Life of the Party

by Christine Anderson

  It was my turn to stare. Never in my life would I have imagined those words from Riley’s mouth. I had no choice but to laugh, in stupefied shock, and shake my head.

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath there, my friend. Good speech though.” I couldn’t even imagine the same thing happening to me. “So, we have a deal, then?”

  “We have a deal.” Riley smiled and shook my hand, as if we had just conducted some important business. “But don’t think I give up that easily. I’m not giving up on you Mackenzie, not when I know what’s best for you.”

  I laughed again. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I thought of my desires, my youth, my plan for life which did not extend past this evening—highlighting the areas when I would be high, skipping past the areas when I would be sober, already impatient for the feel of a joint to my lips. I was young. I was not done having fun. If anything, I wanted complete, reckless amusement at any cost. I wanted danger, complete abandonment—wild, careless, excitement.

  I shrugged my shoulders, but I was grinning. “I’m a lost cause.” I decided.

  And I was delighted to be so.

  CHAPTER 7

  My heightened pulse had nothing to do with the fact that I was waiting on tables, alone, for the very first time. It had nothing to do with trying to remember menu choices and prices and customer needs. I wiped my sweaty palms on my sleek black skirt and tried to breathe normally. My anxiety had nothing to do with waitressing and everything to do with him.

  He was there. After all my scheming and waiting and new-jobbery, he was finally there, behind the narrow slit of a window dividing the kitchen from the waitress area. I snuck another glance at him. All I could see was the blue fabric of his bandana as he bent down at the line. Then he lifted his head, and Grey’s heartbreakingly handsome face became visible, the deep tone of his skin darkened by a few days growth of stubble. His blue eyes were narrowed as he worked, his hair pulled back in the blue bandana tied round his forehead. Even in the black and white checked kitchen attire—messy with pizza sauce and who knows what else—he was gorgeous. His sleeves were rolled up, showing his dark, tanned forearms firm with muscle. The apron he wore hinted at slender hips, outlined his hard torso, implied at the defined muscle beneath. It was all I could do not to openly drool at him, to grovel at his feet and offer him a lifetime of servitude in exchange for a smile, a touch.

  I patted my hair in place, took a deep breath, and approached the window. My table wanted extra garlic bread. It was the perfect excuse to talk to him.

  “Excuse me.” I cleared my throat, watching him expectantly. His head barely lifted, barely acknowledged me, but just the feel of his blue eyes against my own was enough to make my heart race even faster.

  “What.” He looked back down at his work.

  “Um … can I get some more garlic toast, for table thirteen?” I asked nicely.

  He looked up at me again, a slight smile bending his perfect lips. He raised his eyebrows and then leaned in closer to me. I focused on breathing.

  “See this?” Grey asked, his voice low, like velvet. He held up an order sheet.

  “ … Yes ….” I smiled.

  “Take this,” his tone was condescending, “take your pen, write one garlic toast,” he did exactly that, made sure I was watching, smartly—his eyes innocent, his voice sarcastic. “Then stab it on the puck, like so …,” he demonstrated for me, taking the order sheet he had just scrawled upon and placing it roughly on the hockey-puck-nail apparatus. “And then you wait, and I go back there, and put it in the oven. And when it’s done, I bring it to you. Okay?”

  “ … O … okay ….” I stammered stupidly. Heat rushed to my cheeks in an embarrassing blush, adding to my humiliation.

  “There’s no need for this,” he motioned with his hand to me, and then back to him. “There’s no need for us to talk. Ever. Okay? Can you remember that?” He muttered something then … I heard the words “stupid” and “waitresses” and “all.”

  I nodded, dumb with shock, and backed away from the window, trying to put some distance between me and his sudden, unexpected scorn. I could hear him chuckling behind the counter, and at the sound, my mortification turned swiftly to anger. Clearly I remembered Grey at the club and the smiles he had given me as we laughed and talked together. But either he’d totally forgotten me and I didn’t even register in his memory, or he did remember and simply didn’t care. Seething, I imagined him later on, regaling his kitchen friends with the story of his sheer wit that put the new girl in her place. Grey or no Grey, I would show him. He couldn’t be such a dick and get away with it.

