“Better watch your mouth or I’ll complain to your manager.”
The rest of the clan come up and recite orders while I make loads of drinks, each of which takes more than five minutes and I have to remake them. My heart pounds as Rhett watches every minute, probably wondering how someone can be so incompetent at making coffee. But the girls press on without noticing him; they comment and jeer at everything from my complexion to the size of my thighs until every single order is done to completion.
Finally the charade reaches a crescendo when Amanda, with her sugar free, non fat, no foam crap, brings Rhett into it.
“Finally taking my advice and paying someone to go out with you, huh, Del?” She looks him over with sharp blue eyes. “He’s exactly your type, though; poor, dirty, clearly not from a good family. Mom would have a heart attack. Hope you bring him to tonight’s party so I can watch you crash and burn! Toodles, darling. See you this afternoon!”
Unlike me, Rhett fights back. Before she can leave, he calls out, “God, aren’t you a waste of two billion years of perfectly good evolution?”
My eyes practically burst out of my head right then. He’s so new to Lightfoot it’s painful; any social standing he could’ve cultivated will be dropped now that he’s insulted the queen bee.
Other than the second-hand embarrassment suddenly flooding my pale cheeks, I’m impressed by the speed and wit of the insult.
As Amanda returns to glare at me and Rhett, she declares, “I’ve never even seen you before, but you have an attitude I don’t like. Jesus, if you want to get anywhere around here, figure your shit out.”
“I don’t have an attitude, Barbie. Just a personality you don’t know how to handle.
I honestly don’t know how to jump in, so I simply let it happen. “Man, Del, your new boyfriend is a real charmer. Hope they don’t run out of stock so I can get my own.”
“I take quite a lot of pride in my unbounded charisma, thank you very much.”
Amanda employs a new tactic. “So you are Del’s boyfriend? You should be aware she’s not allowed to date guys like you.”
Rhett’s retort is sharp and instant. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Poor,” Amanda clarified with a haughty sneer. “We’re from a Twin Rivers family, kid. You wouldn’t fit in with Del’s friends or our family.”
“I’m sure as hell going to try,” he replies.
I’m shocked. This strange-looking and -acting guy I’ve barely known for ten minutes has not only come to my defense but pretended to be my boyfriend to shift Amanda’s vicious remarks toward him. If chivalry existed here, this is what it’d look like. Knight in shining armor seems obsolete after seeing one in a leather jacket.
Amanda smirks at me knowingly. “Can’t wait to see you and your boyfriend at Twin River’s tonight, dear sister.”
Rhett calls while she’s walking away, “Looking forward to it, Barbie!”
She leaves without another word and I whip around toward Rhett. To keep from yelling, I whisper harshly. “Are you serious right now? Do you have any idea how much trouble I’ll be in if I bring you to my mother’s party?”
“No. Enlighten me, Del.” His smile at learning my name is so wide and satisfied, it’s nearly enough to quell my anger at him.
Nearly. “First off, don’t ever call me Del. My name’s Cordelia, but my entire family has decided the name given to me at birth is too girly for someone like me. Second, my mom will flip; if she hates me now for being too weird and not enough like Amanda, she’ll murder me for bringing anyone besides the country club elitists to one of her parties.”
Trying to battle back obvious pain, he flashes a sarcastic smile and jokes, “I hadn’t pegged you as the type to care about how little money I have, Cordelia.”
“It’s not that. My stepdad’s friends are dicks, anyway, but-”
“I’ll wear a suit. Comb my hair. The whole nine yards.” Before I can argue, convince him that my mother and the socialites will rip him to shreds on sight, Rhett goes on, “If you want, we could stage a big dramatic fight to get you out of this boyfriend lie. What time is your mom’s party?”
I think it over. Having him there might be fun, and especially so if I get in trouble. Maybe he’ll give me the momentum needed for mom to stop trying to raise me. Maybe I can make her give up. Suddenly, Rhett seems less like a knight and more like a pawn. I concede with a hidden grin, “Party’s at eight.”
“Want me to pick you up at your place? Like it’s a proper date?”
