by Dalya Moon
Marc had given me his heart.
Well, a heart-shaped stone.
That had to mean something.
In bed that night, my mind wandered to some more-than-friends places with Marc. I'd start by pulling off his glasses so they wouldn't get in the way. I'd kiss him like he'd never been kissed before, and he'd slide his hands up under my plain gray shirt.
He'd say sexy things in my ear and then—hey, who's that?
Cooper appeared in my fantasy, with his spiky hair and his confident swagger. He'd take me by the hand and pull me away from Marc, whirling me out onto a crowded dance floor filled with people in fancy clothes. My dress was gorgeous, like that of a fairy princess, with armloads of tulle and lace. People held fancy masks up in front of their eyes, like a scene in a movie.
After twirling me around the dance floor—in this fantasy, we were both expert ballroom dancers—Cooper pulled me off to the side and kissed me. I would melt in his strong arms.
And then, when I was about to die of happiness, I'd think of Marc again, and his soft brown eyes closing as he reached for me.
The two guys blurred together, because it was my fantasy, where I made the rules, and physics and reality did not apply.
I had feelings for both of them, but not the same feelings.
Even in my fantasy, the imaginary version of Cooper was so easy to be with. When I talked, I wasn't cutting off his thoughts, but complementing them. He was fun, outrageous, and hot.
Marc was withdrawn and quiet, but deeply passionate once you got through to him. I should say: my fantasy version of Marc was passionate. In real life, I'd not so much as held his hand, so for all I knew, he kissed like a sea bass.
“Oh, Marc,” I sighed into my pillow that night. And then—I'm not ashamed to admit it—a few seconds later, I buried my face in my pillow and moaned, just to see what it sounded like, “Oh, Cooper.”
Sunday morning at work, my newly-darkened hair and eyebrow piercing got good reviews from my co-workers.
“Do I look like Megan Fox?” I asked Toph as he chopped onions.
“Close enough,” he said. “I'd do you.”
“Not likely,” I said. “I wouldn't screw you with a borrowed vagina.”
Toph laughed, assuming I was joking.
Donny stroked his pointy sideburns. “Looks like I have some competition in the good looking department.”
“I'm gonna steal your wife and make her mine,” I said.
Donny flipped a row of sizzling, orange-yolked eggs. “Don't forget to take the kids.”
Courtney popped up on the dining area side of the pass-through, saying, “I didn't know you were recruiting for us.”
“It's about what's best for Donny's wife,” I said, pointing to his back, where his tattoo was visible through his thin shirt. “He's got that big assassin tattoo on his back. That thing must scare the crap out of her when she wakes up in the morning with a robot's gun in her face.”
Courtney wrinkled her little nose. “So phallic.”
“Speaking of dicks and hairy balls, how's Britain?” I asked.
“Since you ditched us at the theater, she's not your biggest fan.”
“I'm glad our mutual dislike is out in the open,” I said. “I don't have to pretend to be nice to her anymore.”
“So, before, that was you being nice? You're bananas.” Courtney grabbed the platters of food Donny set on the pass-through and walked away. The order was for my table, but I was still standing on the kitchen side, munching a day-old brioche as my breakfast.
“Bananas,” Donny said, then he began to sing a song about bananas and tallying them.
We had some bananas ripening on the counter, and they were the perfect shade, so I grabbed one and peeled it. With a mouth full of fruit, I sang along with Donny, though it sounded like, “Bavavaz.”
“I used to be afraid of girls my age,” Toph said to me. “Now that I've worked with you and Courtney, it's really taken away all the mystery.”
“You're welcome,” I said, and then, to Toph's amusement, I made dirty porno noises and shoved the rest of the banana in my mouth.
“I think I'll stick with my wife,” Donny said.
“Your loss,” I said.
Toph's eyes were watering.
I said, “Oh, sweetie, did I make you cry? My singing's not that bad.”
“Onions,” he said, still chopping away.
Seeing him with red eyes and tears pooling up gave me a new feeling for Toph. Even though it was simply a reaction to the chemicals released from the onions, I kinda wanted to hold his head to my bosom and tell him everything was going to be okay.
Soon the restaurant was packed with the Sunday brunch crowd. Unlike the Saturday crowd, who all have things they want to get done over the weekend, and don't linger long over refills, Sunday people are in no hurry. If anything, they're reluctant to leave, because it means admitting the weekend's as good as over.
I don't even work a Monday to Friday shift, and I still get bummed out on Sunday evenings, feeling the weight of non-existent homework. My father typically gets a headache Sunday afternoon, and he calls it his Sunday headache, which I realize is not terribly creative, but that's my dad for you. He's an engineer, not a songwriter.
That Sunday at The Whistle was typical, with couples writing out grocery lists on the backs of receipts and discussing who would drop off whom for work Monday morning.
However, despite that normalcy, something strange was happening at the bar counter. That's where we always seat the single guys, so they can watch cartoons on the flatscreen while shoveling down their giant breakfasts. It took nearly my entire shift to clue in to what was different: the guys were totally flirting with me.
