Getting Over Garrett Delaney

by McDonald, Abby

  “How about some muffin samples?” LuAnn calls brightly, but everyone stays riveted to the drama unfolding outside. With a final yell, Crazy Blonde Waitress turns away, then Skeezy Hipster grabs her arm, and just like that, they leap on each other, kissing furiously. Well, not so much kissing as swallowing each other whole. Her back is pressed up against the window so hard, it rattles with every new wave of passion.

  As LuAnn strides outside to try and break up the amorous couple, for the sake of onlooking children (or, more to the point, public decency laws), I can’t help but let out a wistful sigh. OK, so I don’t want a boyfriend with nicotine stains, commitment issues, and a high risk of communicable diseases, but something about the way they’re pressed up against each other, oblivious to the entire world . . . Even when LuAnn taps them on the shoulder, they keep necking until she’s practically yanking Crazy Blonde Waitress away from him.

  Oh, to be young and in (requited) love!

  Crazy Blonde Waitress clearly thinks it’s the most important thing in her life, because without even a moment’s pause, she strips off her green apron and shoves it at LuAnn’s chest. Then she takes Skeezy Dude’s hand, and off they saunter to their blissful world of skinny black denim and graphic PDAs.

  “Can you believe her?” LuAnn fumes, banging mugs into a tray as she returns to bus the forgotten tables. “Three days on the job and she just waltzes off. And now I’m stuck on shift alone, and Josh still isn’t back from his lunch, and the espresso machine is this close to crapping out on me. Again!”

  “Sorry,” I offer quietly.

  She takes a breath. “Thanks, kid. I didn’t mean to rant.” She looks at my long-since-empty cup. “You need a refill? Least we can do after scarring your impressionable young mind with that floor show.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  She’s halfway back to the counter before I realize what a shining, golden opportunity has presented itself to me. Salvation, in the form of Crazy Blonde Waitress and Skeezy Hipster Dude!

  I leap up and dash after her.

  “I can do it!” I say quickly. “I mean, the job. Waitressing. I can replace her.” I put on my best responsible employee face, but LuAnn doesn’t look convinced.

  “I don’t know, kid — it can get kind of hectic in here. And we don’t usually hire high-school kids. . . .”

  “But I’m seventeen! Practically graduated. And I’ve worked in food service before.” I thank the Gods of Work Experience for those long, dough-filled months manning the sprinkle station. “I could help you out this afternoon, as, like, probation,” I suggest desperately. “You said it yourself, you’re on your own.”

  Suddenly, I want this job more than anything in the world. It’s my only chance for a summer of non-suckiness — I just know it. Never mind what my mom will dream up if I don’t manage to find honest employment; this gig would change everything for me. I wouldn’t be Sad Sack Sadie, stuck pining for her true love during the long, empty days of summer. No, I’d be Badass Barista Sadie, casually dishing out pastries and eavesdropping on conversations to use in that novel Garrett is always saying I should write.

  I want to be that girl. The world wants me to be that girl! And I could, if LuAnn would just give me a chance.

  “Please? Pretty please?” I beg, crossing my fingers behind my back for luck.

  She looks around. And at that moment — like messengers from the Gods of Excellent Timing — the door swings open and a stream of elderly customers enters the café. Ten or twelve of them maybe: wrinkled and blue-rinsed and wearing matching yellow Doolittle Falls Walking Club sweatshirts. They bustle around the space, prodding at the notice board, peering at the cake stands, deliberating whether to get a pot of tea to share or individual cups.

  Ding! goes the bell as more of them arrive. Ding, ding, ding!

  I’ve never heard a sweeter sound.

  “Fine!” LuAnn relents, in the face of divine intervention — and a host of fussy customers. She plucks CBW’s apron from the counter and tosses it to me. “You take register and bus tables. But no promises. This is just for today, OK?”

  “Yes!” I cry, bouncing on the spot. “I won’t let you down — I promise!”

  I’ve never been so thrilled to clear dirty dishes in my life.

