Life of the Party

by Christine Anderson

  I flopped down on my bed with a sigh, fraught with dismay at the thought of a “Marcy dinner” in my near future. Don’t get me wrong, she’s my sister and I do love her, but come on. For one thing, she’s in med school, which my parents just rant and rave about. They brag about her to all their friends. She has this real hotshot boyfriend, a surgeon of some kind, who was all magna and summa when he graduated a few years ago, but he’s nearly as old as my father, in my thinking anyway. They live in the city, in this high rise, modern blah blah … anyway it’s really swanky. To top it all off, Marcy is gorgeous, with her dark eyes and athletic build and immaculate sense of fashion and togetherness. Her jaw would have dropped in tremendous delight if offered the outfit I was currently wrinkling to the best of my ability.

  I sat up suddenly and smiled to myself. I had just been gifted with the most amazing idea. I nearly laughed at myself and my genius, hopped off my bed, and eagerly got to work.

  “Mackenzie! Come down to eat!” Mom called up the stairs.

  “Okay, I’ll be right down!” I called back, smiling in anticipation. I looked in the mirror and made a few last minute adjustments. The outfit I had just created looked pretty good in my eyes, something I would possibly wear out with the guys. The bubblegum pink top was now the owner of a great black skull that sat across my chest, actually pretty good, a credit to my old art classes and a faithful black Sharpie. The grey skirt I left basically alone, only adding a few well-placed rips—which of course had to be fixed with an overabundance of safety pins. Beneath those were some fishnets I had worn for Halloween one year, and to top it all off, I put on some heavy, old black army boots that had been hanging out in the bottom of my closet. They were Riley’s from his short stint in Cadets, which his mother forced him to quit when someone stole his brand new and very expensive boots.

  He had really hated that group.

  After just a dab more eyeliner, I bounded happily down the stairs and into the dining room.

  “Good evening,” I announced. Marcy, Greg and my father looked up at me, ceasing their conversation, their eyebrows raised. My mom stopped cold in her tracks and glared at me.

  “Mackenzie Anne, what have you done to your clothes?” She demanded, setting down the potatoes.

  “What, this?” I asked in amazement. “I just added my own artistic flair. You should be encouraging my flair, you know.”

  “Do you even know how much that outfit cost? Look at it now, it’s ruined.”

  “Well, then save yourself the trouble next time, mom. Really.” I sat down at my place, very satisfied with myself. I hoped she’d get the hint. Marcy and Greg exchanged a look of disapproval, and Dad sat thoughtfully. He looked very tired.

  Dinner went on, as Marcy recounted her amazing abilities in full, with Greg interjecting any excellence she may have forgotten. I sat silently through it all, pushing my food around on my plate. Marcy looked breathtaking in her white buttoned blouse and grey blazer—her dark hair, recently bobbed, pin-neat and perfectly curled at her jawbone. Her flawless skin was made-up just right so she looked gorgeous without seeming like she tried to. Greg at her side sat dapperly in a blue sweater with a white collar, and I nearly expected him to pull out a pipe and expound on theology.

  But then I noticed it. How could I not before? How did my mom not see? I looked at her quickly to make sure she hadn’t developed a sudden case of blindness. Now that I had seen it, it was impossible to ignore. Shining and gleaming in the dim lights of the dining room, there, upon Marcy’s left hand, sat a ring of extraordinary size and carat.

  “What’s with the ring?” I blurted suddenly, totally interrupting their conversation. Marcy looked hard at me and then blushed into a smile, beaming as she held up her hand for my parents to see.

  “I was going to announce it … properly … but, Greg asked me last night! We’re getting married!” She exclaimed.

  The noise my mother made then cannot even be described. It was something like a train whistle combined with the high-pitched scream of a teakettle. My ears actually cringed at the sound. She jumped up and covered her mouth and grasped Marcy in a tight hug, enthusiastically proclaiming her approval and excitement. Dad smiled broadly and clinked his wine glass against Greg’s.

  “Congratulations, son. It’ll be an honour to have you in the family.”

