by Dalya Moon
I did not let my gaze pass anywhere near Marc, much less make eye contact with him.
My solution to unwanted feelings for Marc was this: I wouldn't go to the art show that night, and he'd find a new Monday breakfast place, and that would be it for our torrid twenty-four-hour imagined affair.
As for my pent-up feelings, one of the painter boys left me his business card with his cell phone number written on the back. I did have other options.
Chapter 5
After our shift, Courtney and I sat at the back, counting our tips, and discussing what may have happened. She wasn't as sure about the identity mix-up as I was.
She handed me a bag of red cinnamon hearts, which had been a Valentine's day gift from Britain, and told me to help myself as a favor to her, so she wouldn't eat them all.
With the candies in my mouth, my appetite—for food, not boys—flared up with a vengeance. When you work in a restaurant, constantly smelling food, it messes with your head. You get so used to telling your hunger to shush now, because the fresh-strawberry-laden fruit salad is for a customer, and the bacon-flecked hash browns are not for you, that your hunger eventually gives up.
When you sit down for a meal, you have to choo-choo that first spoon or forkful of food into your mouth as if you're a little baby, until your tongue can learn that's good, sending the signal to your brain to turn on the hungry feeling for real.
I poured a big handful of cinnamon hearts into my palm and gobbled them before they stuck to my sweaty hand.
“You can make a whole new first impression on him tonight,” Courtney said cheerfully.
“I'll still be me,” I said, pouting. “Unless I can borrow something of yours to wear?”
“Something he's never seen you in, sure.”
“Wait, no,” I said. “All your dresses would be mega short on me.”
“Exactly.” She grinned and nodded.
“Marc hates me, though. I'm not one of those idiot girls who likes a guy who hates her. I have good self esteem! My mother and father raised me to make healthy decisions. Or so they say.”
“Tonight's not even a date,” she said. “It's just a thing. Honestly, he's cute, but you can get anyone you want. You have to go tonight because you're the one who got invited and I really want to go.”
I finally clued in to why she was so excited. “Right, because it's art people. And you can talk to them about your monsters.”
“My sculptures. They're not all monsters.”
“I like how they have big bodies, but tiny hands. They seem really angry about the hands.” I counted through my stack of tips again, just to be sure. Surprisingly, I'd made more money than I'd ever gotten on a Tuesday. “Fine, I'll go tonight, but I'm going to lurk in the corner like a weirdo, and if anyone talks to me, I'll say I don't speak English. And I'll say it perfectly, with no accent, like this: I'm sorry, I do not speak English.”
Courtney batted her false eyelashes. “Do you still want to come to my house for makeover madness?”
“Are you kidding? Did I just grow a dick?” I patted my crotch. “Nope, I'm a girl. Of course I'll come over for a makeover.”
When I got to Courtney's family's house that night, I was surprised when a girl who was not Asian opened the heavy wooden front door.
I turned to make sure I was at the right place. I'd just passed through a pair of lion statues on brick columns, set within a fence of cinder blocks. The house, with no front-yard landscaping except a patch of grass, was a boxy 1970s Vancouver Special, with a low-pitched roof and a narrow balcony above the front door. In other words, it looked exactly like every other house in that particular neighborhood.
“I'm Britain,” she chirped.
I reached my hand out and introduced myself.
Britain had apple cheeks—round and red—and short brown hair, more pixie than butch. In my head, I'd imagined her as a female Austin Powers, but she was actually pretty, and tall. And model-thin.
Her gaze traveled slowly down, down my body, up again, then down once more, her expression becoming increasingly more sneering. Maybe that was how her face always looked, but she was giving me serious attitude, and I hadn't even given her a dose of my personality.
“You're not how I imagined,” she said.
“Same.”
“Come on in,” she said, waving me in like she owned the place, which only made me despise her more. I'd been best friends with Courtney for years. If anyone should have been granting people entry, it should have been me.