  And there I was thinking that flair, wit, and diligence would be my tickets to greatness. Sure, that’s what they tell us in school, but in the end, it’s my ability to bus tables without running off with the nearest dirty hipster dude that seals my fate. After an afternoon’s probation, in which I demonstrate my superior table-wiping skills (not to mention that all-important “Do you want that muffin warmed?” delivery), LuAnn agrees to make me a real live member of the Totally Wired team.

  And then, as if things weren’t working out well enough, bright and early the very next day, I get a message from Garrett that sends sunshine streaming through the dark clouds of my loneliness.

  Camp is amazing. So busy w/ classes. But I miss you!

  I pause outside the café on my way to my first-day orientation, rereading those few, precious words.

  I miss you.

  I miss you.

  I miss you.

  Were sweeter words ever texted?

  I hug the phone to my chest with glee, and right away, I can see that I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. This summer apart isn’t a hurdle in our destiny to be together; it is destiny! After all, what better way to make Garrett realize what I mean to him than for us to be split apart? Absence makes the heart grow fonder — that’s what everyone says — and sure enough, after only a few days apart, Garrett is missing me. Whatever second thoughts he had about confessing his feelings will soon be swept away — I’m sure of it. At this rate, he’ll be declaring his love by the end of summer. I just have to make it through without him until then.

  Easy!

  I bounce into the coffee shop full of new hope and determination. It’s before official opening hours, but the rest of the staff is already gathered around the tables at the back, slumped over coffee and pastries. LuAnn waves me over, a nail-polish wand in her hand.

  “Am I late?” I whisper, slipping into a free seat beside her. I recognize some of the other staff from the café, but nobody seems too concerned to have a newcomer in their midst, they just mumble among themselves, yawning and scratching as if seven a.m. is way too early to drag their scruffy, hipster asses out of bed.

  “Don’t worry,” she says at normal volume, applying purple sparkles to the nails on her right hand. “Carlos isn’t awake yet.”

  She nods toward a guy who’s practically comatose at the far table. He’s in his thirties, maybe — unshaven, in wrinkled denim and a black T-shirt that has definitely seen better days.

  “Who’s Carlos?” I ask, curious.

  “The boss man,” LuAnn replies. She sticks her tongue out with concentration as she finishes up the nail-polish job. When her last nail is sufficiently sparkled, she continues, “He was in a minorly successful indie band ten years ago. They split, but one of his songs got used on a car commercial. Big money. Hence, he opened this place.”

  “Wow,” I whisper. “At the donut shop, my boss was this balding guy named Kenny. He’d scream at us if we ever switched the radio from Top Forty.”

  “Carlos is OK.” She shrugs. “As long as you don’t talk too loud when he’s hungover. Or ever call him in for something before noon.”

  “People, can we get this done already?” Carlos finally pulls himself out of his chair and pushes a stack of printed sheets at the nearest person, a petite girl with blue streaks in her hair and rubber-band bracelets on both arms. “New time sheets, yada, yada, I don’t care if you switch shifts — just fight among yourselves.” He yawns. “Anything you guys want to share? No? Good.”

  “I do!” LuAnn waves her hand in the air. “Katy quit on me yesterday.”

  Carlos swears. “Another one? What are you doing to them?”

  “It’s not me!” she protests.

  �
��Sure, but I’m the one who has to find a replacement.” Carlos doesn’t seem happy at the prospect, which is when LuAnn pushes me out of my seat.

  “I know. See? That’s why I already hired her! Everyone, this is the new kid.”

  “Sadie,” I say, waving awkwardly. A dozen faces stare back at me. “Um, hi.”

  Carlos gives me the once-over, frowning. “Wait, who are you?”

  “She’s a total lifesaver!” LuAnn interrupts. She pats me on the head and beams at Carlos. “New waitress, no fuss. Everyone wins!”

  “I’m sorry,” I add quickly, feeling everyone’s eyes on me. “I thought it was OK. I can fill out an application if you need me to. And I have references! Or if you want to interview me for the position . . . ?”

  “Interview?” Behind me, someone laughs.

  Carlos stares at me sternly for a second. “You got experience?”

  I nod eagerly.

  “Criminal record? Drug problem?”

