Wesley James Ruined My Life

by Jennifer Honeybourn

  “—your high school choir. Your club came in fourth but it was still the best life experience ever.”

  He smiles. “Well, maybe not ever. But close,” he says.

  Dad rhapsodizes about his long-ago boyhood adventures in the Netherlands for the rest of breakfast. There’s something sad about his memories, maybe because that high school trip was the one and only time he’s ever left Washington State. And probably the only time he ever will.

  When he gets up to go to the bathroom, I dig four dollars out of my wallet and tuck it underneath the plates. Dad isn’t a big tipper and ever since I started working at a restaurant, I’m hyperaware of tipping well.

  I’m waiting at the door when he returns. It looks like it’s going to rain and I’m debating whether I should ask him to drive me to Gran’s. As far as I know, he hasn’t been back to the house since Aunt Celia kicked him out last month, but maybe it’s time he went. He can’t avoid the situation—or his sister—forever.

  “Um … do you think you could drop me off at Gran’s? I told Celia I’d help her get the house ready.”

  She’s putting it on the market next week. He really should be the one helping her clean it out, not me, but I can tell from the pinched look on his face when I mention her name that that isn’t going to happen. My dad and his sister have never seen eye to eye and Gran’s illness has only made things worse.

  “Sure,” he says.

  I follow him across the street to his busted-looking Honda. He still hasn’t gotten the muffler fixed and it’s almost dragging on the ground. When I climb into the passenger seat, I notice he’s used duct tape to repair a rip in the leather seat.

  “What’s Celia planning to do with everything?” Dad asks, starting the car. He took all of the furniture from his bedroom when he left last month, but there’s probably a lot of other stuff that he could use. Or that he might want for sentimental reasons. I also know that there’s no way Celia will let him have anything. She already thinks he’s taken too much.

  “I think she’s storing some of it.” And selling the rest. The place Gran’s in is expensive and Celia doesn’t hide the fact that the extra money is necessary for Gran’s care.

  Dad’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. I know he’s worried his sister will cut him out completely, but even I have to admit it’s better for her to hold the reins when it comes to Gran’s finances. My dad means well—he always means well—but his gambling problem makes it hard to trust him sometimes. Especially with money.

  The small moving van Celia rented is blocking the driveway. I wasn’t really holding out much hope that Dad would come in and help us, so I’m not surprised when he doesn’t shut off the car when he pulls over to the curb.

  This is the house he grew up in and I know he doesn’t agree with selling it, but there doesn’t seem to be another choice. Not according to Celia anyway. She lives a very together life in San Francisco with her partner, Kathy, and their four rescue dogs, and Dad certainly can’t afford to buy the place. There really is no other option.

  “Just make sure she doesn’t get rid of everything, okay?” he says.

  I nod, even though I’m not sure what, in all of Gran’s stuff, he’d like to keep. What exactly he thinks is worth saving.

  * * *

  “What about this?” I hold up a chipped porcelain cherub. It’s actually pretty creepy, a disembodied head with wings growing out of it. I have no idea why Gran has this. Why she has half this stuff.

  Celia glances up from a file box marked TAX RETURNS. She wrinkles her nose and points to the growing mountain of junk in the corner. So far, pretty much everything I’ve shown her has landed in the junk pile.

  Not that I blame her. I don’t want most of this stuff, either. But still, it feels weird, dividing up Gran’s things like this. I mean, she’s still alive.

  She couldn’t take much with her to the home—just a few personal effects. Celia plans to store all Gran’s furniture, including the old, creaky brass bed I’m sitting on, until we figure out what to do with it. I think she’s hoping I’ll take the bed one day when I move out on my own.

  I gently toss the cherub on top of an ugly, pilled green afghan then remove the lid off the shoe box I found wedged underneath Gran’s bed. The box is stuffed full of awkward-stage photos of my dad and Celia, in bell-bottoms and turtlenecks. I pull out one of Dad with a Fu Manchu mustache. Or what would be a Fu Manchu if he had more than a few strands of facial hair.

