“No,” I say coldly. “I’m just looking for my friend.”
The hostess smirks, cracking the heavy layer of foundation on her cheeks. “This friend, is he a boy?” she asks.
“Yes,” I admit.
“A boyfriend?”
“He is a boy who happens to be my friend,” I say, and then I sit on the red plastic couch, next to a couple who are also waiting. I pretend to be interested in the paper someone left behind. The hostess laughs and disappears into the kitchen, probably to reapply the lip gloss that’s all over her teeth.
I try not to look at the big clock above the hostess station. Six-fifty-eight. Seven o’clock. Seven-oh-five. How much time has to go by before someone is officially late?
The awful hostess comes back with even shinier and pinker lips. She shows the couple sitting next to me to their table. When she returns, she leans across the counter and smirks at me again. “Maybe you’ve been stood up.” I ignore her. She speaks up again, this time a little louder. “That’s pretty grim, to be stood up at a Pizza Hut.”
“It can’t be worse than working at a Pizza Hut,” I shoot back.
The hostess narrows her eyes until there are only thick black smudges of eyeliner where her eyes should be. Honestly, it looks like she applied it with a crayon. She looks like she’s getting ready to say something when the door opens. We both look over. Michael rushes in, looking sheepish. He’s wearing real pants (no jeans! no sweatpants!) and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt that is coming untucked on one side. He smiles at me and smoothes his hair, which has been parted on the side and swept forward, like he’s on the cover of Teen People. His hair isn’t quite long enough to pull it off; thick cowlicks keep curling back on themselves. That’s when I know for sure: this is a date.
The hostess looks from Michael to me. “Is this him?” she says.
I stand a little taller. “Yes, this is my friend,” I confirm.
“Hi, Clarissa! Have you been waiting long?”
“Not really,” I lie.
The hostess snorts. “This way,” she says curtly.
Why do dates have to be held in public places? I feel like everyone is watching us make our way to the table. A woman I don’t even know looks up from wiping the pizza sauce off her kid’s face and smiles at me. Can she tell we’re on a date just by looking at us? She doesn’t know that I generally avoid skirts and that Michael’s hair generally falls in neat waves on either side of a middle part. I fiddle with the edge of my Hufflepuff shirt, the one familiar thing in this whole bizarre situation.
“Here you are, kids,” the hostess says, taking extra pleasure in calling us kids.
I glare at her but Michael doesn’t seem to notice. “Thanks,” he says, taking a menu. “Oh, hey, look — they have double-stuffed crust upside-down pizza!”
The hostess wiggles her overplucked eyebrows at me. “Have fun,” she says, sauntering back to the hostess station.
Even though I’m glad that she’s gone, now I am alone with Michael. Usually there is someone else around, someone chatty, like Mattie. Now I’m going to have to do all the talking myself. Luckily Michael is busy studying the menu. I do the same.
“Everything looks good,” Michael says. “What are you going to get?”
“Probably just pizza,” I admit. “I don’t need anything too fancy.”
“The pasta is really good here,” Michael says. “Maybe we could get one of the combos and split it.” I never considered ordering pasta at Pizza Hut. It’s not called pasta hut, after all. But tonight is all about trying new things.
“It also comes with a salad and a pitcher of pop,” Michael reads. “What kind of pop do you like?”
“Orange,” I reply.
Michael smiles. “Me, too. Salad?”
“Caesar.”
“Me, too.”
Now I’m smiling.
The waitress is probably about the same age as the hostess but she is much nicer. “How are you guys doing tonight?” she asks. “What brings you to the Hut?”
“Actually, we won a badminton tournament,” Michael says, beaming at me.
My cheeks are beginning to hurt from all the smiling, but I can’t seem to stop.
“No way!” says the waitress. “Well, good for you. I’m terrible at badminton.” It is easy to see how she’s moved up in the ranks and the surly hostess has not. “Have you had a chance to look at the menus?”
“I think we’ve decided,” I say, and Michael nods.
