by Dalya Moon
“What can we do to make your mood better?” she asked, turning and giving a subtle nod to the booze.
“Do you think vodka helps with rejection?”
“Let's do some shots and find out,” she said.
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed two soft-boiled-egg holders to use as shot glasses. “Does that look like a shot size to you?” I asked, holding up the silly cups, which looked like miniature old-fashioned sundae dishes.
“You're a classy lady,” she said as she unscrewed the lid of the vodka.
We each chugged an egg-cup shot and agreed it made doing laundry more fun. I paired up socks with matches that were “close enough.”
Haylee giggled and crammed together a blue sock and a white one. “Look, it's Avatar,” she said.
“Not really. They were both blue when they did the nasty.”
She threw the pair of socks down. “It was still bestiality. So gross. Totally took me out of the movie.”
“And yet … decapitations are fine by you?”
She rolled her eyes. “That stuff's not real.”
“And giant, blue aliens with tails and head snakes that plug into other animals are real,” I said.
We poured two more shots and discussed blue aliens and their enormous blue organs.
My father and brother came home, so we shut the laundry room door for privacy, as we were quite comfortable, sitting on stacks of folded towels.
When my father knocked on the door, I cracked it open and asked sweetly if I could have the night off from cooking.
“I guess I could make some grilled cheese, since the other option is starvation,” he said.
“Awesome!”
I clicked the door shut, and a moment later he knocked, asking where the cheese slicer was, and then the cheese.
Haylee was stunned. “They would starve! If you weren't here!”
“He was probably kidding about the cheese. I hope.”
The buzzer on the dryer went off and we both shrieked.
Dad knocked on the door again. “Everything okay in there?”
“Girl stuff! Never mind!”
After a bit more giggling and not much laundry, Haylee called Andrew and said she was going to stay over at my house, so we could have a “good, old-fashioned sleepover” like we used to have.
After the coast was clear in the kitchen, we snuck through and watched some movies in the TV room, sobering up and nearly falling asleep. Around midnight, we took the sofa cushions off the sectional and brought them up to my room for Haylee to sleep on.
We revisited the laundry room to “look for missing socks” and smuggled some more booze from there up to my bedroom, and that was when the real drinking began.
I don't know how our laundry day sleepover ended, but I have to assume I had a good time. I woke up in bright sunshine, due to not having shut the curtains the night before. I had to pee like crazy, and Haylee was snuggled in next to me on my double bed. Patches of memory came back from the night before.
You're probably wondering if I did anything I would come to regret, say … something involving drunk dialing?
Did I phone Cooper while I was drunk? Or Marc?
I don't think I need to tell you I did. Of course I did.
Even though our text messaging to date had been limited to Facebook Chat, both of the boys were programmed into my cell phone.
I'd had Marc's number ever since he gave me his business card, before he came to my house for dinner. Cooper had his phone number on his Facebook profile, so I'd programmed it into my phone, just so I had it. Until my vodka-soaked evening, I'd never phoned or phone-texted either of them.
Girls who call up guys while drunk are total idiots, right? If you'll remember, I specifically warned you that I can be an idiot at times.
The thing is, I knew drunk dialing was wrong. Why would someone willingly do something they know is so wrong?
My only explanation is that my drunk personality is even more of a dumb-ass smart mouth than my sober one.
After the world's longest pee, I filled my toothbrush cup with water three times and drank it down each time.
When I came back from the washroom, Haylee had taken over my bed, so I made a nest with the couch cushions on my floor and lay down. Despite wanting to sleep off the gross feeling, I couldn't get back to dreamland.
I listened to my father get Garnet out of bed. It was Saturday. They were going out with a friend of my father's, to fly miniature airplanes somewhere near Langley, and they'd be gone most of the day, which was fine by me. Had my father's voice always been so annoying? Why so much conversation? He stood just outside my door, talking to my brother non-stop about their plans for the day, for at least one million minutes.
With my pillow over my head, I tried to relax and sleep, but my body rejected the notion.
After my father and brother were finally gone, I got up and had a very long, very hot shower. When I came out, I thought I was going to throw up, but clutching the cold toilet bowl for a few minutes brought my system back online.
While Haylee slumbered, oblivious, I tidied my room and brought the empty bottle of vodka back downstairs. I filled the bottle to the top of the Absolut logo with water and placed it back where it had been, in the laundry room. Haylee was nineteen, so she could legally buy alcohol, and I planned to give her some money so she could buy a replacement.
I opened the fridge, looked for orange juice, and found my cell phone on the shelf, next to the milk.
A fleeting image … Haylee putting my phone into “cold storage” to do me a favor … me, grabbing it back from her and phoning people … telling them exactly what I thought …
Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.
I grabbed my fridge-chilled phone. I had to check the outgoing calls.
No.
It was better to forget.
As I was holding it, my phone vibrated with an incoming call, and I yelped. Guilty conscience, much?
The incoming number wasn't one I recognized, but I still answered. I'm not one of those people who lets unknown numbers go to voice mail. Those people are so annoying! So what if it's a wrong number? Is it so much trouble to simply tell someone they have a wrong number?