“I have my own key,” I said.
She looked at me the way one would look at a small child with a snot trail connecting nostril and mouth. “A key for what?” she asked chirpily.
“Never mind.” I pushed past her and ran up the steps yelling, “Ha-ro! Court! I'm here.”
I found Courtney in her walk-in closet, swallowed up in her massive clothing collection. The thing about Courtney's wardrobe is it spans nearly a decade and includes things like the chunky-knit sweater Courtney wore for school photo day when she was twelve. The sweater still fits. She also has everything cute I've ever owned but grown out of. The wardrobe-sharing is not very reciprocal, because I can never wear her button-down blouses or jeans, but sometimes, if she has loose-fitting jackets or anything stretchy, I'm in luck.
She held up something pink and fluffy. “Crumpled ballerina?”
“Too sweet.”
Next was a black dress with a high neckline and long sleeves. “Elegant,” she said, offering it to me.
“I'm not breaking into a bank vault.”
She shook her head and pulled out a green dress—a peridot-green dress. “I don't know if you could pull this off with your skin tone,” she said, smirking. That little stinker! The first two dresses had been decoys to soften me up, and the green dress was, of course, the real one she wanted me to wear.
I snatched it from her hands. “You've been holding out on me. How long have you had this?”
“Since the Aritzia warehouse sale in September. I had to get undressed in a group changing room to get this dress. You'd better appreciate it.”
Britain pushed past me into the closet to loom over Courtney, draping one possessive arm over my friend. “That's not all you picked up at the warehouse sale.”
“I gave this one my phone number,” Courtney said, pointing to Britain's big, white teeth.
I clutched the green dress to my chest, saying, “That was your meet-cute? But that was months ago. I thought you just started dating a few weeks ago.”
Britain rested her pointy chin on top of Courtney's head. “We were just hanging out as friends for a bit.”
“She's not out to her family,” Courtney said.
“Secrets and lies and porkie pies,” I said.
Britain narrowed her eyes, her nose flaring with fireballs being shot in my direction.
I left the two of them in the closet and got changed at the foot of Courtney's bed. The dress was really tight going on across my shoulders, so I went slow to avoid pulling the seam. Getting it off again would be a chore for later, but as I smoothed down the bodice, I was pleased to see it fit well enough, although the waistline was about an inch high for my liking.
“Why didn't you use the zipper?” Britain asked.
I whirled around. Had she been watching me the whole time? “I like a challenge.”
“You looked ridiculous.”
“Where's Courtney?”
Britain perched her spider-like body on the edge of the bed and grinned like she'd just devoured Courtney whole. “She's getting us some pre-party snacks.”
I tugged at the tight waistline of the dress. “No snacks for me or I'll burst.”
“You're not exactly petite. Maybe you shouldn't wreck Courtney's clothes by wearing them.”
“Yeah? You're not petite either,” I said, knowing full-well that despite her height, she probably was just as narrow as tiny Courtney.
Her eyes got small and mean. “You don't know me.”
> “I guess I don't.” I pulled open the drawers where Courtney kept her costume jewelry and started digging through, playing up the digging aspect to assert my presence in Courtney's room and life.
“Courtney's not your little sidekick,” she said. “Don't draw her in to your freak show drama.”
“Beg pardon?”
That's what I say when I'm too surprised for a snappy comeback. I'd never had a girl speak to me in that tone before. My first thought was it had to be a prank Courtney was playing. She'd leave the room and then her new girlfriend would be a jerk to me, and wouldn't that be funny? But there was no humor in Britain's cold, blue eyes. The front of my throat felt painfully hot, and I'd gone from slightly uncomfortable to fight-or-flight mode in two seconds.
Slowly, I said, “I'm not sure if my ears are working, could you repeat what you said?”
“I'm just saying maybe it is time for you to get a boyfriend. You'll have a lot more free time on your hands now that me and Court are together.”
“Is that so?”
