What Happens to Goodbye (25 page)

Read What Happens to Goodbye Online

Authors: Sarah Dessen

“I clocked myself with my locker door.”
“Ouch.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Really, though,” she said, taking another sip, “it doesn’t look that bad at all. If it wasn’t the girl-fight angle, nobody would even notice.”
Time to change the subject. I nodded at the iPod, on the ground between us. “What are you listening to?”
“Just this mix I made,” she said. “Music, you know, calms me down. I find it’s helpful to just sort of zone out to it when I’m having a long day.”
“I hear that,” I said. “I could use some calming myself. Can I listen?”
“Sure,” she said. “But—”
I was already reaching over, picking up her earbuds and sliding them into my ears, expecting to hear the soft, lulling tones of adult contemporary. Or maybe a peppy show tune. Instead, I got a blast of feedback, followed by a drumroll.
I recoiled, pulling out one earbud. The other one stayed in, filling my head with the sound of someone screaming incoherently over what sounded like a chain saw. “Deb,” I sputtered, turning the iPod over and peering down at the screen. “What
is
this?”
“Just this band I was in at my old school,” she said. “They’re called Naugahyde.”
I just looked at her. “You were in a band?”
She nodded. “For a little while.”
The person in my ear was still going, their voice ragged and loud. “You,” I said slowly, “were in
this
band?”
“Yeah. I mean, it was a small school. Not a lot of options.” She adjusted her headband. “I’d been taking drum lessons forever, but I really wanted some collaborative experience. So when I saw the ad for a drummer, I applied, and got to sit in for some session work.”
“Deb,” I said, holding up my hand. “Hold on. Are you messing with me?”
“What?”
“You just . . .” I trailed off. “You don’t exacayed in, flook like a speed-metal drummer.”
“Because I’m not,” she said.
“You’re not.”
“I mean, I don’t quantify myself that way. I’m trained in all genres.” She reached into her bag, taking out a pack of gum, and offered me a piece. When I declined, she stuck it back in, zipping it shut, then looked up at me. “Although I do like the faster stuff, if only because it’s more fun to play.”
I opened my mouth, still shocked, but no words came. Before I could form any, Dave suddenly plopped down beside me. “Hey,” he said, shrugging off his backpack. “What’s going on here? ”
I turned to look at him. “Deb,” I said, “is a drummer.”
“Holy crap!” he said.
“I know!” I said. “Isn’t that crazy? I just—”
“What happened to your
face
?” he asked.
So much for it hardly being noticeable. “Riley punched me,” I told him.
“She what?”
“That’s the rumor,” I said, picking up my water. “At least according to Deb.”
“I heard it in the bathroom,” Deb explained.
Dave looked at her, then at me again. “Whoa,” he said, leaning in closer. “She really got a good hit in.”
I just looked at him. “Do you really believe she’d do that?”
“To you?” he asked. “No. But she does have a good arm on her. That, I know from experience. What was this fight supposedly about?”
I looked at Deb, who quickly busied herself looking for something in her purse. Finally, I said, “Apparently, it was a jealous rage spurred by seeing us together at the game.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Right. The jealous rage thing.” He carefully raised a hand, touching my cheek. In my peripheral vision, I saw Deb’s eyes widen. “What really happened?”
“My locker door attacked me.”
“They’ll do that.” He dropped his hand, then smiled. “You need some ice or something?”
“Already got it at the nurse’s office,” I told him. “But thanks.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said. “Since I was the cause and everything.”
I smiled. “You joke, but the rest of the school totally believes it. Just look around us.”
Dave turned, scanning the courtyard. Since he’d joined us, we had even more of an audience. “Whoa,” he said, looking back at me. “You’re not kidding.”
“People can’t resist a love triangle,” Deb said.
“Is that what this is?” Dave asked. He was talking to her, but looking right at me, and I felt my face flush.
“No,” I said.
He shrugged. “Too bad. I’ve always wanted to be part of one of tse.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Deb told him, shaking her head. “It’s no picnic, let me tell you.”
I snorted, which made Dave laugh. Deb just looked at us, not getting the joke. “Deb,” I said, “is there anything you don’t have experience with?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“It’s just . . .” I looked at Dave for help, but of course he gave me none. “You’re an expert on tattoos. A drummer. And now, you’ve been in a love triangle.”
“Just once,” she replied. Then she sighed. “But once was
more
than enough.”
Dave laughed, then looked at me again, and I felt this little rush. Like a tiny flame flickering.
No,
I thought just as quickly.
I’m not staying here long. He’s not my type.
“So, Deb,” Dave said. “You coming to Luna Blu this afternoon to work on our model project?”
“It’s not
our
anything,” I said. “I was just there that day to help Opal. It’s for delinquents only.”
“Not true,” he corrected me. “It’s a service project for anyone who has a hankering to serve their community.”
“A ‘hankering’ ?” I said.
“I love volunteering!” Deb exclaimed. “Is it really open to anyone? ”
“Yep,” Dave told her. “And don’t listen to Mclean. She’s practically spearheading the entire thing.”
“It sounds like so much fun! I love group projects,” Deb said.
“Then you should come by some afternoon. We work from four to six,” Dave said.
“Are you speaking for me?” I asked him. “Because I won’t be there.”
