Wesley James Ruined My Life

by Jennifer Honeybourn

  “Thanks, man,” Wesley says. “You saved my butt.”

  Yeah, thanks, Dean.

  “Wrong order?” I ask casually.

  “Yeah. I wrote down turkey, and she’s a vegetarian.” Wesley shakes his head. “But no harm done. I managed to charm her.”

  Of course he did. I grimace, feeling irritated as he picks up the salad and two more platters. He leaves the kitchen, Bruce trailing behind him.

  Clearly, I need to up the ante. Do something that he won’t be able to easily talk his way out of. Something like …

  I glance casually over at Dean to make sure he’s not paying attention before plucking a hair out of my head. I snap it in half so it’s closer to the length of Wesley’s messy blond hair, then quickly stick it underneath a side of ribs. The last remaining platter destined for Wesley’s table.

  Okay, yes, it’s a totally repulsive thing to do to some poor unsuspecting girl. The mere idea of finding a hair in my dinner gives me a whole-body shudder, but it must be done. All’s fair in love and war.

  I beat it out of the kitchen. I’m not paying attention to where I’m going so when I hit something that feels as solid as a brick wall, I’m knocked backward.

  “Careful, lass,” Alan says, reaching out to steady me. “What say you? Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  This is kind of a ridiculous question, considering we work in a restaurant. The whole point is to hustle.

  “Uh, Your Highness. Hello.” I bob a curtsey, my breath coming in short puffs.

  Okay, so maybe Alan is a mind reader, because his eyes narrow, like he knows I’m up to something. Or suspects it anyway. And for Alan, raising his suspicion is enough to land you in the stocks.

  “Guard!” he shouts, tightening his grip on my arm.

  “No! Please,” I say, trying to pull away. “I don’t have time for this.”

  But Bruce is already coming. “What’s up, Your Highness?”

  “This lass is up to no good. Off to the stocks with her!”

  “You know, Alan, you really don’t have the authority to—”

  “I’m the king of England,” he roars. “Be glad that ’tis only the stocks and not the guillotine!”

  Um … right.

  Bruce disentangles me from Alan and leads me through the restaurant, to the crowd’s chant of “to the stocks, to the stocks.”

  I keep my eyes on the ground until we pass Wesley’s section. I glance up, praying he’s in the back or the kitchen, and not witnessing my humiliation. But of course, he’s right there. Watching me.

  “Sorry, Quinn,” Bruce says, gently directing my head through the wooden boards. They clap down around my neck and wrists, making my breath come even faster.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he says.

  He walks away and the chatter in the restaurant resumes as everyone quickly forgets about me. My neck’s already starting to ache from the pressure of the boards and I badly need to pee.

  Erin would say this is karma. Payback for getting Wesley sent to the stocks. Maybe I do need my aura cleansed after all.

  What is already an uncomfortable situation is made infinitely worse when a pair of clunky black pirate boots enter my field of vision. Wesley bends down so I can see the sympathy in his eyes.

  “Go. Away.”

  He stands up and rattles the board, like he’s going to pull it up and get me out.

  “It’s no use,” I say miserably. “He’ll send me back in here, only for longer. I have to do the time.”

  The fact that Wesley’s trying to rescue me makes me even more uncomfortable than being in the stocks. But one nice gesture is not going to undo everything. It won’t make me forgive him. It won’t make me like him.

  “Get away from me!” I snap.

  “All right, all right. Have it your way.” But he doesn’t leave. He just steps behind me.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying to turn around to see what he’s up to. Which is impossible.

  Whatever he’s doing back there, he’s soon got the attention of the entire restaurant. My face burns. I know it’s probably just one of his stupid magic tricks, but I didn’t volunteer to be part of it. Whatever it is he’s doing, it must be pretty darned funny because everyone is laughing, at my expense.

  I didn’t think it was possible to hate Wesley James more than I already do.

  nine.

  As it turned out, no one complained about finding a hair in their food, which, if you think about it, is actually pretty disturbing.

