Getting Over Garrett Delaney

by McDonald, Abby

  “So how are you doing? How’s summer shaping up? You written that magnum opus yet?”

  “Not yet.” I laugh. “Summer’s . . . OK, I guess. I got a job at the café, which is fun.”

  “I used to make a mean cup of joe myself, back in the day.”

  Dad lives in D.C. — when he’s in one place for long, that is. He plays the saxophone — not just for kicks or like those guys playing for money on the subway but as an actual career. He does session music for singers, his band gets booked all over, and they even have a CD that was nominated for a Grammy way back when. Sure, it was for Best Zydeco/Cajun Album, and they didn’t get invited to the big main ceremony with Beyoncé and everybody, but it still counts.

  “Did you get my e-mail?” he asks. “I sent you this great link to a dog playing piano.”

  “No, I’m just . . . trying to stay off-line.” I sigh. “Not so much e-mail and Internet, that kind of thing. But it’s hard. I keep wanting to check my phone, it’s like a compulsion or something.”

  “Too right. It’s the habit that gets you. Remember when I was trying to quit smoking? I nearly went crazy at first, but it turns out the key was just to keep busy, give my hands something to do instead of holding a cigarette.”

  “Busy,” I repeat. “I can do busy.”

  “Sure, you can. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get back for your birthday, but I’m going to be in Boston soon for a show. Do you want to come up? We can hang out, make a weekend of it.”

  “That sounds great!” I brighten. “Can we go see this singer, Jonny Pardue? He’s playing in the city for the next few weeks, I think.”

  “Absolutely. Look, I’ve got to get back to practice, but I’ll figure out the details with your mom, OK?”

  “OK, see you soon.”

  I hang up, thoughtful. Dad’s battle against cigarettes was epic — won and lost on many occasions. While Garrett’s messages aren’t rotting my lungs, they’re definitely corroding my soul. Doing less clearly isn’t working out, but maybe I should be doing more instead. Sure, there’s the usual list of errands and odd jobs tacked to the fridge, but how am I supposed to focus on anything with my computer so tantalizingly close?

  Check mail! it calls to me. Check mail!

  I’ve never been one of those technology-dependent kids — the ones who go into meltdown if they’re dragged away from their computers for all of five minutes — but now my hand is reaching for my cell phone as if it’s possessed. Garrett has texted twice already (at least I assume it’s him, since I’ve stoically ignored the tantalizing buzz), and that’s not even thinking about whatever could be lurking upstairs in my e-mail in-box. . . .

  It’s clear that the house is way too dangerous in my current state of Garrett OCD. Here, peril and temptation lurk at every turn, so I do what any smart warrior would: I grab my keys and bag, and I flee.

  It’s time for some distraction.

  I never figured Totally Wired as a sanctuary, but it turns out there’s nowhere safer from my cruel addiction than the noisy, bustling café. Three days of Garrett detox later and I have my coffee serving down to a graceful ballet.

  “Order up for table five!” Josh hits the bell and deposits two plates on the hatch ledge.

  “I need two lattes and a soy tea!” Dominique calls from behind the register.

  “Excuse me? Can someone come clear this table?” A customer lingers by a trash- and mug-littered table, trying to catch my attention.

  “Coming, right away, absolutely!” I call back to each in turn. Flicking some switches on the Beast, I start the lattes, then grab the full plates and swoop through the café, depositing them at table five with a cheerful “Enjoy!” and a handful of utensils before pivoting, sweeping up the debris on the next table, and stacking my arms high with dirty plates. By the time I get back to the counter, fresh espresso is dripping obediently into the mugs, herbal tea is steaming, and even Dominique is looking at me with what could be admiration — if admiration can be masked beneath a scowl, that is.

  “You’re learning fast,” she tells me grudgingly.

  I beam. With my cell phone stowed safely in the staff locker and my idle hands put to good use, I can almost, almost forget the texts I’m deleting unread (because having them there in my in-box is a temptation too far) and the e-mails that must be piling up back at home. I unplugged my computer that first night and haven’t touched it since, instead, filling my evenings with gritty cop shows on TV (the least romantic thing I can find) and reading my way through Mom’s extensive library of self-help books. By the time I collapse, exhausted, into bed, it feels like I’ve run a marathon of self-control.