  I just sat and watched the madness ensue. Finally, when the initial excitement settled and only brief bursts of high-pitched noises were exploding from my mother, Marcy looked over at me. She smiled.

  “What do you think, Mac? Aren’t you happy?” She asked cautiously. Everyone turned to watch my reaction.

  “Absolutely. That’s awesome. Congratulations.” I held up my water glass in unenthused cheers. “Can’t wait.”

  “And,” Marcy smiled again, “We’d like you to be in the wedding.”

  “Me?” I was sincerely surprised. “Why?”

  “‘Cause silly. You’re my little sister. Who better?” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I couldn’t help but be touched by the offer, especially since I’d given Marcy nothing but attitude for the last few years. I smiled at her.

  “Sure, that sounds great.”

  Greg chuckled. “Unfortunately for you, we’re leaving the skulls out of the décor.” He smirked and sipped his sherry. “Unless you would like black and white for a theme, dear?”

  All those around the table laughed then, as if it were the funniest joke they’d heard in ages. Then Marcy gushed, turning to my mother and describing in full her actual theme and color choices, which she had already decided on, even though they’d been engaged for all of twenty-one hours. I sat back and sneered at Greg. What a dick. Who under the age of fifty drinks sherry with their meal anyway? And his hair. He looked like a game show host from the early eighties. Dick. I made a mental note that when—no—if—I ever got married, black and white would make a definite appearance. Oh, and Greg wouldn’t be invited.

  “So, Mackenzie.” Dad interrupted my future revenge scheme, wiping at his mouth with his napkin and plunking it onto his plate, a motion that followed the end of all his meals. He took a drink of wine and made sure he had my attention.

  “Yes?”

  “Did we decide anything? About the job?”

  “Oh, yes, actually, we did.”

  “We did?” Mom turned mid-flower discussion. “But I haven’t spoken to Doug yet about—”

  “Don’t bother; Riley’s getting me a job.”

  There, right on cue. The face.

  “Riley? Where?” Asked the scrunch of disapproval.

  “At the restaurant he works at. Um … something Wheat … Red Wheat, I think?”

  Stunned silence followed. Someone scoffed, and I can’t be sure, but I think it was Greg. Dick.

  “What?” I asked in amazement. “What? You tell me to get a job, so I get one, and now you sit here like I just told you I’m running away with my lesbian partner or something.”

  “Well, Mackenzie.” Dad shook his head. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  “What did you have in mind? A job that I work at and pays me money? ‘Cause this is one of those jobs.”

  “I just thought …,” he trailed off.

  “You sure you don’t want a job at the hospital? It won’t be a problem; I could call right now ….”

  “Mom! Stop! I don’t want your damn hospital job.” I got up from my seat. “You guys are friggin’ impossible.”

  But there was a smile on my face as I strode up the stairs, back to my room.

  CHAPTER 5

  It smelled like hot oil and musty cloths. Like pizza sauce and spices and strong brewed coffee. Like Descaler and mop water and Italian salad dressing. I stood hesitantly at the entrance to the waitress area, overwhelmed by the pungent aromas as I waited for Sophie, who had just disappeared through a set of swinging doors into a hectic chaos beyond. She had bid me wait for her so she could “show me the ropes,” her arms laden with plates on her way to
the dish pit—like six plates between two arms. I wondered if I would ever be able to do that. And if I’d have to pay for the plates I broke.

  As I waited I tried inconspicuously to look for Grey through the narrow glass window on the door, but all I could see was a hairy knuckled hand dumping fries into the deep fryer. I looked around the seating area instead. The Red Wheat was a typical family affair restaurant. The carpet was a faded burgundy/hunter green combination of swirls and flowers, oak woodworking framed the white sprigged wallpaper, the tables were burgundy topped and surrounded by wooden chairs with green seat pads. It was homey and comforting though—not cheap or tacky—and since most of the seats were filled with patrons, I took that as a good sign.

