Wesley James Ruined My Life

by Jennifer Honeybourn

  To say I’m disappointed would be an understatement. I was hoping Joe was going to give us each a bonus—something that might help get me to London after all. I should have known better.

  Wesley lifts his eye patch to get a better look. “Guess so.”

  I’ve seen food trucks all over the city, offering everything from Korean BBQ to gourmet burgers. And now, apparently, wholesome medieval fare.

  “I don’t get it,” Amy says, crossing her arms. Her dark hair is divided into two neat plaits, more Bavarian milkmaid than member of the English court, but whatever. And while her costume is identical to mine—white corset laced over a blue velvet gown—she looks totally different in hers. But that’s probably because she’s pulled her corset down so low her nipples are practically showing.

  Joe pulls the truck to a stop and hops out, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. “What do you think?” He gestures to a sign tacked to the passenger-side door. “Tudor Tymes to Go!”

  I’m not sure what reaction Joe was expecting, but we all sort of stare at him, silent, until the smile falls off his face.

  “Food trucks are the new thing,” he says, a bit indignantly. “People eat at the truck, they get a taste of how great our food is, they come to the restaurant. See?”

  Not really. I mean, granted, I don’t have a marketing degree, but I do know that we’re a place known for our atmosphere. Our food? Not our selling point.

  “We’ve got a corner on the market. There’s no one out there serving anything similar.” Joe rolls up the silver door on the side of the truck and motions for us to come forward. “I got it for a steal. Bankruptcy sale.”

  Now that I’m getting closer, I can just make out the ghost of letters on the side of the truck—Burger something—that Joe has partially covered with his makeshift sign. We all jostle to peer inside. And it’s exactly what you’d expect a food truck to look like: a kitchen squeezed inside a truck.

  “We’re going to try her out downtown next week,” Joe says. “So we need to start training this afternoon. Quinn and Amy, you’re up first.”

  “Wait, what? We have to work in here?” For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me that we’d be forced to work in the truck. Which, duh.

  Joe frowns. “Who did you think was going to do it?”

  Alrighty then. This summer is officially going down as the worst in history. Not only am I not going to London, but I have a very bad feeling that this truck is not air-conditioned. My velvet costume will not translate well in this heat and I will probably die of heatstroke. Which would perfectly cap off this whole rotten summer.

  “Quinn, Amy, you’re out here with me,” Joe says. “The rest of you, back inside.”

  While everyone else files into the restaurant to start preparing for opening, Joe gestures for Amy and me to follow him. We climb up two narrow metal steps into the truck. It’s really tight on space in here, crammed as it is with appliances and overflowing boxes of Tudor Tymes memorabilia, which clearly he’s going to make us hock.

  Joe’s in the middle of giving us the grand tour when there’s a rapid-fire knock on the side of the truck. A second later, a short, red-haired guy climbs the stairs.

  “You’re late,” Joe barks at him as the guy squeezes his way inside. “Ladies, this is my nephew, Carter. He’s going to manage Tudor Tymes to Go.”

  I know it’s not fair to make snap judgments, but Carter kind of looks like he crawled out of a swamp. And by that I mean he’s sort of dirty, with buggy eyes, and arms that are too long for his body. Definitely a guy you want to keep behind the scenes.

  “While Carter is at the grill, you two will be serving customers.” Joe points to the take-out window. “You have ninety seconds to get the food from order to customer.”

  Ninety seconds? There is no way. It takes us at least ten minutes to get a plate out at the restaurant.

  “People have certain expectations about food trucks,” Joe says, registering my skeptical expression. “They’re on their lunch breaks, they want their food fast. So we need to give it to them as quickly as possible.”

  Joe shuffles around Amy to get to the fridge. “Most of the food will be preprepared, with the exception of the turkey legs—Carter, you’ll need to fry those.” He pulls open the dented refrigerator door. The shelves are empty except for industrial-sized jars of condiments. “Obviously, you’ll be fully stocked when you leave here next week. If there’s no lineup—and I don’t think that will happen because we’ve got a real winning concept here—then you ladies will help Carter with prep.”