  I snicker. “Now this I’m keeping.” I flip the photo over so Celia can see it.

  She smiles and shakes her head. “He thought a mustache would make him look older. Help him get girls.”

  Her smile fades. I know it’s hard for her to understand how my dad ended up broke, jobless, and living with his mother. But I know exactly how he ended up there. And it’s not his fault. Not completely anyway.

  I stick the photo back in the shoe box and place the box with the other things I’m keeping. All things that most remind me of my gran: her faded double wedding ring quilt, her silver watch. A delicate blue teacup.

  After a while, Celia stands up and pushes her knuckles into her back to work out the kinks. She runs the tip of her finger over the top of Gran’s dresser. “I didn’t know things were this bad,” she says, showing me her dust-coated finger. “Your gran always kept this place spotless. You could have eaten off the floors.”

  I know Celia doesn’t blame me for not telling her that Gran was getting worse, but I still feel sick with guilt. I can’t bring myself to tell her that I didn’t know. The truth is, I haven’t seen Gran much over the past year. Not enough to notice things were this bad.

  I get off the bed and open her closet. Gran always dressed up—she’s never owned a pair of jeans—and her closet is full of Easter-colored suits and dresses. Patent leather shoes, handbags. Scarves. Not the elastic-waist pants and shoes with rubber soles she’s trapped in now. The sight of her fancy clothes overwhelms me. I want to burrow into her closet and close the door. Maybe never come out.

  “Why don’t we take a break?” Celia says, brushing her dusty hands on her jeans. My chest feels tight as I follow her down the hallway and into the kitchen.

  I spent a lot of time in this house as a kid. Entire days during the summer, since my parents both worked. Gran and I would bake gingersnaps and watch the Hallmark movies she’d taped on her ancient VCR. But the best times were when she’d tell me stories about growing up in London. Where she went to school, how she met my grandfather.

  The last full summer I spent with her was when I was eleven. And it was no longer just the two of us. Gran was watching Wesley, too.

  Celia takes two cans of ginger ale out of the fridge. She hands one of them to me and we sit at the glass-topped kitchen table, the one bound for the Salvation Army.

  “Have you ever been to England?” I ask her.

  She nods. “Once. Right after college.”

  “I’m going in the fall. With concert band.”

  “I didn’t know you were in concert band,” she says. “What do you play?”

  “The clarinet.”

  She makes a face. “Really?”

  “It’s better than the tuba,” I say.

  “So when are you going?”

  “November.” I roll the can of soda between my palms. “I was wondering … do you know where the house Gran grew up in is? I’d like to see where she lived.”

  Celia reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I think I have the address somewhere.”

  I know that visiting all of the places Gran’s told me about won’t make a difference. It won’t miraculously help her remember me. But I’m hoping that, if I’m really lucky, maybe it just might help me remember her.

  five.

  I slip behind the front desk, nudging Rachel aside so I can check out my assigned section. Rachel’s on the phone, taking a reservation. Her hair is gathered in a fake braided brown bun. Her actual hair is short but since girls in medieval times did not do short
hair, management insists she wear this heinous clip-on.

  “For tonight?” Rachel chews her bottom lip. “Okay, yes. We can fit you in. No problem.” She scribbles “party of sixteen” on the glass map of the restaurant, over the icon of the long oak table we use for large parties.

  My heart begins to pound. The only parties we get at Tudor Tymes are kids’ birthday parties. And kids’ birthday parties are the worst. THE WORST. Food always ends up everywhere. The last time I worked one, it took me forty-five minutes to grout out all the mashed food embedded in the cracks in the stone floor.

  Rachel must sense my panic because she points the tip of her pen at my name, scrawled over tables ten through seventeen. My section.

  I sag with relief. It doesn’t mean I’m totally off the hook. I still have to sing. Yes, we are one of those annoying restaurants that sing to you on your birthday. And force you to wear a huge purple-and-yellow jester’s hat.

  Rachel writes Wesley’s name above the birthday party—ha!—then adds Amy as well. Wesley hasn’t been here long enough to work a party on his own, so she’s stuck helping him. Poor Amy. She hates working birthday parties more than I do.