A female voice ear-blasted me. “Hey! Peridot! It's Sunshine!”
I immediately dropped the phone, on my foot. She was still talking when I picked it up.
“... so I thought we could get lunch?”
“Sure,” I said, not knowing what I was agreeing to. “Why not.”
“The Whistle, at noon?”
I did not want to be at my workplace on my second day off, but I couldn't think of anywhere better, so I agreed.
After I ended the call, my phone buzzed again, with another number I didn't recognize. The universe was testing my phone-answering policy on that too-bright, too-early, knees-wobbly, stomach-queasy morning.
I answered, getting Andrew, who said Haylee wasn't picking up her phone.
“She's moving in with me,” I said. “We slept together last night and I rocked her world.”
Without missing a beat, Andrew said, “I hope you took pictures.”
That was my first-ever evidence that Andrew had a sense of humor and an actual personality.
I said, “You can come get her, if you can pry her off my bed. I'll warn you, it's memory foam. That shit's addictive.”
“I'll fight for my lady,” he said, laughing.
I told him to come on over and ended the call.
Andrew's so nice, I thought. I have since discovered he plays classical piano—beautifully—and wants so desperately for people to enjoy ping-pong that he'll let you win your first few games. It's hard to focus on the ball when you're distracted by his little Tyrannosaurus Rex arms, but that may be part of his strategy. Personally, I think his arms would look normal-sized if he'd relax his shoulders a bit.
I know I've made fun of Andrew, but he's not the worst. Yes, he does smell like the underside of a sofa cushion, but he's sweet t
o Haylee.
In fact, because he'd accurately deduced we'd be hungover, he showed up with a shopping bag full of Gator-Ade, Tylenol, and no-name brand pink stuff in a bottle.
Haylee must have sensed his presence, because she came down the stairs just as he arrived, looking remarkably presentable, considering.
As Andrew was loading the laundry into his car—some of it folded creatively into triangles, which had been my idea—he told me he was glad we'd had such a good time, and that Haylee hadn't been herself the last few months.
I said, “She was a whole lotta herself last night.”
“I love to see my lady smile,” he said.
She was throwing up on my lawn when he said it, but that didn't make it any less romantic.
He ran to her side to hold her hair so she didn't throw up on it, and I thought to myself, that's what I want. Not the puking part, but the guy who cared about me.
I'd been raised to be a strong, independent person who could take care of herself, but I could still use a little backup.
Back inside the house, I closed one eye and clicked on the personal horror movie that was my outgoing calls screen.
Confirmation of my stupidness: outgoing calls to a ton of people, including both Marc and Cooper.
Small consolation: the calls were less than thirty seconds, so either I hung up quickly or only left short messages.
I had a lunch date, though, and perhaps meeting with Sunshine was the perfect solution. I could get the low-down on what was happening with the boys. It would be like ripping off a Band-Aid quickly. Ri-i-i-i-i-ip! By the end of lunch, I'd know what was going on.
When I walked into my room, which was painted an incredibly soothing blue-green shade (my compliments to the interior decorator!), the sleep that had eluded me earlier that morning tried to get me into bed and have its way with me. I resisted and had a second shower, since my skin smelled weird.
Picking an outfit to wear to lunch with Sunshine was the most taxing thing I'd attempted since a few nights earlier, when I'd had one of those nightmares where you show up for a class you didn't know you were taking, like German or something, and it's final exam day.
Sunshine was not going to out-weird me with a funky outfit, so I put on a plaid kilt with a puffy crinoline underneath, and a waffle-print little girl's undershirt topped by a black mesh 1980s top. I plaited my hair into an upside-down french braid that ended in a ponytail on the crown of my head.
“Too much,” I said to my reflection.
“Not enough,” she said, putting on deep, red lipstick.
Then I licked my lips and made sexy faces at myself in the mirror for several minutes. You know, like every girl does before she goes out.
Chapter 21
Before I left the house, I phoned the restaurant to beg them to reserve a table for me and Sunshine, so we wouldn't have to “wait with the hoi polloi,” as I joked.
Nigel, who had answered the phone, said, “Hoi polloi? Really. You know, in Canada, we don't have a class system. That's why my ancestors immigrated here.”
“And where did you say they immigrated from?”
“Nice try,” he said.
“Okay then, a table for two. Can you make my day?”
“Fine. But don't tell anyone I did something nice. I have a reputation.”
I thanked him as I locked up the house and started walking down.
Fifteen minutes later, I walked into The Whistle, thankful to get away from the searingly bright orb in the sky.
The restaurant was a moist din of voices, music, and laughter.
Maybe it was my hangover, but from the second I stepped into the restaurant, everything felt backwards.
Even coming in the front door instead of the back was an educational experience. I didn't get hit with the kitchen smell of dishwasher detergent and the bleach we soak the lasagne dishes in, but instead, I got a nose full of coffee, orange juice, and … oh, bacon. And it was good.
Skinny Nigel was working the dining room, wearing a knitted hat over his perennially messy black hair. The other server was Ginger, a redheaded girl. I understand ginger is an insult in the UK, but I think it's a great name for a redhead.