  “You mean, like, cut vegetables and stuff?” Amy says.

  “Yes, Amy. That’s exactly what I mean.” Joe lets the fridge door slam shut. “Now, we’ve had to modify our menu a bit. We’ll still serve turkey legs, of course, but also corn on the cob, salad, fries, and one of King Henry’s favorites, rice pudding.”

  Joe spends a few minutes getting us familiar with the safety features of the truck, including pointing out where we can find the fire extinguisher (tucked underneath the counter) and the first aid kit (up front, in the glove compartment).

  “What about the bathroom?” Amy asks. “I mean, there doesn’t seem to be one.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “Bathroom breaks on your own time.”

  “But what if we really have to go?”

  “You’ll have to hold it.”

  “Well, what if we can’t?”

  Joe sighs and does what he always does when someone asks him a question he doesn’t want to answer—he changes the subject. “In case someone comes by to check our permit, it’s here”—he points to a small corkboard on the wall—“along with the truck’s schedule for the next two weeks.”

  Amy and I lean forward to read the tiny spreadsheet. Pike Place. Alki Beach. Rock Fest. We smile at each other. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

  I raise my hand.

  “Yes, Quinn?” Joe says.

  “Do we have to wear our costumes?”

  Joe blinks. “Yes, Quinn. You have to wear your costumes.” He says this like I’ve just asked the dumbest question ever.

  “It’s really hot in here.” My costume is sticking to me.

  “Yeah. There’s no air-conditioning,” Amy says. “Isn’t that, like, against workers’ rights or something?”

  “I’ll get you a fan.” Joe moves on, showing us how to work the old-fashioned cash register, before sending Amy outside so we can role-play a customer interaction.

  Amy skips up to the window and takes her time studying the menu board. “Hmmm … do you use partially hydrogenated oils in your fries? Because trans fats are really bad for you—”

  “Amy,” Joe barks. “Let’s take this seriously, all right?”

  Amy rolls her eyes. “Fine. I guess I’ll have the special.” She hands me her pretend-money, which I pretend-deposit into the cash register.

  I call the order to Carter. He’s leaning against the stove, studying his watch. When a minute passes, he hands me an empty plate.

  I’m not sure how helpful this exercise is, considering we’re not really doing anything real. I guess the test will come when we’re actually out on the road. A prospect that seems ripe for disaster.

  “Here you go!” I say with false cheer, passing an empty paper plate through the window to Amy. She eyeballs her nonexistent order. I can tell she’s thinking about complaining, but stops when Joe scowls at her.

  He sets a tin can with a paper sign wrapped around it on the counter. He puts a couple of dollar bills in there—a trick that’s supposed to encourage people to tip. “I’m going to leave you in Carter’s hands for now,” he says. “See you inside.”

  Amy smiles at Carter like she wouldn’t mind being left in his hands. Which, ew. Amy is a flirt—she can’t seem to help herself—and evidently swamp-monster looks and a boring personality aren’t a problem, particularly if she thinks the guy can get her somewhere. Although I’m not sure where, exactly, she thinks Carter will get her.

 
; Her attraction is short-lived, however, because he immediately power trips by putting us to work filling plastic squeeze bottles with ketchup from one of the giant drums in the fridge. He stands there, staring at us with his froggy eyes, while we try to keep ketchup from getting all over our hands.

  When Amy’s cell phone rings, she wipes her fingers on a paper towel and then grabs her phone out of her apron pocket. Before she can even look at the screen, Carter snatches it away from her.

  “No personal calls on work time,” he says, dropping it into his chest pocket. “You can have this back at the end of your shift.”

  “What if it’s an emergency?” she says.

  “You can check your messages on your break.”

  I guess watching us fill squeeze bottles must be as boring as actually filling them, because Carter eventually steps outside. A few seconds later, a plume of cigarette smoke slips through the open take-out window.