  I squeeze past Rachel and head down the hall, past the gift shop, through the kitchen, and into the staff room.

  Wesley’s on the couch. He’s wearing his ridiculous pirate costume, his black-booted feet propped up on the coffee table, spinning a magic wand in his fingers.

  “Hey,” he says, dropping his feet to the floor. His heavy boots clunk against the linoleum.

  Ignoring him, I yank open one of the small lockers lining the wall and stuff my messenger bag inside. Slamming the metal door shut, I pull the tiny key from the lock. I keep my back to him as I fasten the safety pin dangling off the key to the inside of my corset. Don’t want to accidentally treat him to a peep show.

  The gong rings, signaling that the drawbridge is about to be lowered. All staff—with the exception of their Royal Highnesses, King Henry and Queen Catherine—are supposed to be up front to welcome guests when the doors open. Restaurant policy.

  I hurry down the hall, tying my apron on behind my back, and arrive at the doors as the last gong sounds. As Joe unbolts the huge, curved wooden door, Wesley steps in line. I peer around him at Bruce and Rachel, standing at attention.

  There’s no sign of Amy.

  Wait. Where is Amy?

  The door starts to creak open, spilling sunlight onto the floor. I try to catch Rachel’s eye, but she’s avoiding looking at me. Which can only mean …

  “Sorry, Quinn.” She hands me a thick stack of paper crowns. “Amy called in sick.”

  This is not good. I can’t be stuck working with Wesley tonight. Or any night.

  I shoot a pleading glance at Bruce.

  “No way,” he says. “I’m still recovering from yesterday. Twenty-three six-year-olds.” He shudders.

  “Okay, well. Wesley, I’m sure you can handle it.” I shove the paper crowns at him.

  “Quinn, he’s never worked a party before,” Rachel says. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “I really don’t.” Wesley smiles.

  This sucks. And there is no way to make it un-suck, either, unless Amy shows up. The chance of that being zero. There’s no longer any time to worry about it, though, because customers have started to trickle in.

  “Good eventide, my lord, my lady.” I curtsey to an older couple hustling in two small girls dressed as princesses. “Thou art very pretty.” The girls stare at me, eyes wide.

  As they pass by Wesley, he waves a foam sword at them. “Arrrrrgh,” he says in pirate-brogue. The little girls screech and hide behind their mother’s pencil skirt.

  “Nice work,” I say.

  “Yeah, that kind of played out differently in my mind,” he says as their mother ushers them away.

  Once the first wave of customers has entered, Wesley and I head to our table to get ready for the party. I point to the paper crowns he’s almost crumpling in his hand. “Put one at each place setting.”

  “I don’t remember you being so bossy,” he mumbles. He starts to place them around the table haphazardly. When I follow behind, straightening them, Wesley stops and glares at me. “Okay that? Is very annoying.”

  “Actually, what’s annoying is having to fix them,” I say. “If you put them down right in the first place—”

  He shakes his head. “Q, you seriously need to relax.”

  You know what doesn’t relax me? Being told to relax.

  “I can’t do this,” I say. “You’re on your own. I’m going to talk to Joe.”

  I’ll beg him to make Bruce work the party with Wesley. Sure, Bruce will probably hate my guts, but it’s totally worth it if it means I’m not stuck with Wesley all night.

  “And say what? That you don’t want to play with me?” He smirks. “You’ll have to tell him why. And what are you going to say?” In a high falsetto voice that doesn’t sound anything like mine, he says, “Well, Joe, it’s all because back in sixth grade Wesley told—”

  “Okay,” I cut him off. “Fine.” I straighten the last paper crown. “Why do you want to work with me anyway?”

  Wesley sighs. “Because, Q, believe it or not, I want to be friends.”

  Friends. That is never going to happen.

  “And I can see I have my work cut out for me,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re really stubborn?”

  Yes. But whatever.

  We finish the table and the kids arrive. Once they are settled into their seats, I fill their water goblets and take their orders, while Wesley jacks around, entertaining everyone with card tricks. It’s beyond annoying. And it’s definitely not the path to earning my friendship. By the time the mom signals that they’re ready for cake, I’ve done most of the work and I’m officially pissed off.