Normally, guys will sass back or give my jokes a courtesy chuckle, but they don't make a lot of eye contact, and they don't linger. Until recently, I'd had a lot of wild dreadlocked hair to study, rather than my actual face. It was like our regulars were all seeing me for the first time. They were looking at my chest, too, I guess because I'd stopped wearing the frumpy sweater.
I walked back and forth behind the bar counter on made-up errands, testing my theory. Instead of keeping their attention on the TV, the guys at the counter—all ages, from eighteen to sixty—would follow me with their eyes. They kept watching as I bustled around behind the bar, slicing lemon wedges and scooping ice for water. When I looked up and caught them, they'd smile back at me.
I wore one of my typical waitress outfits: a white blouse and a plaid skirt, with knee socks and lace-up boots. That day, however, I'd gotten a coffee stain on the hem of the shirt, so I had tied the bottom of the blouse around my waist, like Megan Fox would have done. Checking my reflection in the bar glass, behind the rows of bottles, I noted the tying of the shirt did nip in my waist, showing off the curve from my waist to my hips. What had Cooper said about ladies' waists? That guys liked to get a visual of them so they could tell the girl wasn't pregnant.
I snorted at the idea, which seemed so caveman-like. All people like that curvy shape, similar to the iconic glass Coke bottles. It's just a pretty shape. Had I really gotten so desperate for a boyfriend that I was catering to caveman lust?
I flicked my newly-darkened hair back and admired my Megan-Fox-like makeup. Yes, I was that desperate.
The rest of my shift went by pleasantly enough.
When Courtney and I sat in the back of the kitchen by the window facing the alley, cashing out, I got another nice surprise. For the first time ever, I'd made more tips than Courtney. She seemed to grow even more sour each time I mentioned it.
Fanning my cash out, I said, “Whatever shall we do today before the stores all close?”
She twirled some black strands of her hair along with her feather extensions, and then she fed me a total lie about having to run some tedious errands.
“Don't lie to me,” I said.
“Why don't you count your money again.”
“Fine, I will.”
I knew
she was going to hang out with Britain, and her lying to me was infuriating.
I'd driven my mom's Land Rover in that morning, because I'd been running too late to walk and figured it was worth the gas, though I probably don't have to tell you it's not cheap to fill the beast with fuel.
“I have the truck, so I can drop you at Britain's place,” I said, calling her bluff.
“Don't be bitter,” she said.
I couldn't read her facial expression to tell if she was mostly joking or actually ticked at me.
“You love Britain more than me,” I said.
“She is my girlfriend.”
“But you'd pick her over me, if you had to make the choice.”
Courtney stood and grabbed her brown leather jacket. I knew that jacket. I was with her when she bought it, from a consignment store. Because I was her best friend.
“Enough drama,” Courtney said.
“I tried to be nice to Britain, but she made zero effort.”
“You shouldn't have gotten that eyebrow piercing she wanted.”
My voice got sarcastic and snippy. “Uh, I think there may be some more piercings available from the universe's hole supply. I didn't get the last one, ever.”
“And then, the theater incident.”
“You guys kept shushing me,” I said. “I wasn't having any fun, so what was the point?”
“Oh, I don't know. Maybe to watch the movie? Duh.”
“You don't need me anymore,” I said. “You want to have a new life, and leave behind everyone from your old life.”
“Perry, I'm just trying to get through each day as it happens.”
The sadness in her voice brought hot tears to my eyes. “I'm sorry,” I said, tapping the bench next to me. “Come, sit down.”
She looked at the back door, the clock on the wall, then down at the bench. I patted it again, and she sat down.
“What's going on? You seem sad,” I said.
She shrugged.
I said, “I haven't heard anything about your sculptures lately, or your mosaics. Did you talk to any of those people you met at the art show?”
“My parents are putting on the pressure. The art might have to wait for a few years.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. “You can do both. You can do anything. You're Courtney Badass Chow.”
“My parents aren't cool like yours. You're so lucky.”
I had to fight the urge to argue with her on that particular point. “Let's go buy some candy.”
“Candy's for kids,” she said.
“No kidding. Come on.”
She twirled her feathers and hair. “Thanks for the offer, but I'm going to go see Britain. I could use her company today.”
As Courtney stood and walked out the door, I felt a pain in my chest. I'd tried to bridge the gap between us, and failed. She wasn't going to come back to me.
Chapter 17
What are friends, anyway? You pick some people you have similar interests with, and you hang out and talk. You give each other little pep talks and listen to each other's problems. I could replace most of Courtney's job duties as best friend with a book of inspirational slogans and a journal.
And yet, I still craved her attention, and I hated myself for that weakness. I wished I could be one of those loner types who's content to eat breakfast alone and feels joy walking on the beach with nobody at her side.
As much as Courtney and I had made fun of Haylee for becoming attached-at-the-hip with Andrew, I knew I'd likely be the exact same way if I got a boyfriend. Until then, I'd always had Courtney to fill that spot of the last person I talked to before I went to bed at night. Lately, she hadn't been responding to my goodnight text messages.
Screw you, Courtney, I thought as I got into the big SUV and started the engine.
The stereo clicked on with One Direction telling me how beautiful I was. Those five little liars.
Oh, but their songs gave me that dreamy, longing feeling.