The waitress retrieves a pencil from behind her ear and flips to a fresh page on her waitress pad. “Well, what do champions like to eat?”
“We’ll have the pasta and pizza combo,” I say.
“You know you get salad and a pitcher of pop with that, right?” the waitress asks.
“We’ll have the Caesar salad —” I begin.
“— and orange pop,” Michael finishes.
“Good stuff,” says the waitress. “And since you’re big-time badminton champs and all, how about I throw in some cheesy garlic bread, on the house?”
“Thanks!” says Michael.
“Any time. My name is Melanie if you guys need anything.”
Melanie leaves and Michael and I grin at each other for a while. I can’t think of anything to say, my mind is completely blank. All I can think about is how at first I didn’t really like his new hair but now it’s growing on me. It makes him look older. This is not the sort of thing you say to a boy.
The silence is starting to feel awkward. Finally Michael says, “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “So do you. I like your hair.”
I can’t believe I said that. Apparently, neither can Michael. He blushes and immediately smoothes it to one side. “You noticed?”
“Of course I noticed. I live with a hair stylist.”
“Oh, right. How is your mom?” Michael asks.
“Good, I mean, she’s doing better. She’s done chemo and everything. For the moment, anyway.”
Michael nods but doesn’t say anything more. I’m relieved. Cancer is not date-appropriate conversation. Melanie brings us the cheesy garlic bread. I’m not sure, but it looks like she got them to put extra cheese on it. You can barely see the bread underneath all that bubbly goodness. Michael and I tuck in and I’m excused from making conversation yet again. This must be why people go to restaurants for dates; you spend half the time eating instead of talking.
“Once my little brother ate an entire basket of cheesy garlic bread by himself,” Michael says.
“How old was he?” I ask.
“Five. He puked it all up like an hour later.”
“Gross,” I say, trying not to picture it. “Do you just have the one brother?” I ask.
Michael shakes his head. “Nope, I have three: Theo, David, and Solly.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of boys,” I say aloud. To myself I think, poor Mrs. Greenblat.
“It can get pretty crazy at our house sometimes,” Michael admits. “Especially with the dog, Rambo.”
“Is he as crazy as he sounds?” I ask.
Michael grins. “Worse.”
I’m thinking that Michael’s living situation sounds like my worst nightmare when Melanie arrives with the biggest bowl of Caesar salad I’ve ever seen.
“Parmesan cheese?” she asks.
Michael and I answer at once. “Yes, please.”
Melanie whistles. “I can see why you two made such a good team. I wouldn’t want to meet you guys on the badminton court.”
“It was all Clarissa, really,” Michael says graciously. “She’s the one with the plan.”
Melanie smiles at me and gives me a little wink. Thankfully Michael doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy shovelling forkfuls of lettuce dripping in Caesar salad dressing into his mouth.
Now, I’m not Mattie and I think it’s silly to eat teeny tiny amounts of food in front of boys, but all that cheesy garlic bread and salad is starting to fill me up. We haven’t even reached the main course yet. I put
my utensils down and inch my chair away from the table.
“This is pretty great,” I say. “It’s like a free four-course meal.”
“Don’t forget dessert,” Michael adds.
“I completely forgot about dessert!” I say. “I’m never going to have enough room.”
“I bet I can guess what you put on your sundae,” Michael boasts.
“Oh, really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, guess.”
“Well, I know you really like chocolate, so chocolate sauce, chocolate chips, and Smarties for sure. Right?”
“Yes,” I admit reluctantly. “But everyone likes chocolate. What else?”
“Well, even though I think it’s totally gross to mix them with chocolate sauce, Nerds.”
I have to keep my jaw from dropping open.
“Well? Am I right?” Michael asks.
“How did you know that?” I ask.
Michael shrugs. “Easy, you always get Nerds every time you go to the 7-Eleven. They’re your favourite candy.”
“But how do you know that?” I press.
Michael looks right at me. “Because I like you.”