  Quickly and impetuously, I stormed back to the counter, hastily scribbled, “Screw you!” on an order sheet and stabbed it on the puck. Then I rang the bell beside it as hard as I could, the poor instrument protesting with a loud, tinny clang that instantly got Grey’s attention. He swung around again from the oven, and the moment my eyes rested on his handsome, perfect face, I’d completely forgiven him and wanted to take it all back. What had I been mad about? I couldn’t seem to remember. He kept his icy blue eyes upon me, a small smirk on his lips, and reached to retrieve the order. It was too late to take back the rashly worded message, and my brow furrowed with fresh worry. Surely, this would make him hate me forever.

  His eyes scanned the page for what seemed like eternity. I grimaced at my own stupidity. Why couldn’t I’ve just let it go?

  Grey raised his eyebrows, and then he glanced at me. His blue eyes were … surprised? Amused? I couldn’t tell. Then, he chuckled slightly, shook his head, and a smile broke over his perfect lips.

  I didn’t want him to see my utter relief at his reaction. With an effort to seem completely calm and in control of myself, I shook my head at him, as if the whole thing were totally immature and beneath me, and then stalked out of the waitress area. I could hear Grey chuckling again from behind the counter.

  This time I didn’t mind.

  The night continued. It was Charlie and I, alone, again, but I actually came to find I didn’t mind it. Charlie knew what she was doing, and albeit lazier than Sophie, it was actually a nice change. She was wearing a dress tonight, low-cut and white with little pink flowers on it, like the kind someone would wear to a wedding. Her high heels clicked on the brown tile floor of the waitress area. Her hair was half up, half down in blond curls, her make-up done to a tee. She looked gorgeous, and I couldn’t help admiring her. If Grey didn’t go for her even, what chance did I really have?

  Charlie caught me staring. She smiled at me and motioned with her hand to outline her outfit. “It helps with the tips,” she admitted, “You should try it. Not that you don’t look good. I like your skirt.”

  “Thanks.” I looked down at myself, at my bright pink turtleneck and black pencil skirt. My dark curls tumbled down from the loose ponytail I wore; I had comfortable, practical black skate shoes on. I smiled at Charlie, I couldn’t help it. I wanted to hate her, I really did, but she was so beautiful, and so damn cool. I couldn’t help but want her approval, her compliments.

  “I like your style.” She confessed. Her pink lips smiled at me. “Sometimes though, a little cleavage, it goes a long way.”

  Near the end of the night, I saw the proof. Her Styrofoam cup was loaded with change, five-dollar bills mixed into the coins. Mine was full too, but nowhere near hers. I considered her advice. It might be worth it.

  Grey ignored me the rest of the night. Well, mostly. Once, we happened to look up at the same time, and our eyes met, and he gave me the most genuine smile I had ever received from him. It lasted only briefly, before he turned away and his expression resorted back to its normal, stoic appearance—but I was overjoyed. I couldn’t help but feel like I had made some progress, however small. If nothing else, I’d made myself memorable, and that seemed a victory in itself.

  I was painfully aware of him the entire night. I knew every move he made, every word he said, every time he left for
a smoke break. A few times I debated just “happening” to go outside at the exact time he did, but I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t near brave enough. Instead I worked away, mostly silently, trying to do the best job possible so he’d notice, making my orders perfectly legible and exactly how he’d want them.

  When the open light was finally shut off and the staff had gathered at the tables for coffee and cigarettes in the traditional manner, I joined Riley at his table, but I sat so Grey was in plain view. He had changed into dark jeans and a long sleeved grey shirt, his leather bracelets were back, his hair messy out of the confining bandana. The breath caught in my throat just looking at him, even from afar. The guys with him were laughing, flicking their cigarettes messily at the ashtray. I was surprised to recognize both the guitar player and the drummer from Serpentine, Grey’s band.