“As close to eight as possible. I only live a minute or two from Twin Rivers.” I scribble my address on a napkin and hand it over. “Now I’ve got work to do, if you’re done interrupting my life.”
But he doesn’t move. Even when I’m back behind the counter filling the orders of the three or four customers I’ve kept waiting, Rhett stands against the bar reading that book. I’ve gotten a glimpse of the title by now – A Collection of Sylvia Plath – and start to wonder whether he’s reading it for school or pleasure. At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past him. He could easily be the type of guy who’s spectacularly invested in good grades or the type who reads depressing poetry for fun. Yet another area of intrigue. I’m not one for poetry, never have been, and especially not the works of Ms. Plath.
While I ponder Rhett’s unlikely existence as he mulls over the pages of his book (very intensely, might I add), my shift passes faster than it ever has and soon enough Trent’s honking for me outside.
Before I can make it out the door or even hang my apron on the hook, Rhett runs up to me and practically shouts my name. Feeling the eyes of customers on my back, I contemplate walking out and acting as though I hadn’t heard and quickly decide that’s my best plan.
“Who, being loved, is poor?” That makes me turn around. The question in my eyes is enough to make him elaborate. “Oscar Wilde said that. Your sister-”
“Step-sister,” I correct automatically.
“Whatever. She seems to believe the most important thing about me is how much money I have, but that’s bullshit and I think you know it, too. People like her – who don’t have the ability to love deeply and without boundaries – are a whole lot poorer than I’ll ever be.”
Unable to respond intelligently to a statement so out-there, I pull out some of my trademarked crap and ask as flirtatiously as I can manage in a public setting, “Are saying you’re in love with me?”
He’s oozing with that almost romantic quality in his voice, a smirk plastered across his face as he answers, “I’ll see you tonight, Cordelia Kane.”
My name on his full and foreign lips sounds nice, new, fresh. When my mom say’s it, the name is a shriveled up curse and when Michael says it, the sound is nothing more than a burden on his tongue.
This is…a good change. Maybe it’ll get better.
“See you.”
Chapter Two – A Night to Forget
“Alright, slut, it’s time to fess up.” I’m with my best – and, I guess, only – friend, Sky (whose full name is Skylar Arabella Waverly), sitting on my over-sized, over-stuffed leather couch, and she’s interrogating me about Rhett. My fault for mentioning that I had a date to tonight’s shindig, I suppose.
“You know, generally speaking, ‘slut’ really isn’t a term of endearment,” I say even though she insults me every time we speak. It’s part of her badass persona, which she’s very proud of.
“Fine, bitch. Tell me who you’re boy toy is or I will mess you up.”
There’s something very laughable about a barely five foot girl with debutant blond curls threatening to beat up someone eight inches taller. One of her many charms, besides being the only country club child worth hanging around.
“He was loitering around the coffee shop today reading poetry.”
“Sounds hot.” She listens intently as if I’m reciting the most interesting story ever told. Sky’s always been, to put it delicately, crazy about guys. Even when she was going through her rebelliou
s phase: thirteen, going by Saw, with a shaved head. That was about the era I started questioning our friendship. But our moms were best friends, which sort of forced me into spending a ton of time with her as a kid. Otherwise there’s no way in hell we would’ve ended up so close.
I laugh, “I assure you, he is. His name’s Rhett.”
“Rhett Tressler?!” When I nod, her perfectly round blue eyes go China-doll wide. Her words mash together in practically unintelligible streaks. “Oh my god I cannot believe you, you whore.” Sky gives me a small shove. “You do realize, of course, that your mom will murder you the second you’re outside of Twin Rivers. Not to mention Michael. I’ll speak at your funeral, if you want.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the moral support. Pissing off my mom and Michael is sort of the point.”
“My little rebel! I’m rubbing off on you.” Sky gives me a proud mama glance and then her eyes take on that all-too-familiar mischievous glint. As she stands, he voice is devilishly pleased. “If you really want to make your mom and stepdad mad, come with me.”