  “Okay.” Sophie re-emerged then, smiling quickly and wiping her hands on her soiled black apron. “Sorry to make you wait. I don’t know why Ralph always insists the new people come during supper rush. Its really inconvenient but I suppose it’s a fast way to learn ….” Her speech trailed off and she was moving again, whisking around the restaurant, taking orders, clearing plates, refilling coffee. I had no choice but to follow close behind, feeling awkward and out of place while trying to seem preoccupied and knowledgeable.

  Sophie didn’t exactly help my discomfit. She would point at me with her pen and clarify “trainee” to all her customers, who would in turn smile sympathetically at me and nod with understanding. Between tables she would explain as we walked, talking a mile a minute about menu choices and writing orders and making the most efficient use of our time.

  As we came into the waitress station there was another girl there, tall and blonde and pretty, leaning on the counter and talking to one of the cooks through the long narrow window where food orders were placed. She giggled and played with her curly hair—obviously flirting. And then I recognized her.

  “Hello Charlene.” Sophie frowned and Charlie straightened up. I smiled. So Charlene was her real name.

  “Oh, hey Soph. Oh hey—I remember you.” She smiled at me then. “From the other night, like a week ago. Mackenzie, right?”

  “Yeah that’s me.” I nodded.

  “I’m glad you two know each other.” Even then Sophie didn’t stop moving. She placed her order and went to the fridge to make a salad.

  “Mackenzie, I need two large Pepsi’s please. Charlene, you’re late.”

  “Yeah sorry, I was like, waylaid.”

  “Well, table seventeen needs ketchup and table nineteen needs a refill. Are you sure that outfit is work appropriate?” Then Sophie paused, taking in Charlie’s ensemble, and I looked over mid-Pepsi-pour to get a good look as well. She had on tight black Capri’s and cute strappy sandals, with a white halter-top deep cut down the front. She looked really, really good, but not like a waitress. I looked down at myself, dressed in nice black pants, black skate shoes and a long sleeved striped green Henley—and felt like a Hutterite in comparison.

  “What’s the matter with my clothes?” Charlie asked. Sophie shook her head and raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s not for me to say. Let Ralph tell you if he has a problem with it.” Then under her breath, she laugh-muttered, “Yeah right.”

  “Did Sophie explain to you about our uniforms?” Charlie laughed. Sophie shot her a look and left the waitress area, a ketchup bottle in one hand and coffeepot in the other.

  “What uniforms?” I asked Sophie, following closely behind with the Pepsi’s. I didn’t want to be stuck alone with Charlie and forced to make polite conversation.

  “We don’t have any.” Sophie explained. “You can wear whatever you want, tastefully, mind you. Keep in mind that whatever you wear will be ruined eventually.”

  I smiled. Perfect. Another use for my mom-bought wardrobe.

  My luck ran out at the end of the night, when Sophie announced she was leaving us to close up, this proclamation coming just as suddenly as the rest of her actions had. She did look worn though—her thin dark hair falling loose from the severe, tight ponytail she wore at the exact center of her head, the slight smudges under her eyes making the rest of her narrow face appear even more peaked. But she smiled at me before she left.

  “You did good tonight, Mackenzie. If I didn’t have to be here first thing tomorrow I’d stay and teach you some more. You show promise though. Remember, only two free refills, right?”

  “Right.” I nodded, accepting Sophie’s praise. The restaurant was obviously her life and she clearly knew what she was talking about. I wondered how old she was. And when she became a waitress. And if she had done it just to show her parents a thing or two.

  “Just you and me, hey?” Charlie leaned against the counter, grinning when Sophie finally left. “Take a moment. Have a drink. Sophie’s always rush, rush, rush. I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “It was busy.” I felt the need to defend the poor woman.

  “Yes, it was. But it’s not now. Take a load off.”

  I shrugged and joined her at the counter with a drink, trying to clandestinely place myself in direct view of the kitchen. I hadn’t had even a second to scope out the situation back there, apart from Rory the hairy knuckled line cook and the dish-pit full of grade seveners. Now I peered through the take-out window, searching for Grey as casually as I could. He was nowhere to be seen, but I did spot Riley, hard at work ladling pizza sauce onto dough. He leaned over with concentration, his eyebrows knit and his tongue pointing out the right side of his mouth, like it always did whenever he was super focused. I wondered suddenly if he did that when making out with someone. Super random.

