toenails, very healthy-looking.

“It's warm enough to sit outside,” he said, wiggling his toes.

I told him to hang on, and I grabbed my jacket and slipped on some boots. “There's a park that's higher up and we can watch the sun setting,” I said.

“Really?” He looked around.

“You don't actually see the sun, but you get a lot of the colors in the sky, and the buildings downtown light up, all copper.”

“That'll do,” he said, waving me ahead to show the way. As I walked past him, he caught my hand. “If you're not feeling shy, I had another thing we could do.”

His warm hand enveloped mine. “Like what?”

“A surprise.” He let go of my hand and opened the door of his black car for me.

I told him to wait a moment and ran back to my house, opened the door, and yelled at my father and brother that I was going somewhere with Cooper.

Nobody answered, so I yelled louder.

My father called out, “Have fun!”

I ran out to Cooper's waiting car, my heart racing. This didn't feel like a just-friends intervention. I didn't ask him where we were going, or even guess, because I like surprises—good surprises.

Chapter 18

Cooper didn't say anything while he was driving, and I was determined to not say anything dumb, so I kept my mouth shut, which wasn't easy.

What could his surprise be?

I like getting presents for my birthday, but I wish I could get them a week ahead of time, so I could enjoy seeing them wrapped up and imagining what's in them. The anticipation is the best part. You might draw a connection between my love of wrapped presents and my still being a virgin when none of my friends were, the gift wrap being a metaphor, but you might be over-thinking.