  I shake my head. “I . . . I’m seventeen,” I tell him, suddenly panicked. I knew it! I’m not old enough to work here for real. And I’m clearly not anywhere near cool enough. I may as well just resign myself to a summer with my mom’s Positivity Now! road show, handing out name tags and pamphlets until —

  Carlos suddenly laughs. He takes a gulp of coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Relax, kid — it’s cool. You’re hired.”

  “OK!” I collapse back into my seat with relief.

  “Not OK!” someone says, her voice ringing with disapproval — and a French accent. Which is kind of the same thing, I think. I look over to find a polished, preppy girl glaring at me. She’s wearing a crisp button-down shirt and tortoiseshell glasses, her Afro shaped in a small perfect sphere. “Does this mean I have to swap shifts? Because I’m not swapping. Not for anyone.”

  “That’s Dominique,” LuAnn whispers. “A total team player.”

  Carlos rolls his eyes. “You’ll swap if I ask you to.”

  “I have classes!” Dominique’s voice rises. “And don’t forget, I’m in law school, not some third-rate technical college where they don’t care if you ever show up!”

  “Hey!” the tiny, blue-haired girl cries in protest. Dominique just gives her a withering stare.

  “Like I said, some of us go to real schools.”

  Carlos puts his hands on his hips. “And like I said, you’ll take whatever shifts I give you or go find another job!”

  “Maybe I will!” Dominique shoots out of her seat. “Maybe I’ll leave you to try to do the accounts on your own. You wouldn’t last a week without me, idiot.”

  I feel a tug on my arm. “Come on,” LuAnn says through a mouthful of muffin. “I’ll show you the ropes.”

  “But . . .” I glance back at Carlos and Dominique, now yelling about opening hours and labor rights. “Shouldn’t we . . . ?”

  “Leave them.” She sighs. “She’ll storm out, and he’ll apologize. Or maybe he won’t, and you’ll get more shifts. Win!”

  The rest of the staff is dispersing around the fight as if it doesn’t exist, heading out front for a cigarette break or starting to barter over shifts with the time sheets and markers.

  “Um, sure,” I say, edging out of my seat before Dominique starts hurling things. “I love ropes. Show them to me!”

  LuAnn breezes through my introduction to the register, baked goods, and fearsome coffee machine in ten seconds flat. “It’s easy, kid. You’ll be fine,” she tells me with another reassuring yet condescending pat on the head.

  “But where are you going?” I blink as she rounds the counter.

  “I’m not on until this afternoon.”

  “Then who . . . ?” I trail off as LuAnn points to Dominique. “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry,” LuAnn tells me carelessly, armed as she is with her awesome vintage style and unshakable confidence and — oh, yes — age. “Just ignore the attitude. She’s a marshmallow, really.”

  But if she is, it’s a stale, hardened marshmallow, because nothing I do or say during that first shift makes any impact.

  “Two lattes — one soy, one decaf — and one iced chamomile!” Dominique yells over at me later that afternoon.

  “Sure thing!” I reply, quickly dispensing with the easy tea option before facing my new foe: the dreaded espresso machine. Having spent the morning busing tables and working from the relative safety of the register, she’s finally pushed me to the back of the counter and set the Beast loose on me. Sure, you think I jest, but you haven’t seen the thing — a looming silver monstrosity of dials and switches and funnels, all which (if caressed in just the right way) supposedly work to produce Totally Wired’s famed coffee, “the best in New England.”

  “Sometime this week would be nice!” Dominique adds, raising an eyebrow at me in disgust.

  Yay, team unity.

  “What are you doing, trying to fly that thing?” Our resident chef, Josh, appears in the hatch window, brown hair sticking out in unruly tufts over blue eyes. He watches with amusement as I gingerly prod and press the machine.

  “I’d settle for a latte.” I try not to look like such an idiot, still painfully aware that I’m the new kid. Kid being the operative word. LuAnn was right to assign me that nickname — all the other staff is clearly way older than me. Carlos is thirty or something ancient like that, Dominique is maybe in her twenties, and that blue-haired waitress, Aiko, may look young, with her petite frame and steampunk T-shirt, but it turns out she’s a junior graphic-arts student at college nearby. The next-youngest person around is actually Josh — Aiko told me that he’s nineteen, a year out of high school — but he’s kept mostly to himself, hanging out in the kitchen, pressing panini all day.