  But it’s working. I’ve struggled through seventy-two hours of a Garrett-free existence, and it almost, almost feels like that itch is lessening. To, say, a fiery burn, rather than a full-on red-ant attack. Soon, it might even fade to a mild irritation.

  I can but dream.

  But just when I feel like maybe, just maybe, I can make it through another day triumphant, the door dings open and an icy chill blasts through the café. OK, so maybe not a literal one, but the sight of Beth Chambers sauntering in is enough to freeze me in my tracks.

  “Hi,” I gulp. “I mean, welcome to Totally Wired. What can I get you?”

  “You work here?” Beth asks, looking slowly around. Oversize sunglasses are propped just-so on top of her hair, and she’s wearing another of her fabulously stylish outfits — skinny black pants and a striped shirt that just scream Audrey Hepburn.

  Right then I decide, she’s not going to get to me. Nothing is going to ruin my sunny mood, not even Little Miss Drama Queen and her chic monochrome wardrobe.

  “Yup, I do.” I brace myself for a scathing retort, but instead she just smiles at me.

  “That’s cool. It’s a great place,” she says, then orders a frothy chocolate concoction. “Is that OK?” she asks. “I can get something simpler, if you don’t want to . . .”

  “No, it’s fine.” I blink at her, thrown. What happened to the über-bitch of old — the Beth who would send Garrett out for a bottle of water during lunch, and woe betide him if he came back with Poland Spring instead of her precious Evian? “Do you, um, want whipped cream with that?”

  “Sure — if it’s not too much trouble,” she adds quickly.

  There it is again: trouble. As if she cares about my time and energy. For what would be the first time in the history of the universe.

  I assemble the drink, wondering what has prompted this personality makeover into a new, humble, conscientious Beth Chambers. Did finally graduating the confines of Sherman High make her realize that treating people as if they’re nothing more than inconvenient gnats might not, you know, endear her to people, out in the real world? Or is this all an elaborate ploy, to set me up for another confidence-shaking smackdown?

  “Here you go.” I put her drink on the counter, still staring at her suspiciously.

  “Thanks so much,” Beth gushes. She passes me the money for her drink and stuffs a couple of dollars in the tip jar, then meets my eyes, looking awkward. “I, um, want to let you know, I’m sorry for saying that stuff to you at the party.”

  I blink, truly amazed now. “Oh,” I manage. “That’s OK.”

  “No, I mean . . . I was such a bitch, it’s not even funny.” She gives me this shrug, seeming to be genuinely uncomfortable. “I was just so mad at you. I mean, you guys were always so close. I guess I was just jealous, that’s all.”

  “Jealous? Of me?”

  Beth stares at me. “Of course. You’re, like, his favorite person. I could never compete with that.” She exhales. “Even now . . . I mean, we were so close, and suddenly, I can’t even talk to him anymore. You’re so lucky,” she tells me. “You’re still friends with him, but I don’t get him in my life at all anymore.”

  Her words sit between us on the counter. I know I should say something nice back, something reassuring, but I’m wordless with sudden horror.

  She gives another
rueful shrug and then takes her drink. “Thanks. Good luck with . . . well, next year. Maybe I’ll see you around, during breaks, you know?” And with that, she sashays away.

  What am I doing?

  I stare after Beth, a rush of absolute, unfettered panic speeding through me. She’s right, I am lucky. Garrett has been the best friend a girl could want, so how could I be so stupid as to think about shutting him out for good? I’ve been so busy thinking about my unrequited love, I haven’t even stopped to consider the other, more important part of our relationship.

  Friendship.

  Ignoring him now would make him think I don’t care, that I don’t want to be friends. I want to get over him, not lose him for good! How must he feel, with me not replying to his texts and e-mails like this? What kind of friend am I?

  “Sadie!” Dominique snaps me out of my panicked reverie. She dumps an armful of dishes on the counter, then strips off her apron. “I have to go,” she informs me.

  “Are you off already?” I stare at her, still fixed on my Garrett dilemma. “I didn’t see LuAnn come in.”