  My scheming may have come to nothing the other night, but I’m not ready to give up yet. There are still plenty of things I can do to get Wesley in trouble. I just need to get creative.

  “If working with him is that bad, maybe you should look for another job,” Erin says, squirting a blob of coconut-scented sunscreen on her arm.

  “No way.” I slide my red sunglasses on and settle back in the wicker lounge chair, a stack of magazines heavy on my lap. “I was there first. Wesley’s the one who should quit.”

  We’re in Erin’s backyard, watching her boyfriend, Travis, do cannonballs into her pool. It’s wickedly hot. We’ve only been out here for a few minutes, but I’m melting already.

  “Don’t you think you’re taking this whole revenge fantasy a bit too far?” Erin says. “I mean, what if he really needs the job?”

  “He doesn’t need it,” I say. Not the way that I do anyway.

  Erin doesn’t get it. Her parents may not hand her money, but they are paying for her trip to London. Just like Wesley’s will, I’m sure. The expense of two additional kids aside, his mom won’t let him miss out.

  Erin raises her eyebrows.

  “What?”

  “It’s just that I’ve noticed—and please don’t get mad at me for saying this—but it seems like he’s all you talk about lately.” She flips the lid on the sunscreen closed and tosses the bottle on top of the scrunched-up beach towel near her feet. “It’s like you’re obsessed with him.”

  I sit up and the magazines slide off my lap and onto the ground. “Oh my God, I am not obsessed with him! I just think he needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “Well, maybe he’s learned it already,” she says. “Maybe you should try talking to him about it.”

  “Erin. I don’t need to talk to him. He humiliated me in front of everyone the other night.” My chest tightens. Wesley apologized, claiming he thought I’d think being part of his magic act was funny—which shows just how out of touch with my feelings he is.

  “Also, why are you defending him? You knew him for, like, two weeks before he moved away.”

  Erin sighs. “I may not know him well, but I do know you.” She grabs a jumbo-sized bag of Doritos from underneath her chair and passes them to me. A peace offering. “And you are making yourself completely crazy. I just don’t think it’s worth it.”

  I guess she doesn’t know me as well as she thinks she does then. Because getting revenge on Wesley? Totally worth it.

  As Erin flips through the latest issue of US Weekly, I absentmindedly start making my way through the chips. This is the problem with chips. They are addictive and I won’t stop eating them until I get a stomachache. I’m halfway through the bag when Travis climbs out of the pool. Erin’s boyfriend is really good-looking, with an athlete’s body.

  Travis shakes the water out of his hair like a dog before ambling over and collapsing beside Erin on her lounger. “Dude, you’re getting me all wet,” she squeals. She shoves him and he lands with a grunt on the cement.

  “Now you must pay,” he says, giving her an evil grin. Erin kicks at him, but Travis moves fast. He snaps her up and throws her over his shoulder as if she’s as light as a cat, and starts to walk toward the pool.

  “Travis Evans, don’t you dare,” she says, pounding uselessly on his back with her tiny fists.

  Travis obviously doesn’t dare because he sets her back down on the patio and plants a kiss on the top of her head. Erin runs a finger over t
he tattoo of her name on his ribs, tickling him, and he twists her around so her head is stuck in his—ew!—hairy armpit. I watch them play-wrestle, wishing someone was crazy enough about me that they’d tattoo my name on their body. Even if it is a totally insane thing to do.

  “Only a hundred and nineteen more days,” Travis says, reaching over and yanking one of my braids.

  “Ouch.” I swat at him but he grabs the chips from my lap and dodges out of the way like a prizefighter.

  Travis isn’t in band. In fact, he isn’t even in high school—he graduated last year. Despite that, he’s arranged to take a week off from his construction job to come to England, so he can hang out with Erin. Since he was one of Aioki’s star musicians—he plays the drums quite excellently—our band teacher had no problem with him tagging along, especially since Travis offered to be his assistant.

  “I hear we’re holding a car wash next weekend.” Erin pulls a face.