  I drag Wesley away from the applause and into the kitchen. The birthday boy’s parents brought a huge sheet cake topped with a plastic pirate ship. The cake weighs about seven hundred pounds, so I order Wesley to grab it from the cooler. He rolls his eyes, but I guess he can tell from the look on my face that he shouldn’t mess with me, because he does it. When he comes back out of the cooler, I notice his finger is digging into the side of the cake.

  “Seriously?”

  He sets the cake on the counter, checks out the hole. “It’s not that bad. I bet no one will even notice.”

  Not true. It is that bad. And someone will definitely notice.

  I pick up a butter knife. Wesley takes a step away from me—as if I’d actually stab him in public!—and I smooth icing over the hole. It’s not perfect but it’ll have to do. And if the parents complain, I have no problem telling them that it’s Wesley’s fault.

  On the way out of the kitchen, I toggle the light switch near the door, making the lights flash, a signal to the rest of the staff that it’s time to sing.

  Wesley carries the cake out and sets it in front of the birthday boy. Bruce and Rachel wander over and we break into a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” while Rachel tunelessly strums the lute.

  I forgot to bring plates so I send Wesley back to the kitchen to grab some. Turns out there is an upside to working this party with him after all—I get to tell him what to do. While he’s gone, Alan arrives. A personal visit from the king is part of the premium birthday package.

  “Well now. I hear ’tis young Sean’s birthday,” Alan says, patting the kid on the shoulder. “You know what we do to little boys on their birthdays?” He leans down so his wide, bearded face is only inches from the kid’s. “We put them in the stocks!”

  Sean starts to wail and the jester’s hat bobs on his head, causing the tiny brass bells to ring. “I don’t want to go!”

  “Oh, come now, lad!” Alan booms. “It’s great fun.”

  No, it’s really not. I don’t blame the kid for crying. I may have shed a tear or two the time I was stuck in there.

  Just then, Wesley returns with the plates. And I get
an idea. The best, most brilliant idea ever.

  “It’s okay, Sean.” I pat the kid’s bony shoulder. “You don’t have to go. We’ll send Captain Grimbutt instead.”

  Wesley’s eyes narrow. “Grimbeard. And send me where?”

  Sean nods so enthusiastically, his hat falls off. All the kids stomp and cheer.

  “Send me where?” Wesley repeats. I point to the huge wooden contraption in the corner, a single spotlight glinting evilly off the metal locks.

  He swallows. “Uh … the thing is, I’m sort of claustrophobic…”

  “Not to worry.” I smile sweetly at him. “It doesn’t actually lock. And we won’t leave you in there long.”

  Just until the end of my shift.

  Alan booms for Bruce, our “guard.” He marches Wesley over to the stocks, unceremoniously shoves his head and hands through the holes, and snaps the gate closed. Wesley glares at me as best he can with his head bent at such a weird angle.

  Feeling victorious—how do you like working at Tudor Tymes now, Wesley James?—I go back to serving the six-year-olds. I’m so busy keeping up with their demands that I forget about Wesley for a few minutes. Until I’m walking into the kitchen for more bread and I catch sight of him, hunched over and uncomfortable, his eyes squeezed shut. I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he’s claustrophobic.

  My elation at getting him thrown in the stocks starts to dissipate. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I want revenge, sure, but I don’t want to kill him.

  I walk over and bend down so Wesley can see my face. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t open his eyes. His brow is scrunched up and sweaty, and all the color has left his cheeks.

  I’m torn. As much as I want to help him—and, strangely, I do want to help him—I don’t want to end up in the stocks myself. If Alan catches me trying to spring Wesley, I’m done for.

  “It shouldn’t be too much longer,” I say.

  He grunts.

  I reach out to put my hand on his shoulder, but pull back before I make contact. What am I doing? Wesley James has been back in my life for five minutes and already I’m going soft. I should leave him here, let him do his time. It’s no less than he deserves.