  “She hasn’t.” Dominique shrugs, with typical insouciance. “But you can handle it.”

  “Um, sure, I guess.” I look around. The café is half full, and everything seems quiet enough. “But can you . . . ?”

  My words fall into empty space; she’s already gone. But then I realize, I’m unsupervised, with no one to bark disapproving orders in French if I check my phone, say, or make a quick call. . . .

  I snatch my phone out from my locker and dial with shaking hands. It’s pure instinct — I don’t even think about the hours of struggle I’m rendering useless here; I only want to make things right.

  Voice mail.

  “Hi, Garrett,” I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “How are you doing? I just wanted to say I hope you’re OK, and call anytime.” I pause. “I, um, know I’ve been busy, and not returning some of your messages, but I’m here for you — I promise. Just call. Anytime!”

  I hang up, still feeling a lurch of guilt. It’s not Garrett’s fault I’ve been in love with him all this time, and it’s not his fault I’ve had to pull away for the sake of my mental health and general sanity. No, he’s the innocent party in all of this. And here I am, abandoning him as if our friendship doesn’t mean a thing. I think of the messages I didn’t return, the IMs I didn’t respond to, the e-mails languishing unread in my in-box. He must think I’m ditching him, that I couldn’t care less. I want to get over him to save our friendship, not destroy it!

  “Excuse me? Hello, can I get some service?”

  “Sure! Just a sec,” I call, quickly typing out a text in case he’s stuck in a lecture or class and can’t check his voice mail.

  “Like, now?”

  Some people have no patience. Call me! I finish, then tuck the phone under the counter and turn back to work. The itch is back to a full-on burn, but there’s nothing I can do but wait now.

  Wait, consumed by the panic that I’ve ruined everything.

  Half an hour later, it’s clear that my friendship with Garrett isn’t the only thing I’ve destroyed; my new skills as Super-Barista have fallen apart as well.

  “I ordered a latte, like, ten minutes ago!”

  “And I’m still waiting on the mocha whip.”

  “The tables are all dirty!”

  CRASH!

  A tray of dirty plates tumbles to the floor, but I ignore it, yanking down hard on the Beast. It splutters but doesn’t deliver me the caffeinated elixir I need. I try again. Nothing. It’s as if the universe can sense my Zen barista focus has been broken; the peaceful, placid café has degenerated into sheer chaos, dirty dishes are piled on the tables, the orders are stacked overdue, and I’m left to dash around, desperately trying to satisfy the ever-growing line.

  “Hello! We’re waiting here!”

  “Uh-huh!” I call, my voice tinged with panic now. “Be right with you!”

  Aren’t there laws against this — leaving a teenager in charge of, well, anything? I’m not even allowed to vote, yet suddenly I’m the sole being standing in the way of a full-on coffee riot!

  “Two cappuccinos!” I cry, trying to swirl the foam into our trademark heart. It comes out a confused blotch, deformed and broken — a metaphor for my current psyche, if ever there was one. Garrett still hasn’t replied to my messages, despite my checking every five minutes — make that every three.

  Josh peers out of the hatch at the mess. “Sadie?” he says, his voice edged with concern as he takes in the loud, angry, near-rioting scene. “Maybe we should close the kitchen to new orders, and I could come help you out.”

  “But it’s the lunch rush. They want lunch!” I tell him, wiping sweaty bangs from my forehead, and smearing hot chocolate mix across my face in the process. “You can’t leave the kitchen.”

  “OK, if you’re sure. . . .” He makes a reluctant face and then goes back to work.

  “I wanted low-fat milk.” A scowling blond woman thrusts her drink back at me. “And there’s cinnamon on top. I hate cinnamon.”

  “If you could just wait a moment . . .” I beseech her as I throw three pastries on a plate and push them toward the nearest person. Why must people be so picky? It’s a three-dollar coffee, not the center of their existence!

  “But I told you specifically when I ordered, no cinnamon.”

  With a sigh, I take back the drink, scoop off the offending foam, dump it all in a fresh cup, and hand it back. “Better?” I scowl.

  “Well!” She opens her mouth in shock. “I’ll be filling in a feedback form about this.”