  And, of course, popping his head out to watch me flail around in utter confusion.

  “Try hitting the thing,” Josh suggests. I prod a shiny silver button. “No, next to that other thing.”

  I follow his directions, still half-convinced that the Beast is going to reach out and skewer me with one of its levers. There’s a hiss, a groan; the machine gives an almighty shudder, and then . . . success! Two cups of espresso stand before me.

  “Lifesaver!” I beam. “Now, um, if I can only remember how to do that again. Another hundred times . . .”

  Josh laughs. “Hold that thought.” He ducks back into the kitchen and reappears a moment later with a pack of Post-it notes. “These should help you keep track,” he says, scribbling 1, 2, 3 with a black marker and slapping the notes on each of the knobs and dials in turn.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, grateful. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

  He grins. “That’s why you’re a serving wench, and I have a whole kingdom of my own!” He gestures grandly at the tiny kitchen. “Behold, my domain.”

  I laugh. “Wow, impressive. You’ve got running water and everything.”

  “Well, most days.”

  “Sadie!” Dominique doesn’t even turn as she yells.

  “I better get back to serving. And wenching,” I tell him. “But thanks!”

  I deliver the drinks — probably lukewarm now — to Dominique. “That’s just wonderful,” she drawls. “Maybe next time you can wait until we all drop dead from old age.”

  “Sorry, I —”

  “Look, just go clear the tables out front.” Dominique lets out a weary sigh, as if my incompetence is just too exhausting. “Tout de suite.”

  I stare blankly. “I took Spanish.”

  “Now!” she translates.

  I grab the cloth and duck out from behind the counter. I take my time cleaning each table — not so much out of my faultless work ethic as in the hope of eavesdropping on some juicy plotlines for that novel I’m going to write one day. But, as usual, Sherman fails me.

  “You know, I told him to paint the fence. It’s bringing the whole tone of the street down.”

  “And they’re having a sale on paint right now at Mike’s Hardware.”

  “Exactly! Some pe
ople have no sense of community.”

  See? If I wanted to write about the minutiae of existence, I’d be in heaven right now. Or maybe that’s the point: I could write about a waitress in a small-town coffee shop, doomed to spend her days listening to conversations about DIY home repair while her love is far away. . . .

  A flash of red outside the window catches my eye, and I look up to see a trail of grade-school kids in summer-camp T-shirts, winding down the street in an unruly snake formation. Kayla walks alongside, outfitted in her very own red shirt and weighed down with water bottles and sunscreen. She beams, perky as ever, adjusting one kid’s falling baseball cap, then nudging another back in line. The very picture of summer enthusiasm. I should have guessed that she’d wind up working with kids — or the elderly, or cute fluffy animals.

  She sees me watching, and raises her arm in a wave. I manage a vague gesture, balancing dirty dishes.

  By the time I’m done clearing, my stomach is rumbling at an alarming volume. I was so busy picking out my first-day outfit that I skipped breakfast; I haven’t had time to eat all day.

  I approach Dominique apprehensively. “I was thinking maybe I could take my break . . .”

  “Whenever we hit a lull,” Dominique finishes for me, her expression stony. “Does this look like a lull to you?”

  “If lull is French for ‘Sure. It’s slow — go take your break,’ ” LuAnn interrupts, breezing past us from the back entrance. She dumps her purse on the counter, spilling makeup and quarters from the fringed, beaded, bedazzling bag. “Go ahead. I can cover for ten.”

  “Thanks,” I say, already pulling off my apron. “I won’t be long. I just need to grab some lunch.”

  “Lunch?” LuAnn blinks. “Honey, it’s, like, three p.m.” She turns to Dominique. “What have you been doing to her?”

  Dominique gives a lazy shrug. “She’s here to work.”

  “You are a cold, heartless woman,” LuAnn tells her sternly. Dominique just shrugs again and turns back to the fashion magazine she has stashed behind the coffee grounds.