Just Visiting

by Dahlia Adler

  He stands slowly, as if I’ve bothered him in the middle of something very, very important to ask his opinion on my outfit, and grabs one dish in each hand, leaving me to balance the remaining four on sweaty palms and in elbow crooks, even though the Krogers are seated entirely in Mitch’s section.

  Whatever. Not like I have anything better to do. I carefully place all four dishes in front of the respective Krogers, pretending not to notice when Billy, whom I used to babysit for, sticks his nose down my shirt when I bend over to place chicken nuggets in front of his little sister. If I could’ve felt any dirtier after spending my day running around in grease fumes and cleaning endless blobs of ketchup off of every conceivable surface, that would’ve done it.

  “Can I get you folks anything else?” I ask in my super helpful voice, which has never been used outside these four walls.

  “Mayo,” Jeff Kroger grunts, not bothering to make eye contact even though he’s worked with my dad for at least ten years. Of course, there’s already mayo on his burger and in a little cup on his plate, but okay.

  “Extra mayo, coming right up.”

  “And sugar!” the youngest one, whose name I can’t remember, pipes up. I can’t imagine what on earth she wants sugar for, but her parents don’t say anything, so I just nod. “Mayo and sugar.”

  The girl giggles. “Gross.”

  “Where are my fries?” Billy demands.

  “Fries don’t come with chili dogs. If you want them as an additional side, I can place that order for you.”

  I brace myself for the tirade I know is coming, because it comes every time someone in Charytan is informed that something doesn’t automatically come with fries. Never mind that they’ve all been coming to the same diner for years and should know the menu by heart, since it’s all some of them read in a year. Of course, Candy Kroger doesn’t disappoint.

  “You want me to pay extra for fries that should come with it in the first place? Well, isn’t that nice,” she spits. “Just gouge every hardworking person in this town for every last nickel and dime…”

  It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, and I tune it out like a pro. The chili dog costs a whopping two bucks. If you can’t afford fries on top of that, maybe you shouldn’t have four fucking children, all of whom have to share a room. My parents may have a lot of faults, but at least overpopulating our trailer isn’t one of them. The thought warms me to them a little as I glance around the diner, waiting for her to finish and give up. Joe was very explicit on multiple occasions that we’re not to entertain fry-seeking conspiracy theorists.

  Then my gaze lands on the couple walking through the door and suddenly I have a burning desire to focus all my energy on Candy Kroger.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as Quinn Fitzpatrick and the freaking lumberjack she’s with take a seat in my section. I don’t know what the hell she’s doing here with a guy like Luke Schmidt; she’s far too young to be on a date, let alone with a guy who’s only a year behind me at CHS. I wonder if she’s forgotten I work here.

  “I’ll get you fries on the house,” I say, knowing it’s absolutely the wrong way to approach the situation but desperate to get back behind the counter and away from Quinn and Paul Bunyan. “Fries, mayo, and sugar. I’ll be back soon.”

  The fries will have to come out of my own pocket, but I don’t even care; anything to get away from the back of Quinn’s head. How much time have I spent behind that head, braiding the wheat-colored strands as if she were my own personal Barbie doll? I know the feel of that hair like I know my own—maybe even better since I’d never really paid much attention to mine. But Quinn loved having people play with her hair, almost as much as she loved when Johnny—Fitz—used to run around, spinning her in the air, making noises as if he were a helicopter.

  It’s been months since I’ve seen her, and even that was only from a distance at Christmas mass. The Fitzpatricks don’t do Sunday night dinners at Joe’s anymore, not since…everything. And even now, it still feels far too soon.

  “Where are you going?” Mitch demands as I head into the back room as if mayo isn’t readily available in multiple squeeze bottles sitting right in front of my face.

  I ignore him. Maybe if I hide out back here for long enough, he’ll just go ahead and take my tables. I tell Hector to get another order of fries going and then take my sweet time “hunting down” the sugar packets I know are already on the counter. A few minutes later, he dings the bell to let me know the fries are ready, and when I take them out, it’s obvious by the impatient look on Quinn’s face and the way Lumberjack Luke is tapping on their table that Mitch hasn’t so much as given them menus.