At first I’m not sure if I’ve heard him correctly, but he looks down at his food and keeps pushing a crouton around on his plate like it’s a matter of life or death. I open my mouth to speak a few times, but what comes out is all garbled and sounds something like this: “Because you — Oh, okay. Good.”
Michael looks up hopefully. “Good?” he repeats.
I feel like I’ve been backed into a corner. It is good, right? I like that Michael likes me, and even though I’d never admit it, I kind of sort of like him, too. But now that it’s out there, what happens next? Do we start hanging out together, just the two of us? Do I have to start calling him my boyfriend? I don’t think I could do that. It’s probably best to be as vague as possible.
“Yeah, good,” I confirm.
Michael looks confused, and then relieved, and then Melanie arrives with the pizza. Thank goodness.
“Here you are, guys,” she says. “I’ll be right back with your pasta. You saved room, right?”
“Barely,” I say weakly, still stunned from Michael’s confession. I grab a slice and busy myself with eating once again.
“You’re lucky you got a table when you did,” Melanie says. “It’s hopping in here tonight. Just look at that line.”
Michael and I look over at the group of people waiting around on the plastic couches near the door — an elderly couple; a family with a bunch of kids; and right in front, waiting to be seated, is my mother and Doug.
“Hey, isn’t that —”
“Yes, yes it is.” I put my half-eaten slice of pizza on my plate and slink down in my chair. My face is hot and I feel physically sick.
“Who is she with?” Michael asks.
“Doug,” I say, without offering any other explanation.
“Is that her boyfriend or something?”
I put my head into my hands and moan.
Michael looks at me and frowns. “You don’t look so good,” he says.
“I think I ate too much,” I lie, or maybe it’s the truth. My stomach is definitely upset.
“Are you going to puke?” Michael asks, looking a little concerned but mostly grossed out. “Maybe you should go to the bathroom.”
Sneaking away to the bathroom is exactly what I want to do. Unfortunately I’d have to walk right by the lineup to get there. No thanks. Instead, I slink down a little lower in my seat and hope that they don’t see me. Maybe they’ll be too lovey-dovey to notice anyone else. Then the couple next to us waves down Melanie and asks for the cheque.
“Sure thing,” she says, clearing their dishes. “Hey, Krista,” she calls over her shoulder. The surly hostess looks over at her. “Table for two, coming right up.”
And that’s how I end up on a double date with my mother.
Four
The tables at Pizza Hut are crammed in to accommodate as many customers as possible, so even though Mom and Doug are technically at a separate table, we might as well be sitting together. The ten seconds it takes for Melanie to lead my mom and Doug to the table beside us feels like the longest ten seconds in my life. Doug does the world’s biggest double take before raising his big paw of a hand to wave while my mother just smiles.
“Well, look who we’ve got here,” Doug says.
“Mattie, how you’ve changed,” Mom says coolly, looking from Michael to me.
Michael laughs nervously. “Hi, Miss Delaney, do you remember me? I’m —”
“Michael Greenblat, yes I remember. We met at my surprise welcome home party. It’s very good to see you again.”
Doug offers Michael a meaty hand. “Doug Armstrong, nice to meet you, son.”
Michael shakes Doug’s hand. “Michael Greenblat, um, sir.”
Doug slaps him on the shoulder and practically howls with laughter. People crane their necks to see what all the fuss is about. I don’t know what it is about my mother and loud people. Between Doug and Denise, there can’t be a louder person in the whole town.
“You don’t mind if we take this table, do you Clarissa?” Mom asks me pointedly.
“No,” I manage to say. “Of course not.”
Melanie has been watching the whole disaster with a curious smile on her face. “Wait,” she says, “how do you all know each other?”
Mom drapes an arm around my shoulders. The squeeze she gives them feels a little tighter than usual. “Clarissa here is my daughter,” she explains.
“Ohh …” Melanie looks both relieved and a little guilty. As my mom turns to take her seat, Melanie steals a glance at me and mouths “sorry.” Yeah, you and me both, Melanie.
“What brings you kids to the Hut?” Doug asks, reaching around Michael and helping himself to a slice of our pizza. Somehow he manages to eat the whole thing in less than three bites.