Trepidation sparks in my chest. Sky’s been known for being an expert at subtly torturing her parents. Before her newest blonde hair and perfect makeup phase kicked in a few months back, she was into coming home with new piercings and new haircuts and colors and anything that would get a reaction out of her hyper-conservative mother. I understand now, of course, how thrilling the look of sheer terror on a parent’s face is when they see your newest tattoo. (I haven’t yet gone that far, though I think Sky’s up to her third).
Before I stand to follow her, fear inhibiting my legs from moving, she assures me, “Nothing extreme. Just a bit of a haircut.” When she says a bit, though, I know she means cleaving off at least a foot.
“No. Oh my god no.” I shake my head vigorously. “Dyeing it is one thing but…”
There’s no need to finish; Sky’s heard the story. Ever since I was a kid, mom’s been obsessed with long hair. She could never grow hers out long enough, so I was barely ever allowed to cut it. Even now, the cascades of crimpy, fading pink trail to the small of my back. If there’s anything that would kill my mother more than me showing up with an outsider, it would be debuting a chopped off head of hair.
“Come on, Del.” Sky has succumbed to the nickname bug that’s overtaken my family the past few years just like everyone else. “It’ll be fun. I won’t even do it myself if you don’t want me to.”
Honestly, and it’s embarrassing to admit this to myself, I can’t help but think about how Rhett’ll react if I change my hair suddenly. He’d probably like it, think it was cute and nerdy and nonconformist. The very thought slaps a smile on my face.
“That looks like a ‘yes’ to me!”
Gleefully and with abandon, Sky yanks me out the front door and we romp across the street and through her lawn and she bangs on the door. This is one of her favorite tactics to see if anyone’s home. Luckily, after a few minutes waiting, nobody answers the door and we charge forward. Through the polished wooden foyer and down the basement steps, where what could only be described as a torture chamber is kept. It’s Sky’s mom’s salon, as she’s one of the few Real Housewives of Lightfoot who actually has a job; my own mother quit her teaching job when she married Michael in favor of daily massages and spending excessive amounts of money on ‘retail therapy’ for ‘all the stress you kids have been causing me.’ Groan.
Sky leads me into the back room – her own personal station – and sits me down in a chair. Across from me is a wall-to-wall mirror and a counter loaded with cosmetics that range from every color hair dye and bottles and jars and tubes of makeup to various hair straighteners and crimpers and curlers, all of which look like medieval torture devices. The space is the antithesis of my bathroom counter, which contains hand soap and ponytail holders and not much else. I’ve only worn makeup when my mom forced me or I was prey to one of my eldest stepsister Mal’s cosmetology practice. She’s at college way up North along with my one step-brother (who I only met at mom and Michael’s wedding), Clay, so my beautifying enterprises begin and end with fancy parties.
“Shut your eyes.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
After about an hour of only hearing snipping and feeling globs of gel dabbed on my hair, Sky leads me to the front room and washes out my hair, then proceeds to style it before permitting me to see. Hot air steams across my skin and then there’s a scorching curling iron that burns my neck. All in all, she’s done in about two hours. By my calculations, Rhett’ll pick me up for mom’s ‘soiree’ in about an hour. Time enough to look at the probably frilly and too girly dress mom bought for me. Hopefully she used at least one ounce of her dwindling common sense while buying it.
Sky exclaims excitedly, “Viola! You may look.”
She spine my chair around to face one of the salon’s multitudinous mirrors.
When the girl in the mirror opens her eyes, I draw in a half-gasp. The haircut is edgy and extreme and when my hair’s straight it’ll be killer. My newly sheared hair dangles an inch or two above my shoulders and flat-ironed bangs cut diagonally across my forehead. Rows of bouncy curls ring my face and make the angle of my jaw more extreme than I remember it being. I mean, I’ve always had oddly contrasting facial features – near circularly round lips, prominent cheekbones right beneath heavy-lidded brown eyes, all living chaotically atop a nasty scheme of blotchy freckles and a practically triangular jaw – but now that my hair’s so short and so…colorful, my face could almost be attractive. In the right lighting. At the right moment.
And the color. Damn, it’s bright. What could easily be categorized as a veritable explosion of electric blue has been released upon my head.