“No? ” he asked. We looked at each other for a moment. Then he said, “We’ll see.”
Deb looked at me, then at Dave, then back at me again, her expression a question. Before I could say anything, though, the bell rang, its sound ricocheting around the courtyard, making my ears ring. She jumped up, reaching for her bag, but still kept her eyes on Dave, intrigued, as he eased himself to his feet, then turned and looked down at me.
“You didn’t have to take a punch for me, you know,” he said. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“You’re a freak is what you are,” I said.
He stuck out his hand. “Come on, slugger. Walk with me. You know you want to.”
And the thing was, despite everything I knew—that it was a mistake, that he was different from the others—I did. How he knew that, I had no idea. But I got up and did it anyway.
That afternoon, when I got home, my dad’s keys were in the door. When I pulled them out and pushed it open, I heard voices.
“Stop it. Seriously. This isn’t funny.”
“You’re right.” A p="1em" ali“It’s pathetic.”
There was some giggling. Then, “Look, if we rank everyone on the staff with the point system, and incorporate the evaluations like we discussed, then go off of that, then . . .”
“. . . we’ll have official numeric confirmation that we do, in fact, have the worst staff in town.”
I heard a snicker, then a full-out burst of laughter. By the time I got to the kitchen doorway to see my dad and Opal at the table, a bunch of papers spread out between them, they were in hysterics.
“What are you guys doing?” I asked.
Opal picked up a napkin from the bowl on the counter, dabbing at her eyes, then opened her mouth to answer me. Before she could, though, she broke down again, waving her hand in front of her face. My dad, across from her, was sputtering.
“Corporate,” Opal said finally, or rather gasped, “wants us to decide who our weak links are.”
“And the answer,” my dad added, snorting, “is everyone.”
They both burst out laughing again, like this was the funniest thing in the world. Opal put her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking, while my dad sat back, trying to catch his breath.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“That’s because,” my dad said, wheezing, “you haven’t been at it for four straight hours.”
“Four hours!” Opal said, slapping her hand on the table. “And we’ve got
nothing
. Zip, zilch, nada.”
My dad tittered at this. He sounded like a little girl. I asked, “Why are you doing this here?”
“We can’t do it at the restaurant,” Opal said. She took a deep breath. “It’s very serious business.”
My dad howled at this, throwing his head back, which set her off again. I headed to the fridge for a drink, wondering if we had a gas leak or something.
“Okay, okay.” Opal took a deep breath. “Seriously, this is ridiculous. I’m so slaphappy I can’t see straight. We have to finish like—oh my God! Mclean, what happened to your nose?”
I shut the fridge to see them both staring at me. It was a little more noticeable in profile, I guessed. “I collided with my locker. I’m fine.”
“Are you?” my dad asked as I came over, sitting down beside him. He reached to touch the bump and I flinched. “That looks pretty serious.”
“It was a lot worse earlier,” I told him. “The swelling’s gone way down.”
“It looks like someone punched you,” my dad said.
“Nope. Just a clumsy chain reaction.” I took a sip of my drink. He was still watching me. “Dad. I’m fine.”
Across the table, Opal smiled. “She’s a tough girl, Gus. Stop fretting.”
My dad made a face at her, then looked down at a stack of papers in front of him, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay, so here’s the thing. I know Chuckles pretty well,” he said. “He likes formulas and numbers, everythingaid out neatly on a spreadsheet. That’s why he uses this evaluation system. It’s totally cut and dry.”
“Maybe so, but it leaves no room for the human side of things,” Opal said. “Now, I’m the first to admit we don’t have the most capable staff. . . .”
I glanced at the yellow legal pad that was by his elbow. On it was a list of names, each one with a number beside it. Scribblings and notes filled the margins, along with scratch-outs and smudges.
“But,” she added quickly, “
but
, I think our people do add a flavor and personality to the Luna Blu experience that cannot be quantified on a piece of paper.”
My dad looked at her. “Today at lunch,” he said, his voice flat, “Leo sent out a chicken sandwich with yogurt on it instead of sour cream.”
Opal bit her lip. “Well,” she said after a moment, “in the Middle East, yogurt is a popular sandwich condiment.”
“But we’re not in the Middle East.”
“It’s a mistake!” she said, throwing up her hands. “People make them. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Which is a fine philosophy in a preschool,” my dad replied. “But in a working, profitable restaurant, we need to aim for better.”
She looked down at her hands. “So you’re saying we fire Leo.”
My dad pulled the legal pad closer, squinting at it. “If we go by Chuckles’s formula, yes. By the numbers, he and everyone else we’ve got listed here in the top spots should go.”
Opal groaned, pushing back from the table. “But they’re not numbers. They’re people.
Good
people.”
“Who don’t know the difference between yogurt and sour cream.” She rolled her eyes, and he added, “Opal, this is my job. If something—or someone—isn’t working, then we have to make changes.”
“Like the rolls.”
He sighed. “They were a cost suck, took up too much prep time, and gave us no return. It could be argued, in fact, that they
lost
us money.”

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