Just then, Courtney came back into the room with spoons and three containers of Sunrise Peach Mango Dessert, a soy-based product that tastes like custard. “That dress looks sick on you,” Courtney said. “Your guy, Marc, he'll be all over you.”
“With any luck,” I said with a smile, accepting the food. Despite what I'd said about not eating, I needed the sugar to balance out the shakes I was starting to get from my minute alone with evil Britain.
I don't like confrontation. Yes, I say smart-ass things and little quips, but they rarely lead to actual fights with people. Most girls laugh or look confused at the things that come out of my mouth.
I miss my dreadlocks, I thought, which was an odd thing to think about.
Or perhaps not.
Maybe the dreads had held some power, and people had been afraid to mess with me when I had them. If I'd had them, I could have whipped my head around, smacking Britain in her evil face with the twisty ends.
Instead, I meekly sat with my plastic box of dessert and agreed to whatever hair and makeup Courtney suggested. She parted my hair down the middle and tied it up in two high pigtails, then twisted them around to make two buns.
Britain said I looked like an anime character, and she asked if she could do my makeup. There was no way I was letting that girl poke pointy things near my eyes, so I asked if Courtney would give me her exact look, with the false eyelashes and the rosebud mouth. The two of them exchanged a meaningful look, but didn't say anything.
Courtney brought out her makeup kit and got started. When I had my eyes closed for the eyelash application, I thought I could hear whispering, and I got the awful feeling they were making fun of me.
After the eyes, when Courtney moved on to my lips, Britain stood by with her arms crossed. “They're a little crooked, but you can even them out,” Britain said. “Try to camouflage some of the mass on the bottom with cover-up.”
“Mass?” I repeated.
Courtney gave me a stern look. “Don't talk. You'll ruin this mouth with your talking.”
“I ruin everything with my talking,” I said.
Instead of disagreeing with me or reassuring me, she said, “That's your choice.”
I stopped talking and tried to relax, though being in the same room as Britain made everything clench up.
When Adele's Someone Like You came on the stereo, that flutter came up my chest and I nearly lost it.
My heart was empty.
I missed my mother. And even with her standing right in front of me, I missed my best friend.
The art opening for Marc's artist friend wasn't at one of the fancy galleries downtown or on Granville Street, but in the back of a restaurant on Commercial Drive. The three of us drove over in Britain's car, an expensive-looking SAAB, with me folded up in the back. I wondered if Britain's family was loaded, or if they lived high on the lease, as my father would say.
My father drives a Ford Taurus, but my mother has a Land Rover, which is definitely on the high end for our East Van neighborhood, but they had it from before, when we lived on the west side. Dad had been trying for years to get my mother to trade the big SUV in for something more economical, but the truck was, as she said, her “last luxury item.” She also claimed that without the rear view video display—a camera on the back bumper displays an image on a screen for the driver—she'd back into vehicles and posts in parkades, negating any fuel savings.
Dad tried to get her to test drive one of those little Smart cars and she just laughed and laughed.
My father is all about economic responsibility. At his office, all they talk about on their lunch breaks are investments, the price of real estate, and what age they're going to retire.
I've always been responsible with my money, putting a portion away to savings, starting with every allowance, and now with every paycheck. At times I wonder if that was the best strategy, because Courtney spends every dollar she gets and then begs her parents for more, and they always give it to her.
I wondered if Britain was a saver or a spend-now-whine-for-more-later type.
When we got to Commercial Drive, which is just a ten-minute drive from where Courtney lives, Britain proved to be not great at parallel parking. Her ineptitude gave me joy, because I rock at parking. I opened the back door on the passenger side and said to Courtney, “Hey can you google map me to the sidewalk from here? I'm a little lost.”
“Everyone's a critic,” Britain said, slamming her door.
“It was a joke,” I said.
“No, it wasn't. Jokes are funny. You're just acting like Whitney Cummings.”
“Thank you!”