  I stalk past where he’s set himself up behind the counter again, snatching two menus as I go. I toss them onto Quinn’s table without making eye contact before delivering the Krogers’ demands. I don’t get so much as a thank-you from the family, but as I spin on the heel of my sneaker I hear a rough voice call out, “Hey, Waitress. We know what we want.”

  Fucking. Asshole. Luke and I may never have spoken, but he’s a Charytan lifer too; he damn well knows my name. But it doesn’t stop him from snapping his stupid fingers in my direction. I shuffle over, resisting the urge to reach out and crush that hand. Instead, I simply raise my notepad. “What can I get you?”

  “Bacon cheeseburger, extra fried onions, cheese fries on the side.” AKA the Heart Attack Special, though that could refer to any number of things on the menu. He pokes Quinn in her ribs. “My girl can handle a little onion breath.”

  His girl? Oh, hell no. He’s gotta be at least sixteen; Quinn’s still in eighth grade. That’s…that’s…

  Exactly how old Fitz and I were when we started dating.

  The thought nearly brings me to my knees, and I want to know that they’re not doing what we were doing at that age more than I want to take my next breath. I finally force myself to look at Quinn, but she staunchly refuses to make eye contact.

  “What about you, Quinn?” I demand, willing her to look at me, just long enough so I can mouth “run” or “stop” or “don’t you dare lose your virginity to this finger-snapping asshole” but there’s nothing. Literally no reaction to my presence.

  Finally, Luke smirks and says, “She’ll have a salad.”

  I snort before I can stop myself. Quinn may be small but it’s completely deceptive; the girl can seriously pack away the grub when she wants to. Though, actually, looking at her now, she’s a whole lot skinnier than I remember. Taller too, I think, but who knows; to me, everyone’s a friggin’ giant. I know after five seconds of waiting for her to jump in and correct him that it’s not going to happen, so I just say, “One salad, coming up,” and walk back to give the order to Hector, trying to ignore the fact that my notepad is literally shaking in my hand.

  “Can I borrow your phone for a minute?” I ask Mitch after I place lumberjack’s order.

  “Don’t you have your own?”

  “Not a smartphone. Please. I just want to send a quick e-mail to a friend.”

  He shrugs and digs his phone out of his pocket, his guitar-calloused fingers brushing over my palm as he hands it over. Immediately, I open up my e-mail and type in Dave’s address.

  I’m angry at myself for my neediness even as I do it, but I can’t help it—I need. I have never felt so invisible in my entire life and all I can think about right now is the way Dave looked at me—really looked at me—that night at the party. The way his eyes raked down my entire body.

  I am desperate to feel that again.

  Hey, are you gonna be at the Barnaby State thing this weekend?

  My heart pounds as I hit Send. A few feet away, Mitch taps his foot, waiting for his phone’s safe return, but then someone in his section calls him over and it gives me another minute to wait. Fortunately, Dave takes no longer.

  Yup! I’ll be there with a few friends. You going?

  Yup, I write back. Guess I’ll see you there. I’m about to send the response when a wave of boldn
ess washes over me. PS, I don’t have a smartphone (borrowed a friend’s to e-mail you) but you can text me at (785) 555-7107.

  Less than a minute later, my own phone buzzes in my pocket, and the very act of pulling it out to read his text—Is it uncool to bring a Neil Gaiman novel to a frat party?—makes my palms damp. Knowing Quinn is in the diner, in burger-throwing distance of where I’m exchanging messages with a guy who is not her brother, makes me feel like the world’s biggest slut.

  But it doesn’t stop me from texting him, I think it offends them if you bring your own copy rather than accepting the one they hand out at the door. Nor from texting Vic, Looks like we’ll have some company this weekend! It certainly doesn’t stop me from smiling as I hand Mitch back his phone with a warm thanks.

  But it does stop me from feeling like I want to sink into the floor, dissolving into the speckled linoleum for all eternity. So for right now, I’m gonna go with it.