  My stomach does a nosedive. I still haven’t told her that I can’t go to London. I know I’ll have to do it soon—we’re supposed to be roommates. And as much as Mr. Aioki likes Travis, there’s no way he’ll let him bunk with Erin, meaning that she’ll probably be stuck with Jasmine and Ashley, the other two sax players. And she can’t stand Jasmine and Ashley.

  She’s going to kill me.

  “At least he’s not making us sell chocolate,” I say. We had to do that one year in elementary school. I ended up eating most of them, and my mom was not happy when she had to cut a check for two hundred dollars’ worth of chocolate-covered almonds.

  “True.” Erin picks up the sunscreen and starts reapplying. She is seriously OCD about sun damage. If she has anything to say about it, she will look seventeen forever. “So have you told your mom about the trip yet?”

  “Nope.” I haven’t told her because she’s already working double shifts to keep us in our house. If she had known about the trip, she would work herself into the grave to get me there. I can’t let her do that.

  “Hey, what do you guys want to do tonight?” Travis asks, brushing chip crumbs off his bare belly. “We could go to the Dragon. Practice our accents.” The Elephant & Dragon is a British pub in Fremont. There’s no way we’ll get in.

  “Quinn doesn’t have an ID,” Erin says.

  “And you do?”

  She nods. “Trav got it for me.”

  “I know a guy,” he says.

  “I can’t go anyway,” I say. “I have to work.”

  Work. Blech. Now I’m back to thinking about Wesley. I can’t seem to keep him out of my brain for long. Maybe Erin’s right. Maybe I am obsessed. But I feel like the only way I can put this whole mess to rest is to get him out of my life.

  Which gives me a new idea. I may not be able to control whether or not a customer complains about Wesley, but if I sent someone in undercover …

  “Actually, Travis,” I say, smiling. “I need your help with something tonight.”

  * * *

  Travis is late. I’m starting to get anxious that he’s changed his mind and is backing out, but then I see Rachel leading him and his weird Scottish friend, Ewen, across the restaurant. I told Travis to ask Rachel if he could sit near the stage—Wesley’s section—and sure enough, that’s where she leads them.

  So far, so good.

  I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pull this off. I had to plead with Erin for over an hour to get her to agree to let Travis do this. She finally relented because she was tired of listening to me whine. Since I couldn’t send her—Wesley would recognize her—Travis brought Ewen instead.

  I watch from behind the pillar as Wesley arrives at their table with a basket of bread. He sets it down on the table and Ewen immediately attacks it. Travis, however, just stares at Wesley, eyes narrowed, arms crossed. He’s doing his best to make him nervous, which is hilarious because, despite his vaguely criminal appearance, Travis is the least intimidating person ever. But that’s only once you get to know him.

  Wesley doesn’t seem intimidated, though. He scratches their order on his notepad, gives them a friendly nod, and then heads over to the bar. He’s whistling.

  Not exactly the exchange I was hoping for, but it’s still early in the game.

  I can’t help glancing over at Travis and Ewen every few minutes. I’m so distracted, I give the wrong orders to two different tables and, even worse, totally forget about some of my customers altogether until an irate lady grabs my arm as I walk past. If I’m not careful, I’ll be the one getting fired.

  Half an hour later, I’m in the kitchen waiting for an order of ribs when Wesley punches his way through the door, his face stormy.

  “Changed their mind again,” he says, tossing two turkey platters on the counter. “Turns out they really feel like salad.”

  My heart picks up speed. I keep my expression blank, which is a struggle because I really want to do a fist pump. “Trouble?”

  Wesley glances at me. “Table ten. They’ve sent their order back three times. Seriously, I’m ready to kill these guys.”

  I’ve only seen Wesley lose his temper once—at the going away party, when I broke his magic wand—but I can tell he’s now dangerously close to blowing his top. Travis just needs to push him a little bit more and he should go off like a rocket.

  Dean pushes a couple of salad plates across the counter. “Why don’t you let me take those for you,” I say to Wesley. “Stay in here and take a breather.”

  Wesley studies me suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you being so nice?”

  My cheeks flush. “I’m always nice.” Just not ever to you.