  “Hey, I didn’t know they worked here too.” I whispered to Riley, motioning with my eyes. He turned briefly to look over his shoulder, popping his gum as he did so.

  “Who, Zack and Alex? No, they don’t work here. They work at some lumberyard downtown. They’re always around though, scamming free food and stuff. They’re in Grey’s band, and Ralph doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “Who is this Ralph? I keep hearing about him but I’ve never seen him. He didn’t even hire me. That Mark guy did.” I nodded towards the spiky-haired blonde trying to wrestle a cash-out slip from the register. He was young, maybe twenty-seven or thirty, with a healthy obsession for eighties rock. Even now, Cheap Trick could be heard playing somewhere in the back of the kitchen.

  “Yeah, Mark’s the manager. He’s a good guy. He’s here like twenty-four seven too, so he does most of the hiring and scheduling and shit. Ralph’s the owner but he hardly shows, mostly if there’s firing to do, or in the afternoon … he likes the nightlife. Don’t worry though, you’ll meet him.” Riley sighed and rolled his eyes. “Ralph always insists on meeting the new waitresses personally.”

  “What is he, some kind of perv?”

  “Let’s call him very bored and leave it at that.” Riley chuckled. I raised my eyebrows but let it go. I was dying for a cigarette, and watching Grey and his friends smoke was not making it easier. How could Riley do it?

  “Go ahead, Zee.” Riley smiled. “You can smoke. I won’t renege on our little contract.”

  “What are you, reading my mind now?” I chuckled, but reached gladly for my cigarettes.

  “It’s not hard to read your mind when you’re so damn predictable. Go ahead.”

  “Is it very hard?”

  “No. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay.” I knew Riley was lying, but I was also desperate. I tried to keep the smoke from reaching him and inhaled happily. I glanced at Grey and his band mates again over Riley’s shoulder. They seemed to be planning out their next gig. I paid close attention, trying to hear the date of their next show.

  “So, how’d it go anyway?” Riley wondered quietly, noticing my rapt interest in the table behind him. I shot him a puzzled look. “With Grey,” he explained, “isn’t that what you got this job for? So, how’d it go?”

  “Well ….” I smiled, and told Riley the whole shameful “screw you” story, my voice quiet enough that we wouldn’t be overheard. My friend was laughing by the end of it and he shook his head at my foolishness.

  “Leave it to you, Mackenzie. Grey’s a jerk to everyone here, some days worse than others—it takes a while to warm him up. Most people just accept it and try to ignore him. Not you though. You’re probably the only person that has ever stood up to him.” He shook his head again, and chuckled mirthlessly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Riley muttered. “I just bet you made an impression, that’s all.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.” I argued, but at the same time, I desperately hoped so. I blew my smoke out and glanced at Grey’s table again. The band mates were totally immersed in conversation, a serious one, by the looks of it. I watched carefully, wishing that Grey would look at me again.

  “Yeah, you made an impression. Of course you did.” Riley sighed quietly in his chair. I was aware of his eyes on me, but was too busy looking at Grey to acknowledge him.

  CHAPTER 8

  My life was in the doldrums. I couldn’t really pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but suddenly my schedule was full with work (of all things) and I was home relatively early every night, giving me ample time for homework (or it would’ve, had I wanted to do it). Stone sober during the day and most nights, stuck at Ben’s house watching the same damn movie every weekend and basically just all out bored. Riley was pretty much non-existent these days, somehow he had drifted farther and farther from me. I saw him only in the mornings when we drove to school and the random nights we happened to work together. The rest of his time he seemed to be spending with fat Emily—or the “Christian,” as I called her.

  In all my spare time, I had done a little reconnaissance work on Riley’s little friend, and my discoveries were unsettling to say the least. Emily ran a lunchtime group, Faith … something … Soldiers, maybe, I couldn’t remember what it was called, but it was the very meeting that my friend Riley disappeared to every day. He thought I didn’t know, and he refused to talk to me about it or her, which could only mean they were becoming serious. The thought made me nearly sick to my stomach … I could practically watch him slipping away. I tried to keep a brave face and not nag him too much, remembering our little pact and attempting to stay positive for him. I clung to the daft hope that we’d make it through this rough patch and find a way for us to be together with our friendship still intact, somehow, uncommon interest’s aside.