  “This is going to be epic,” Vic declares for the billionth time that drive, waving a hand she’d just polished in the bathroom at a rest stop out the window to speed up the drying process. Never mind that I’m practically shivering behind the wheel. “You and Dave reunited, a school with a decent art program, and of course, brand-new boys to meet.” She blows on her other hand, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I sort of wish I’d let her do my nails when she offered. Hers are blood-red and look sexy and sophisticated. Mine are so gnawed down to the tips, I look like I got a manicure at Jurassic Park.

  “I love that once again, there’s no mention of classes or actually seeing the campus.”

  “Oh, please, as if you’re giving a single thought to anything about this weekend other than seeing Dave again,” she says smugly before blowing on her nails again. “You’re fooling nobody, Forrester.”

  I know I should argue with her, but I can’t even get the words out. My brain is mush. It is ridiculous how excited I am to see an impossibly lanky nerd extraordinaire, but so help me God, I am. We’ve been texting all week about what we’re gonna do and see and sometimes just about nothing at all. For someone who didn’t even have a cell phone until a year ago, it’s crazy that I’m not even sure I could fall asleep now without seeing the words “G’night, Rogue” flash on my screen before shutting my eyes.

  Instead of responding, I decide to turn it around. “How about you?” I tease as I switch lanes. “Did you have a wonderful time at CCC? Are you leaving me for a lifetime of bacon tuna melts at Joe’s with Freckles?”

  I expect her to laugh and snipe back, but the only response is an incredibly loud silence before she finally says, “Ha ha,” and then reaches over to turn up the volume so she can sing along with whichever boy band is assaulting my eardrums right now.

  I let it go. I’m too wired to care about anything right now. I could listen to these prepubescent boys sing about foreign policy if I had to. Charytan isn’t even a speck in my rearview mirror, I’m less than an hour away from seeing Dave and checking out a new school, and I don’t have to think about work or home or anyone in the Fitzpatrick family for the next forty-eight hours.

  Life suddenly feels pretty damn good.

  Even with a little bit of traffic, and a lot of circling to find a spot, we’re at registration with time to spare. We give in our names and get packets with badges, a map, a course catalog, and an itinerary of prospective students’ weekend in return. Everything is neat and organized and I like Barnaby already. The only problem is that I’ve yet to see Dave and his friends.

  And then suddenly, from a couple lines over, I hear it: “Devarajan Shah.” I turn just in time to see Dave get handed his packet. The guy behind him then steps up for his, but he may as well be on mute; I’m still processing Dave’s—Dev’s—real name and trying to wrap my mouth around the sounds.

  He looks up just then and catches me mid-effort, and then, like magic, there’s that smile, lighting up the entire room. It is the whitest thing I’ve ever seen, even whiter than my streak or my arms in mid-January. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back if I wanted to, even though I suddenly feel incredibly shy. I wave just slightly, a meek little flutter, forcing myself to restrain my excitement in the crowd of prospectives eager to get their badges in time for the Mocktails Mixer tonight.

  “Is that Dave?” I hear Vic say, and I start to answer when I see the guy who’d been behind Dev in line pull him back by his shoulder. Just like that, he’s gone from my line of sight.

  “It was. And it really is Dev, apparently.” I stand on my tiptoes but I’m still way too short to see over the lines between us. “I don’t know where he went. Some guy just pulled him away.”

  “So let’s go outside. Text him to come meet us. I’m getting claustrophobic in this place anyway.”

  We make our way out, Vic rolling her eyes at me as I pin my badge to the faded Bikini Kill tee she got me for my last birthday, and I pull out my phone to text Dev but then realize he’s already beat us outside. He’s standing with the guy who’d pulled on his arm—an Asian dude with funky glasses—and another kid who’s almost as skinny as Dev but considerably shorter and practically drowning in a mop of brown curls.

  Vic starts to walk over, but I hesitate to follow. It’s weird to see him in the context of his real life. I didn’t really think of him having one, to be perfectly honest. But he does, and it includes friends I don’t even know. Friends he’s tight enough to visit colleges with the way I’m doing with Vic. How can I think there’s anything between us when I don’t even know his friends?

  She turns, obviously having realized I wasn’t following her. “What’s with you?” she mouths.