  “I don’t know what I ever saw in him,” Amy says.

  seventeen.

  The next morning, Erin picks me up in her Prius. Her saxophone case is on the backseat, buckled in like a baby. I dump my clarinet case on the floor and slide into the passenger seat.

  “Mornin’,” she says, handing me an iced coffee.

  This, right here, is why Erin is my best friend. She instinctively knew how much I needed caffeine this morning. I didn’t sleep well. I was way too busy obsessing about having to face Caleb at band practice today.

  I’ve been hoping that Caleb and I could pretend like that night on the beach didn’t exist. That he’d be okay with going back to being friends. But I’ve had, like, fifty text messages from him, and from the tone of them, I know that friendship is not what Caleb has in mind—his very dirty mind.

  “So,” Erin says, sending me a sympathetic glance. “Practice should be big-time awkward today.”

  “Yup.”

  “What are you going to say to Caleb?”

  “Well…” I fiddle with my straw. “I was thinking I could tell him that I’m Amish.”

  Erin quietly digests my suggestion. “Like ride around in a horse and buggy, dress-like-a-Pilgrim, Amish?”

  “I know, it’s a bit crazy, but just listen.” I sit up straight. “Amish girls are only allowed to date Amish boys, right? Otherwise their family kicks them out or throws rocks at them or something. Sooooo … if Caleb thinks I’m Amish, then there’s no way that we can be together. At least, not unless he converts.” I take a sip of my iced coffee, then almost spit it out as a thought occurs to me. “Oh my God. Do you think he’ll convert for me?”

  Erin sighs. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Considering there’s no way he’ll believe you’re secretly Amish,” she says, shaking her head. “Really, Quinn, you should just tell him the truth.”

  I roll my eyes. “Right. And what should I say? Caleb, I’m sorry, but the thought of ever kissing you again makes my stomach hurt?”

  “Well, maybe you don’t have to be quite that honest,” she says. “But why not tell him that you like someone else?”

  “I don’t think that will make it any easier on him.”

  “Nothing is going to make it easier on him—or you. Breaking up with someone sucks.”

  “How can we be breaking up? We’re not even going out,” I say. At least, I don’t think we are. “And besides, I don’t like anyone else.”

  “Uh-huh.” Erin turns into the school parking lot. There are only a few cars, but despite all the empty spaces, she pulls right up beside Wesley’s truck. Just to make a point.

  Wesley’s inside, talking on his phone. He glances over at us and then glances away. Which is totally rude.

  “Hm. Wonder what that’s about,” Erin says, unbuckling her seat belt.

  “Oh, he’s probably arranging to donate an organ to charity or raising money for underprivileged gorillas.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  She shakes her head. “You really have him wrong. He’s a good guy, Quinn.”

  “Again, you don’t know him like I do,” I say. “You’re blinded by his stupidly handsome face.”

  “Ha! I knew you thought he was cute.” She gets out of the car before I can debate this point, and opens the back door to grab her saxophone. “Maybe we should wait for him,” she says.

  “No way.” I take one last long sip of my drink and then shove my empty cup in the cupholder. “Wesley is not going to make me late.”

  Besides, it’s pretty clear from way he’s deliberately not looking at us that he’s not interested in company right now.

  I climb out of the car and follow Erin into the school. I can feel Wesley’s eyes on my back, but I don’t turn around.

  When we get to the band room, Erin has to nudge me through the door. Caleb’s inside already and his face lights up when he sees me.

  “Hey. I’ve been trying to call you,” he says as I sit down beside him.

  “Um, yeah. Sorry.” I unlatch my clarinet case and busy myself with poking around inside so I don’t have to look him in the eye. “I’m grounded. My mom wasn’t happy when I came home less than sober the other night.”

  “Damn.” He sighs. “Does this mean that you have to go right home after practice?”

  And just like that, I have my excuse. I’ll keep telling Caleb that I’m still grounded until he eventually gives up on me. Even if it takes my entire senior year.

  It’s genius. Much easier than pretending to be Amish. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.