Michael looks at me funny. “Didn’t Clarissa tell you?” he says, looking from me to my mom to Doug and back at me again. I ignore the pain in my stomach and the burning in my cheeks by busying myself with a generous helping of pasta.
“Tell us what?” Doug asks, eyeing the pizza but managing to restrain himself from grabbing another slice.
“We won gift certificates in a badminton tournament,” Michael says.
“Oh, yes, I remember now,” Mom says. Under the table, her foot presses lightly into the back of my leg. I flash her a grateful smile, but she pretends not to notice.
“No kidding?” Doug is truly impressed. “I had no idea you were such an athlete, Clarissa.”
“It’s just badminton,” I mumble through a mouthful of spaghetti. “Besides, Michael got all the hard shots.”
“You had all those sneak attacks,” Michael protests. “And you were the one with the strategies.”
“This calls for a toast,” says Doug. He reaches for his water glass and holds it in the air. Mom and Michael follow suit. Reluctantly, I hold up my own glass of pop. “To Michael and Clarissa, badminton champs.”
We clink our plastic glasses and all take a sip of our respective beverages. Everyone at the table behind us has turned around to watch. Doug nudges the mom with a toddler in her lap. The kid’s face is smeared with tomato sauce. “Did you know you’re sitting near two badminton champs?”
She smiles, charmed, and shakes her head. “No, I did not. Congratulations,” she says. The baby thrusts his fist at Doug, who makes a shocked face and then pretends to eat the baby’s fingers. Everyone laughs, but no one is more delighted than the baby. Except for my own mother, who is openly staring at Doug with a goofy look on her face. Barf.
“So is this badminton talent hereditary?” Doug asks me, looking at my mother. “Just one more thing that Annie Delaney is good at?”
“Oh, cut it out,” Mom says, but she smiles like she doesn’t mean it.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I’ve never seen her play.”
Doug
leans forward, both elbows on the table, and looks my mom straight in the eye. “Well then I, Douglas Armstrong, challenge you, Annette Delaney, to a badminton match. My gym, you name the date. Loser has to make the winner a candlelight dinner.”
Mom laughs, offers her hand, and the two of them shake. “Deal,” she says.
And so for the rest of the evening, Michael and I have dinner with Mom and Doug. I guess it’s not all bad. The one thing that’s nice about sharing a table is that now there are more people to talk with; it’s not just me and Michael struggling to carry on a conversation. Michael seems to really like Doug. They talk about basketball and Doug’s gym and some video game I’ve never heard of.
Somehow we make it through the pizza and the dessert course and it’s finally time to leave.
“Are you walking home?” Mom asks, glancing out the window at the dusk that has fallen while we ate.
“Yes,” I say, thinking that no, I was actually walking to Mattie’s house. But I can’t admit that without letting Michael know and reminding my mother that I was supposed to be at Mattie’s all along.
“I’ll walk her home, Miss Delaney,” Michael pipes up.
“Good man,” says Doug.
“Have a good night you two,” Mom says, her eyes twinkling.
“Thanks, Miss Delaney.”
Mom reaches out and squeezes Michael’s hand. “Call me Annie, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Annie. It was nice to see you again.”
“You, too. And, Michael, you stop by after school sometime and I’ll give you a trim. I like what you’ve got going on there,” she says, pointing at the shock of hair that keeps falling over one eye. “Very hip, very now.”
“Okay, cool,” says Michael.
Doug raises his fist and bumps knuckles with Michael. “See you around.”
Michael hands over the gift certificates and we are out of there.
Kiss
“Doug seems nice,” Michael says.
We’re walking back to my place. I’m careful to keep my hands in my pockets, just in case Michael gets any crazy ideas about holding hands. I will myself not to shiver; it’s much colder out now than when I left and I forgot my jacket at home. I’m worried that if I look too cold Michael will offer me his, or worse, try to put his arm around my shoulders.
Love is a Four-Letter Word Page 9