  “Is Grey working tonight?” I asked Charlie nonchalantly, sipping my Pepsi.

  “No. Off tonight.” Her smile became an eye roll and then she shook her head. “Don’t even tell me.”

  “Don’t tell you what?”

  “I can’t believe … you started here for him, didn’t you?”

  “What?” I pretended to be appalled; amazed that she had seen through me so quickly. “Of course not.”

  “Yeah, right. Well you wouldn’t be the first one, honey. This place gets more resumes than West-Jet.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. But listen; if that’s all you’re here for, you’re wasting your time. Grey … well … I can’t figure him out. I’ve worked here for nearly a year and he won’t give me the time of day. It’s the same with all the girls. Maybe he has a thing about dating where he works.” She shrugged.

  I translated this statement to mean that Charlie had hit on him and he’d rejected her. I nodded for her to continue.

  “I don’t know what else to tell you. Good luck, I guess. But take it from me, I’ve seen pretty much every attempt under the sun and he never goes for it.”

  I nodded again. “Well. Luckily, that’s not what I’m here for.”

  “Right.” Charlie smiled and nodded. “I forgot. Anyways, maybe he’s gay.”

  I thought of Grey’s stubbled face as it screamed into the microphone, of his thigh-hugging blue jeans and studded leather bracelets. No, nothing about Grey could or would ever be gay. But he would be a challenge. I kept this thought to myself, picked up a coffeepot and went out to check the customers.

  There was still vacuuming to do, salad dressings to refill, the coffee machine to clean, ketchups to wipe … the list went on and on. I had no idea there was so much to a waitressing gig. By the time I plunked myself down at a table to roll the cutlery my feet ached, my legs stumbled and my eyes burned with exhaustion. Most of the kitchen crew were already out front, relaxing at the tables and drinking coffee. A thick haze of smoke hung in the air above them.

  “Hey Mac.” Riley left his table and joined me, his checked kitchen duds replaced by street clothes. He sat down with a sigh. “How was your first day?”

  “Tired.” Was all I could say. He laughed and handed me a smoke. “Here, this will make you feel better.”

  It did. I instantly relaxed the moment the precious burn hit my lungs. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. It’ll get easier
you know. My first day I was so overwhelmed.”

  “Yeah. Is it always this busy?”

  “Most nights. But your tips will be worth it, trust me.”

  “Tips!” I totally forgot. I smiled and nearly ran back to the waitress area, despite my aching legs, for my newly decorated Styrofoam cup filled with change. I had written my name on it in big black letters, complete with a few pointy stars for company.

  “Can I trust you?” I teased, handing the cup to Riley so I could resume my cutlery rolling. He shrugged and smiled back.

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, both bent over the task at hand. As I took another drag of my cigarette, I suddenly realized why nearly every single person at the restaurant indulged in the delicious filthy habit. Nothing helped relax you after a tiring, busy shift like the simple pleasure of a smoke.

  “Not a bad haul.” Riley decided then, jumping up to exchange my small change for bills from the main till. He handed me a few twenties and a ten. I smiled in delight.

  “Wow, worth it!” I declared happily. “Let’s celebrate! This is more then enough for a bag. What do you say?” Weed smoke would be even more relaxing.

  Riley surprised me by hesitating. He looked at my small pile of money and frowned.

  “I don’t know, Mac.” He sighed.

  “What? Why not?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a school night.”

  “It’s a … what?” I stared at him in stupefied shock, “… and?”

  “And, I don’t feel the need to be ripped all the time, alright?” Though he kept his voice low, there was no mistaking the sudden edge to it. He looked at me in frustration. “There’s more to life, you know.”

  I was speechless. I stared at him curiously. Never since the day Riley smoked his first joint had he ever turned down weed. Free weed especially. At school, after school, on the weekends, in the evenings, at important family functions … Riley was always high. He was high so often that his mom only got suspicious when he was sober. Being high was the norm for Riley.