  I nod. “Afraid so. In fact, it’ll be a long time before she lets me socialize again. A long time.”

  “That’s okay,” he says, putting his hand on my knee. “You’re worth waiting for.”

  I smile tightly.

  “Besides, we’ll still see each other in band, right?” he adds. “At least we have that.”

  I make a move to cross my legs, so he has to pull his hand away. “Band. Yes.”

  Here’s something I should have thought about before I let Caleb paw me: I have to sit beside him for the rest of the year. It’s not like Mr. Aioki will let me move. We both play the clarinet. There’s nowhere else for me to go.

  WHAT WAS I THINKING?

  I grab my clarinet and start to screw it together, cursing my bad judgment.

  The band room door bangs open and Wesley trudges into the room. He’s not smiling. As he makes his way down the row behind us, his tuba case bangs against the back of Caleb’s chair. Caleb stiffens and turns around and shoots him a dirty look.

  “Watch it, James,” he growls.

  ????????

  “Sorry, man. Not intentional.” Wesley settles into his seat and drops his case in front of him.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Caleb.

  His jaw tightens. “Ask James.”

  I haven’t seen Wesley since the party. There’s a dusting of blond stubble on his face and he has dark bags under his eyes. Looks like he didn’t get much sleep last night, either.

  “Dude, now’s not the time, okay?” Wesley says warily.

  Caleb snorts. “Right. You know all about timing, don’t you, James?”

  Clearly, these two are no longer friends. What I can’t figure out is why.

  Caleb puts his hand back on my knee. “By the way, I had a really great time the other night, Quinn.” He’s giving me this weird leering smile, like he’s thinking about how we rolled around on the beach together. Blech. I wish I could scrub that memory from his brain—and mine, too.

  Wesley looks away from us and starts to vigorously polish his tuba, his mouth set in a grim line. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was jealous.

  Wait. Is he jealous? Because he has no right to be. He has a girlfriend!

  I turn back around in my seat, thinking. I need to test this theory. I need to know if what almost happened between us at Travis’s party was all in my imagination, or if Wesley really is into me. So instead of knocking Caleb’s hand off my knee again, I lean
into him. His fingers immediately slide up my leg, right below the line where my shorts meet my bare skin. I clamp my hand down over his, partly to see if this provokes any reaction from Wesley, but also to stop Caleb’s fingers from wandering any farther.

  I lean over to whisper something to Caleb, but really it’s just an excuse to sneak a glance over his shoulder at Wesley.

  “Maybe I can convince my mom to let me out this weekend,” I say, just loud enough for Wesley to hear. His face is flushed. His breathing is all erratic, too, like he’s working hard to keep his emotions in check.

  Interesting.

  I know that using Caleb to make Wesley jealous is wrong. So wrong. But it’s also wrong to flirt with another girl when you have a girlfriend. It’s wrong to stay with that girlfriend when you like someone else. And I think Wesley likes me. If I can prove that, well, then …

  Well, then, what?

  Okay, I haven’t totally thought this plan through. But I’m going with it.

  Caleb grins. “Yeah?” he says, nuzzling my neck with the tip of his nose. “Well, we should definitely get together then.”

  My phone beeps. I pull it out of my bag. It’s Erin.

  WTH?????

  I look behind me at the brass section. She shakes her head slowly at me.

  I widen my eyes, pretending not to understand her message.

  She grimaces and begins to type. A second later, my phone beeps again.

  What happened to telling him you’re Amish?

  I shield my phone so Caleb can’t see the screen then type a quick message back to her.

  Change of plans.

  I don’t have time to tell her about those plans, however, because Mr. Aioki steps up to the podium.

  * * *

  Wesley bolted out of the room as soon as practice ended, before I even started packing up my clarinet. He left without a word to any of us.

  Seeing him miserable should make me happy—that’s been my goal since the day he came back, after all. But it doesn’t. Instead, I’m sad that he’s upset, and also hugely guilty for dragging Caleb into this. I didn’t consider his feelings at all.