  But I just didn’t see how it would work.

  I had made little to no progress with Grey either. On the days we happened to work together, which weren’t very often, his moods changed so much that I was confused on the best of days. He was never openly hostile again, but he ranged between totally indifferent and nonchalant to smiling at me openly from behind the order counter. To say I was baffled was an understatement, but at least he was being generally friendly. And totally gorgeous, of course.

  Sundays were probably the worst though. On Sundays, Marcy made a point of coming to our house so she and my mom could work on wedding plans, which in turn meant I had to help with wedding plans, and that Greg the dick would also be there, in his collared shirts, saying unfunny things that made my parents laugh. Sundays couldn’t go by fast enough. It’s hard to choke through a whole day with a fake smile on your face when trying to be enthused about something that held no interest at all.

  Worse yet, with graduation approaching quickly, the warm, hazy air of summer only encouraged all manner of wild, teenage activity. Yet I was stuck … trapped in a routine that disabled me from enjoying any kind of young summertime fun. Riley and I had grand plans for this time of the year, a wicked camping trip up river somewhere, all the booze and drugs we could want. I would’ve been willing to go to the other parties too, held by kids we really didn’t hang out with, but I didn’t want to go alone.

  Riley was out and Ben, Toby and Jacob weren’t really willing to go either, they preferred to hang out at Ben’s house and get high without having to socialize with anyone else. Not that I blamed them. I’d sat many times, for hours, while the three of them laughed—just laughed, pretty much non-stop, at who knows what. They didn’t need to go out to be entertained. But I craved some craziness, some … opportunity. A little drama in my otherwise lacklustre life.

  I sighed, finishing the loop on my binder that made the doodled flower complete. If something exciting didn’t happen soon I was going to lose my mind. The teacher was going over materials we should study for finals, but I ignored him. The very thought of those dreaded exams bored me nearly to tears. I began work on another flower—another, larger, grander flower than the one before it. It seemed that if I wanted something to happen, I’d have to do it myself. And I was just on the verge of crazy enough, to be brave enough, to make it h
appen.

  I had my plan in action the moment the bell rang. I nearly sprinted down the hall towards Riley’s locker, smiling victoriously when I beat him there, and turned to wait. Kids rushed by me on their way to the cafeteria or to the parking lot and their awaiting cars, some pushed through the nearby doors to begin the walk uptown to the closest convenience store. I spotted Riley coming down the hallway, but the smile fell off my face when I saw Emily close beside. The people had to move around them instead of barging through the middle, because to my horrified eyes, Riley’s hand was wrapped tightly in Emily’s, their fingers as intertwined as their eyes seemed to be, completely oblivious to all those around them. Completely oblivious to me.

  I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Like I had been kicked in the guts, like I had been horribly, brutally betrayed. I took a breath to steady myself, to try and talk some rationalization into my befuddled brain. Riley wasn’t mine, I had never claimed him in that way. So why did I hate, with every part of me, the fact that he was holding Emily’s hand? I couldn’t answer that question. I just hated it. I fought the urge to run over and tear his hand from hers and make him look at me. Maybe that would snap some sense into him.

  I can’t imagine what my expression must have been. Riley did look up eventually—it was inevitable as they came closer—and when he saw me his face became alarmed. But his hand was still tight around hers.

  “Mac? Are you okay? Did someone die or something?” He asked.

  “… No … no—” I choked out. My throat seemed to have closed. I shook my head instead of trying to talk.

  “What’s up then? Oh, hey, you know Emily, right?” Riley looked down at the chubby girl and I saw it then … how his dark chocolate eyes warmed, how his face seemed to beam at the sound of her name on his lips. He loved her. I knew he did. I wanted to cry, right there in front of them. How did this happen? How did I let this happen? I felt the panicky tears start climbing up my throat, and I gulped to hold them in.