“You like it?” Sky’s squealing with enthusiasm, like a bubbly child who just found out her parents are taking her to Disney World. I try to suppress a laugh, but with my nerves buzzing anticipatorily, it’s nearly impossible. “I know the color’s…intense-”
“To say the least,” I agree.
“But the bottle did say ‘atomic turquoise’ and that’s what you’ve got. I’m quite happy with it, and I suspect your boy toy will love it.”
I grin madly. “And mom will hate it, no doubt.” I stand up and give Sky a brief squeeze before going on, “I’d better get home. See you tonight?”
“No doubt.” She replies with some not so subtly implications in her voice, “Can’t wait to see your new boyfriend, slut.”
“I barely know him,” I argue passively. “Just met this morning.”
She makes one of those ‘I can tell you’re bullshitting me’ faces and sends me on my way with one final blessing. “Give ‘em hell, gorgeous!”
With a slight chuckle, I bound up the steps and out the door. Back across the street and to my own house, where, thankfully, nobody’s home. If anyone – even Trent – saw me right now, there would be explaining to do, and right now I’m so buzzed on the energy of tonight’s many potentials I would probably just lie through my teeth so hard they might actually think something’s wrong with me. Not interested at this juncture, thank you very much. Giddy to the point where it almost scares me, I throw open the front door and leap up to my bedroom.
And then my mood is crushed.
For my rebellious hair and attitude today, I am slapped in the face. By karma, who is a heartless bitch.
There’s a dress perched menacingly on my rumpled gray comforter. It’s everything a four year old girl would want in a dress made for someone with curves. To the dismay of everyone but me, I am built like a gawky eleven year old boy and do not have the assets to pull that off. Actually, I’m not sure anyone could wear this one shoulder, pale pink, ruffled organdy (which basically means stiff, shiny, and much too eighteenth-century-teen-bride for my taste) monstrosity without looking like a wannabe Barbie doll.
I groan even though there’s nobody around to hear my angst. Unfortunately, I did promise I would wear the dress, so wear it I must. But I didn’t promise
how I’d wear it.
And thus, half an hour later, I’m standing in the living room waiting for Rhett to arrive in a pair of white high tops with every one of my seven ear piercings in, which I very rarely do. Normally I have in three or four, but tonight feels special. I want to go all out. I’ve picked out a pair of shiny angel wings from my mother’s jewelry box, mostly for the sake of irony at the bottom, and line the rest of my ear with varying shapes of mismatched studs from my own bowl of earrings. I kept my hair in the same neat halo of curls only because of Sky’s painstaking work. Once I shower it out tonight, I’ll just let it hang in waves around my face.
Instead of tugging on pristine skin-toned tights like my mother would’ve wanted, I’ve left my bruised, nicked knees and pale legs open for appreciation. The bruises and scratches are mainly from smacking my legs against metal barstools at work, which is a near daily occurrence in my generally gangly, bumbling, awkward existence. Oh the woes of being five foot nine and shaped the way I am.
The doorbell rings.
A sharp, tinny clang against the soupy silence layered throughout my house. I take a deep breath in preparation for seeing Rhett again after this morning. I’m totally paranoid he’ll regret the decision to pretend to be my boyfriend and skip out, thus leaving me to explain the situation to Amanda and the Bitches. Which would suck. Completely.
If he doesn’t chicken out, maybe we can do something together as, like, real people. It could be cool.
Shut up, I tell myself and walk toward the front door. My fingers clutch the cool metal handle and I suck another breath into my lungs for safe keeping. Then I whisper screw it as quietly as possible and fling the door open.
And there he is.
The night time temperature drop hits me when I open the door and take him in. Almost-black hair combed out of his eyes, toffee skin bathed in the pinkish glow of streetlamps, golden brown eyes already lit up with glee as they look me over; long story short, he’s still as strangely good-looking and eye-catching as at our morning rendezvous. As promised, Rhett’s there on my doorstep in a black suit about a size too large for his lanky frame, and he’s grinning like an idiot.
Love in the Time of Cynicism Page 2