I drove under magnolia trees with thick, promising flowerbuds. Soon the cherry blossoms would be raining down pink confetti on my street.
Maybe it was spring fever igniting my lust, but ever since the Sunday I'd seen the girl from Bakery Confidential and her cute boyfriend, giving each other the ooey-gooey eyes, I'd been craving a boyfriend of my very own. She and her boyfriend had put a spell on me.
When I got home, I downloaded some episodes from the new season of the bakery-based show, then I sat on my bed and hate-watched the girl. She had everything, including a stunning older sister who had recently left her job as a dental assistant and started working at the bakery. Maybe it was a trick of the editing, but there seemed to be a romance brewing between the sister, Melanie, and Angelo, the recently-separated and hunky bakery owner.
When the three episodes were finished playing on my laptop, my body was too heavy to move. The girl, Maddie, was barely a year older than me, and she had everything, including her own TV show.
My day's haul of tips didn't seem so remarkable anymore. I know, poor me, right? I had a good life and I knew it, but a good session of feeling sorry for one's self overrides all reason and intelligent thought. That poor-me feeling gets into your heart and poisons everything, making you hate even the sound of your inner voice whining in your own head.
I wasn't upset over not having the newest iPad or a car of my own or a perfect manicure. I wanted to have that thing everyone strives for in life—and I don't mean real estate. I wanted a partner I could hug and call silly names. He'd call me schmoopie or something equally revolting, and he'd look at me like I was the only girl in the world.
Sure, my curiosity about sex was also wrapped up in there, but being so inexperienced at both love and sex, it was hard for me to imagine the difference. People in love tend to have sex, and isn't sex the main difference between lovers and good friends? I'd been friends with Courtney for years, and she'd thrown me over for another girl she was having sex with. Therefore, intimacy had to be a pretty big deal.
All I knew was this: everything in my life would be better if I could have a special person who was—ugh, I hate this term—my soul mate.
After I couldn't take the sound of my voice in my head for one more minute, I had to do something to escape. I pulled a pillow over my head to block out the world—carefully, to avoid my still-tender eyebrow piercing—and took a very angry nap.
Sunday night was educational. I made macaroni and cheese with crumbled ground beef. My father, Garnet, and I ate in silence, each staring at his or her own phone, playing apps or checking email. If my mother had been there, she never would have allowed the phones out at the table, but it was a good way to avoid talking about the pot-eating incident.
By the time we finished eating, I felt lonelier than ever, after sitting across from two people ignoring me. It made me realize why my mother had that particular rule.
Darn you, Mom, and all your sneaky life lessons!
Jay came over Sunday night after dinner to do his regular housekeeping. He was wearing a new chain belt that I coveted.
I said, “Just so you know, I'm staring at your amazing belt, wondering if you'd consider a trade.”
“This won't go with your new, softer image,” he said, shaking out the keyboard for my desktop computer.
“Jay, I don't even use that keyboard since I got my laptop,” I said.
“Still gets dirty,” he said.
As he finished dusting, I asked him, “Do you think some people really have it all, or do you think that's an illusion?”
“Life's not about getting what you want. It's about appreciating what you have.”
“I don't agree. If we're totally satisfied, we'll never go after anything new, never go to college, never try to better ourselves.”
“Sweetie, I clean houses for a living,” he said. “Once upon a time, I had it all. The fancy job, the big-money lifestyle. It's not as great as it looks from the outside.”
“I don't mean material things. I mean love
. Having a boyfriend.”
“Oh.” He sat on the bed next to me. “I'm going to be honest with you. Some people are happy being single. I am not one of those people. That's why, if I have a boyfriend, plus I can fit into these jeans, those two things make me deliriously happy.”
“That's what I suspected.”
“Patience,” he said. “You look gorgeous. You're eighteen. You've got your hair figured out. The love will follow.”
I smiled and pretended I believed him.
Monday morning, I woke up with determination. The sun was shining and bluebirds fluttered in through my window and helped me get dressed.
Marc was going to put away the crossword puzzles and be my boyfriend, whether he wanted to or not. We'd already had three dates, if you counted the art show, the dinner with my family, and the weird art movie. There was so much sex and nudity in that movie, the date practically counted double.
Marc had put me in the friend zone, but I could work with that. A couple dates every week and soon he'd get accustomed to me—spoiled by me—and he'd come to his senses. Summer was coming, and I'd be his summer girl.
I wore a summer girl outfit: a dress halfway between pink and lavender, with a thick, black elastic belt that cinched in my waist nicely. The Spanx underneath the dress, borrowed from my mother's drawer, certainly helped.
For my makeup, I tried a dewy look, with tinted foundation all over, minimal makeup, and clear gloss over pink lipliner that was just a few shades off the dress. I'd bought one of those new Revlon eyelash curlers, and the goofy-looking thing actually worked, making my lashes more visible. My eyebrow piercing was healing nicely and looked calm and seasoned. The glint of the metal picked up the sparkle in my eyes.
When I arrived at work, the schedule had been changed for that Monday. Courtney had rearranged her shifts, and instead of working with her, I'd be joined by Nigel, who usually worked evenings.