  “You do that!” I call after her. “They’re right by the register!”

  I snap back into action. The Beast is shaking so hard that the row of coffee cups stacked on top of it begins to vibrate. I snatch the jug of frothed milk away from the steamer, spilling half of it over my arm.

  “Ow!” I reel back as the scalding hot liquid hits my skin.

  “Hey, Sadie?” Kayla appears by the counter exit, making me jump back in the other direction and drop the jug. “Do you have those workbooks?”

  I stare at her blankly.

  “I left you, like, three voice mails about it,” she tries again, looking completely exhausted. “You know, the dream ambition book things?” She’s got two camp kids by the hands. There are suspicious brown stains all over her Sunny Dayze Camp T-shirt, her hair is splattered with blue paint, and her trademark perky ponytail is hanging limp.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, still trying to stem the flow of coffee from the Beast. “I, um, didn’t get your messages.”

  Truth is, I’ve been skipping past anything that isn’t immediately Garrett related. I have my priorities, especially with the café in meltdown!

  “Oh.” Kayla deflates. “I have the whole Lion Cub group waiting for them. They riot after snack time. And you know how it is — there’s never enough tranquilizing cough syrup to go around.” She manages a grin.

  “I’m sorry!” I turn to quickly jam three new filters under the unceasing drip-drip-drip. “It’s crazy here.”

  “But Sadie —”

  “Hey, miss? I’m waiting here —”

  “Order up!”

  “So, like, I have an allergy to sugar, and —”

  The buzz of demands kicks up to a roar — moving beyond chaos to an utter disaster zone. Hurricane warning, Category 5. And then, through it all, I suddenly hear a faint but unmistakable sound.

  My cell phone is ringing.

  And it’s not just any ringtone. It’s Garrett’s, the familiar melody of Belle & Sebastian, aka his favorite band in the known universe.

  “Sadie? What’s going on?” LuAnn pushes through the crowd, out of breath. “I saw the crowd from down the street. Where’s Dominique?”

  But I barely hear her. I don’t hear any of them anymore. Everything fades away to that one sound, taunting me, begging me, commanding me to go answer my phone.

  He’s calling.
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  My heart leaps. Like a girl possessed, I abandon the espresso machine and leap for my purse. My cell phone tumbles out and skitters across the floor. I lunge after it on all fours behind the counter.

  “Hello?” I press my hand to my free ear to hear better. “Garrett?”

  “Hey, Sadie.” His voice is distant and blocked by static.

  “I can’t hear you. Are you there?” I duck lower to the ground to block them all out. On some level, I hear a clatter and a high-pitched yelp, but it doesn’t matter, not when Garrett actually picked up the phone and called me. He’s not mad! I haven’t ruined things! “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing much, I just figured I’d check in. Are you OK?” he asks. “Your voice mail sounded kind of weird.”

  “No, I’m fine. Good!” I yelp, still crouched behind the counter. “I just didn’t want you to worry. You know, that I haven’t been in touch.”

  Garrett laughs. “You know, I didn’t even notice. Things have been so busy here. . . . You didn’t . . . and with the . . . tomorrow.”

  “Garrett? You’re breaking up!” I hear static and bursts of noise.

  “Look, I’ve got to run. . . .”

  “Garrett?”

  But he’s already gone.

  I hang up.

  “Sadie?”

  I stay on the floor, clutching my phone. He didn’t notice? I’ve been killing myself for three days now, fighting my epic battle not to pick up the phone — aching with missing him — and he barely even noticed I wasn’t around?

  “Sadie!”

  Nothing’s changed, I realize, feeling completely lost. Sure, I made my big detox plan and thought it would make a difference, but here I am, still orbiting around him as if he’s my gravity, still filled with thoughts of him — even if they’re thoughts about how not to think of him.

  “Sadie!”

  I finally look up. LuAnn is standing two feet away from me. “You’re here,” I say, flooded with relief. “Great.”

  “Great?” she splutters, and only now do I realize she’s turned a strange shade of pink. No, make that raspberry — clashing with her crazy punk red hair and the fluorescent pink of her retro blouse. “Does this really look great to you?!”