The next thing I noticed, after the nice aroma, was how Nigel and Ginger left me standing at the door for an eternity before they sat me. I made a mental note to be faster on greeting and seating during my next shift.
Nigel pinched my arm. “You're not wearing green,” he said.
I surveyed the crowd, spotting green shirts on many of them. “Oh, St. Patrick's Day.”
He pinched me again, hard, so I reached out and grabbed him in the general area where I figured his nipples were.
He giggled and said, “Twist harder.”
“I'm taking that table,” I said, pointing to the little one by the window.
“It's yours, Princess,” he said.
Once seated, I started to fidget. Sunshine wasn't there yet, and I wondered if she was one of those girls who's always late. Those people think their time is more important than everyone else's. I seethed with pre-emptive rage.
The table had some water spots on it, and I wanted to duck behind the waitress station and get a cloth to clean it better, but my skin was too heavy. I so wanted a big coffee. I don't drink coffee, except the frozen ones from Starbucks, but that day I wanted one bad, and Nigel was taking his sweet time getting it for me.
I made a mental list of things I noticed needing cleaning, such as the kids' smeared hand prints on the windows.
A gorgeous woman breezed in. She wore simple brown cords and a crisp, white, button-down shirt. It was Sunshine, but the blue had been completely bleached out of her hair, and she was a stunning blonde.
I felt about as appropriate as a wet fart at a wedding.
Here, I'd been trying to out-weird Sunshine and she'd out-normal'd me. She looked like an ad for Banana Republic.
“You're not wearing green,” I said. “It's St. Patrick's Day.”
She flicked back her nearly-white hair, revealing dainty green earrings. “Gotcha,” she said.
“Smart girl.” I gestured to the empty chair.
She reached her hand to me, and we squeezed fingertips awkwardly. “Sorry I'm late. My mother sends her regards,” she said, taking a seat on the chair across from me.
“I love this table you got for us,” Sunshine said.
“It's all about who you know.”
Nigel came by with a menu for Sunshine and gave us a rundown of all the things we weren't allowed to do, including dip our fries in mayonnaise.
“What if I brought my own mayonnaise from home?” I asked.
“There's a dollar charge for that,” he said.
After Nigel left the table, Sunshine asked if we, the serving staff, were allowed to make up our own rules. I assured her we didn't, and the mayonnaise thing was either a brand-new one, or Nigel was messing with me.
“I like the rules,” Sunshine said.
“People seem to dig the abuse. Lucky for me.”
“I enjoy being out of my comfort zone,” Sunshine said. “The restaurant must do really well. There's usually a big line-up.”
“The last few years have been difficult. My boss bought the place from the original owners because they were retiring, planning to become snowbirds. Arizona in the winter, that sorta thing. anyway, my boss thinks she overpaid.” As I spoke, a voice of dissent in my head questioned why I was divulging secrets about the business to Sunshine. Was I trying to impress her? Shut up, I told myself.
Nigel finally came back to take our order, bringing us our coffee. Sunshine sent him off to bring her skim milk, provided there was no additional fee. He graciously offered to go milk the cow we keep in the kitchen, and disappeared.
“Will I get my skim milk?” Sunshine asked me.
“Yes. You get everything how you want it, you just have to put up with the lip.”
“He's cute.”
“Nigel? Ew. I guess if you like those super-tight j
eans that give you beetle legs.”
“So, you were saying … the owner thought she overpaid?”
That was when I noticed something unusual about Sunshine. She was a good listener. Rarely do you meet someone who brings you back to what you were talking about before the topic got sidetracked. If you ever meet someone who uses the phrase “you were saying,” make them your friend for life. By the way, don't expect to ever hear it from me.
I explained to Sunshine how I hadn't been working at The Whistle back in 2010, when HST kicked in and the tax on restaurant meals doubled. The Whistle used to have people lined up down the block on Saturday nights, but we were in lean times. The owner wanted to make changes, but was afraid to mess with the original formula.
“I think The Whistle is perfect how it is,” Sunshine said. “You shouldn't mess with perfection.”
I drained my cup of coffee as well as my glass of water. My bladder reminded me with some subtle pressure that it was not without limits.
“So, tell me what's on your mind,” I said, trying to sound casual.
Since her phone call, I'd been operating under the dual assumptions she wanted to be my friend, and that she also wished me bodily harm. It was only because she suggested my workplace, where I could have concealed weapons hidden around the premises, that I'd agreed so readily.
“This is embarrassing,” she said.
My curiosity threatened to reach across the table and shake it out of her.
“Go ahead,” I said calmly.
“You can say no,” Sunshine said. “But Jade is one of my personal heroes and it would mean so much to me to get her feedback.” She carried on talking, her words washing over me as meaningless noise.
Jade.
My mother.
Sunshine wanted me to introduce her to my mother, or send my mother some of her songs. I blanked out, the noise of the restaurant turned up to maximum in my brain, muting Sunshine.
Nigel brought us our food and berated me for having my cell phone out on the table. I apologized and stuck it in my pocket, feeling annoyed at myself, because I should have known better.