“That wasn't a compliment,” Britain said, angrily shoving toonies—two dollar coins—into the parking meter.
I was perplexed by Britain. She was tall, thin, pretty, and drove a SAAB. What made her such a hater? Why do people who already have so much get bitter about those who have a little more?
Honestly, you don't have to think Whitney Cummings is the greatest comedian in the world, but you have to respect her for trying, and she did create one of the most wonderfully brilliant-slash-awful shows in TV history with her 2 Broke Girls. The show is about two sassy waitresses, so you can guess who's a huge fan and watches every episode twice.
Actually, don't even get me started about that show, or I'll never get to the next part of what happened that Tuesday night, once we got inside the art show.
First of all, the art was nothing to talk about. The paintings were all inoffensive swooshes of color on mostly-neutral backgrounds—the kind of art that looks fabulous in a photograph of a room, or in a condo sales center. I found one swirly mess that seemed to suggest a pair of big breasts and stationed myself in front of it, looking around casually for Marc.
Marc had invaded my thoughts and taken up residence on the boundary line between good and bad. Actually, he was on the good side and over on the bad was his identical twin, Crossword Guy, who didn't smile.
When I finally spotted Marc, standing with a group of silver-haired people, all holding wine and nodding in front of a five-foot-wide canvas with three stripes, my heart got a swelling feeling. And by my heart, I don't mean my heart at all. I got that same feeling I get watching Dirty Dancing, and sometimes A Walk to Remember.
Marc's gaze swept across me casually, and I felt it like a touch. For a moment, I was back in junior high, being looked at by Scott Weaver, before the Ne-ne Ne-ne Incident.
Courtney and Britain were together at the bar, getting those square-looking plastic glasses of wine while talking to some older professor-looking guys.
As people glanced over at me, I tried to look like I belonged to someone.
Chapter 6
The gallery was pretty big for being at the back of a restaurant—over a thousand square feet—and quickly filling up with people and their various perfumes as well as body heat.
“How do you like the painting?” a male voice asked.
In a rare moment
of self-restraint, I did not make a comment about the thousand-dollar price tag, nor the fact I could smear paint on a canvas just as nicely using only my feet. The presence of Marc had made me cautious, and my speech bubbles were routing through my brain for a change.
“Love it. I'm going to buy this one,” I said.
The fair-haired, athletic-looking guy pointed to the red dot sticker on the card next to the painting. “You can't, it's already been sold. That's what the red dots mean.”
“Oh, I thought that meant the painting was Hindu.”
Surprise and amusement crossed his blue eyes. “Actually, bindis are worn by women in other cultures as well. Muslim women in Bangladesh also wear the red dot.”
As he talked, I admired the young man's stubbly jawline, light hair, and overall wholesomeness. He could sell cereal. He could sell diet cereal.
He seemed to be waiting for a response from me, so I said, “What's the connection between bindis and red dots on sold paintings?”
“There is no connection. One of life's great mysteries. I'm Cooper.”
He shook my little hand in his big, warm hand.
“Cooper. You're one of those last-name guys.”
His eyebrows went up. “Yes, I am. My first name is Chris, but every classroom was fifty-percent Chris, boys and girls, so Cooper stuck. And you're Peridot. Am I saying it right?”
“You can call me Per or Perry.” Someone took a flash photo, blinding me, and simultaneously, I realized Cooper was Christopher W. Cooper, the artist, and Marc's friend. “I'm a friend of Marc's,” I said, embarrassed to be telling him what he already knew.
He tipped back his tiny plastic cup of white wine, drinking half, then said, “Oh, I heard all about you. You're the smart mouth waitress.”
“I'm not just a waitress. I do other things. I can sorta juggle, but only with three things, and they have to be soft.” I leaned to the side to look around the wall of Cooper, to see Marc talking to an attractive girl with blue hair and multiple butterfly tattoos across her exposed back. She kept touching his arm and laughing.