  But I do feel the teensiest bit guilty as I carry the salad out to Travis’s table. Which is ridiculous, because I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. What I’m doing is no less than Wesley deserves.

  Ewen glances up as I head toward the table. His eyes bug out at the sight of me in my corset. “Stoatin ootfit,” he says.

  I stare at him blankly. Ewen’s Scottish accent is so thick, I need subtitles.

  “Wicked costume,” Travis translates through a mouthful of bread.

  “Um … thanks.” I set the small hammered-silver plates down on the table. “Whatever you guys are doing, keep doing it! It’s working. Wesley’s about ready to punch you.”

  “Are you sure about this, Quinn?” Travis says. “He seems like a decent enough guy. What if we actually end up getting him fired? I don’t know if I want to be responsible for that.”

  “Och aye. Ah dornt loch messin’ wi’ a dude’s livelihood,” Ewen says.

  Travis nods. “It’s not cool.” He picks a cherry tomato from his plate and rolls it across the table. “Also, how am I supposed to eat salad without a fork?”

  “You’ll figure it out,” I say. “And you promised to help me!”

  “What am I going to say when I cross paths with him in London?” Travis asks. “He’s going to remember that I’m the asshole who got him fired.”

  “Come on, you guys. Do me a favor and keep going, okay? Please? Please please please please please.”

  I don’t have time to wait for his answer because the lights dim. And since Amy called in sick again, I’m stuck playing Catherine of Aragon’s handmaiden. I’d rather they put me in the stocks. Performing in front of an audience—band recitals notwithstanding—is so not my thing. I feel dangerously close to throwing up as I climb the wide wooden stairs to the stage.

  Fortunately, I don’t have any lines. I just have to brush Julia’s hair while she sits on a wooden stool and dreamily sings about her enduring love for King Henry VIII.

  Alan wrote this particular act. He does that every once in a while when he gets bored with reciting Shakespeare.

  I can’t see much from the stage—the footlights are too bright—which is actually a good thing. The fewer people I can see staring back at me, the better. I pick up a faux ivory–handled brush and run it through Julia’s fine brown hair. She shoots me a couple of d
irty looks mid-song when I accidentally pull her hair, but other than that, the act goes off without a hitch.

  When the lights come up, Travis’s table is empty. I catch sight of him and Ewen walking out the front door. By the time I reach them, they’re already inside Ewen’s dusty brown Honda.

  I knock on the passenger-side window and Travis reluctantly rolls it down. “You’re done already?” I say. “What happened? Did you ask to talk to the manager?”

  “I couldn’t do it,” Travis says. “Sorry, Quinn.”

  “Travis!”

  He rolls the window back up. Gives me the peace sign. And then they’re gone in a cloud of exhaust.

  The sun is just beginning to disappear but it’s still warm outside—way too warm to be in a velvet costume. But I’m not quite ready to go back into the air-conditioning. I need time to think. Erin and Travis probably think I’m a horrible person with a black heart. But they don’t get it. Neither of them knows what it’s like to have someone shatter your family. Someone you used to consider a friend.

  It’s not something you ever get over.

  ten.

  “I guess that’s it,” Celia says, setting her tape gun on top of the box. That box is the last of a small stack stuffed with Gran’s personal belongings. Things neither of us want but don’t have the heart to get rid of. The rest of her stuff is now sitting in a thrift shop, waiting to belong to someone else. It’s unbearably depressing. And it makes me wonder what Gran would think, if she knew. If she would care that her memories are being given away to strangers.

  “I guess so.” Looking around at the empty room gives me a stomachache, so I walk to the window and peek out at the front yard. Gran’s lace curtains are gone, packed away somewhere, but her ancient venetian blinds are still in place.

  Celia comes up beside me. “I should probably have someone come and do something about the garden,” she says, sighing heavily at the brown grass and dying rhododendron. “It looks awful.”

  My shoulders tense. This is a dig at my dad, at his complete lack of interest in keeping the place up. Even though he hasn’t lived here in weeks.