  “Nothing,” I mouth back, wishing we weren’t laden down with welcome materials so we could sign, the way we usually do when we don’t want people around to hear our conversations. I square my shoulders and force myself to stop acting like such a wimp. He’s just a guy, and we’re just friends. There’s nothing to stress about here.

  Still, I hang slightly behind Vic as she walks over to the guys, knowing her naturally (she insists) swaying hips will pretty much block me out completely. “Hey,” I hear her say. I peek out from behind her. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  The other two guys kind of gape at her, but Dev smiles—not one of his full-wattage ones, just a little one that doesn’t even show his teeth. I step out a little more, wondering if maybe he doesn’t see me, but he waves just slightly, at each of us. My stomach drops; this so isn’t the reunion I had in mind. Where’s the dimple? The hug?

  “You know her?” the floppy-haired guy asks Dev in disbelief. Judging by the awe on his face as he takes Vic in from head to toe, either he thinks she’s a supermodel or he’s literally never seen a girl before. Lord knows I do not exist in his vision, even though I’ve fully emerged now.

  “This is…Tori, right?” Dev asks, his lips quirking just a bit. Vic nods. “And this is Reagan.” He gestures in my direction. “We met at another prospective weekend, at Southeastern.”

  I wait for some sort of recognition to alight in one of his friends’ eyes, but there’s nothing.

  “Jamie Goldstein. Nice to meet you,” says glasses-wearing Asian boy. The other guy continues to stare wordlessly at Vic until glasses guy jabs him in the ribs.

  “Goldstein?” I can’t help asking. Not that I know any Jews, but Jamie looks a little…Asian to be one.

  “You were expecting something more like Chang?” he asks wryly, and I feel like an idiot.

  “I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “I didn’t mean—”

  Dev holds up a hand and rolls his eyes. “Ignore him, Reagan. Jamie’s just being a dick because he finds it amusing. He’s adopted, though why anyone would voluntarily take in this jerk, I have no idea.”

  “Ha ha,” says Jamie, but he grins, and it’s obvious this exchange has happened before. I exhale and narrow my eyes.

  “You guys are delightful,” I inform them.

  “We know,” says Dev, and this time his smile shows teeth. “You g
uys going to the mixer thing later?”

  “Of course.” Vic flips her hair over her shoulder, and the guy who still hasn’t revealed his name looks like he’s going to have a stroke. “I never miss the opportunity to down a vodka cranberry, hold the vodka.”

  “Great, then I guess we’ll see you there.” The words out of Dev’s mouth are friendly enough, but I can’t help but feel like we’re being dismissed.

  “Yup, I guess so,” I say tightly, grabbing Vic’s arm. “Have fun on your visit.” I steer her away and we walk toward the center of campus, neither of us looking backward at the guys.

  “What was that?” she whispers when we’re far enough away to be out of both earshot and vision. “I thought you guys talked about the fact that you were coming.”

  “We did.” I look up at the trees. The leaves are just turning dappled with the shades of autumn, and they make for an excellent distraction from making eye contact with Vic. “Turns out, we’re a lot less awkward via text, I guess.” I shrug. “Maybe he remembered me looking different, or something.”

  “Oh, that is so not the issue. Some guys are just weird in front of their friends. Who knows.” She pulls my arm so I stop walking and forces me to turn and look at her. “Doesn’t matter. We have hot outfits picked out for tonight, and when we show up to that mixer, either Dev’s gonna fall over himself when he sees you, or we’ll know he’s not into girls.”

  “Yes, because those are the only two options.”

  “Trust me,” she says, flicking my white streak with a smile, “they are. Now come on. Let’s go get all dolled up for some mocktails.”

  I still can’t believe I agreed to let Vic dress me up for this stupid thing. I’d been high on the attraction I’d clearly been making up in my own head and the thrill of getting out of Charytan yet again, but now, looking in the mirror, I could plainly see the consequences of my temporary insanity.

  Not that I looked bad in the dress she’d selected for me. On the contrary, what was a tiny, should-be-illegal, tight-as-a-bandage dress on her is actually a fairly respectable strapless black dress that comes to a couple of inches above the knee on me.