He Must Like You

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “No,” I say, “it’s not just you.”

  30

  HE MUST LIKE YOU

  Monday morning I get another call from Perry.

  I don’t pick up, but he leaves a message, reiterating his job offer, and telling me this is my last chance. He sounds a bit unhinged, which matches with Emma’s reports of his behavior over the weekend.

  I’m nervous all day—so much that it’s actually a relief when Jack finally drives me over to the Goat for what I’ve come to think of as my “apology shift.” The parking lot is crowded, so I have him take me to the service entrance.

  “Good luck,” Jack says with his warm-blanket grin.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you want me to come in? And just hang out in the bar? Not right this second—don’t want you to look like you had to arrive with your big brother or anything.” He lifts his phone. “I’ve got some emails to send, so I could just hang out here and then slip in a bit later.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say, though I’m moved that he’s offering.

  “What if I wanted to? Not to interfere, I promise, but just to be there.”

  “Okay,” I say. “But behave yourself.”

  “Promise.”

  Two minutes later I’m hanging my stuff in the staff room and tying my apron around my waist. The kitchen staffers are quiet, none of them greeting me, but one waves at least, and another winks.

  I’m just bracing myself to go out front when Dev comes in through the door I’m about to exit. He steps aside to let me pass, and I stand by to let him pass, and then we both try to go through at the same time again. Awkward. Finally I step right into the currently empty dish pit to my left and Dev comes along.

  “You’re here,” he says.

  “I said I would be.”

  “Thank you,” he says, looking relieved and shamefaced at the same time. “Libby . . .”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  “Since we last spoke I have read the accounts of Mr. Ackerman’s past behavior, and also Martina’s story. I knew he was sometimes inappropriate, but I did not understand the extent or . . . ungentlemanly . . . quality of it. It’s shocking. And the . . .” Dev looks like he might die of embarrassment. “The . . . photo component. Er. Have you . . . ? Did he send you . . . ?”

  “Oh!” I say, realizing the source of his embarrassment. “No, Perry never sent me any photos.”

  “Well,” he exhales. “That’s lucky.”

  “But he has touched my butt, my waist, the sides of both of my breasts, pressed his entire body against me during multiple hugs, and made revolting sexual jokes and threats of sexual violence disguised as jokes,” I say. “So the lack of a pornographic photo doesn’t make me feel particularly lucky.”

  Yikes, I’m on a roll.

  “Oh!” Dev says, backing up a step and bumping into the dish sink. “Yes, those things are . . . I’m sorry they happened. And I appreciate your coming to apologize for your part in this . . . event. I know it must be difficult.”

  I feel myself wanting to say it’s nothing, not difficult at all, wanting to make things easier and smoother, but it’s only the old me that thinks that’s the only option.

  The new me nods and says, “Yes.”

  “I will keep a closer eye on Mr. Ackerman from now on, I promise. Those things should not be happening to you, or to anyone, and I will try from now on to prevent them.”

  I inhale the humid, soapy-smelling dish pit air and say, “That would be helpful.”

  Dev gives me an anxious bob of the head that means the conversation is over, and heads toward his office.

  Which means I have no further excuse to stay in the back.

  I peer through the doorway into the restaurant. It’s more full than usual for this time on a Monday, and it’s loud with what sounds to me like the buzz of anticipation.

  Maybe I’m paranoid.

  Maybe it’s just my imagination.

  Or maybe the place is full of people who’ve come especially because of Perry’s post, to witness the drama in person.

  Regardless, it’s showtime.

  Stomach in knots, I head through the door and straight for the host stand, and Kyle, who has not texted me since our conversation on Saturday. Because why not pack in as many awkward moments as possible?

  Heads turn as I pass, and I distinctly hear whispers containing the words “that girl” and “Perry Ackerman” and “psycho” and “apologize” and “ruin his life” and “harassment” and “ass.”

  Lovely.

  “Hi,” I say as I approach Kyle, who’s got a crowd of people waiting for tables in the foyer.

  “Hello,” he says, all business but still sporting goat-themed apparel—a toque this time, with furry horns.

  Brianna, who’s there checking the seating chart, says “Hey, girl,” before taking her (also gawking) customers to her section.

  “Your section is the patio. Brianna’s got the front half and you’ve got the back,” Kyle says. His demeanor is stiff, but I can’t tell whether it’s with anger or in an effort to show professionalism. “I have a fifteen-minute wait list already, but I haven’t sat you yet.”

  “Thanks,” I say, relieved for many reasons that I’m not alone back there tonight. “I’m ready.”

  “I’m not going to slam you,” he assures me. “I’ve set up the tables for Perry and his party already, and I thought we’d just leave them empty until he comes, ’cause you might not have time to turn them fast enough.”

  “God forbid we leave him waiting.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What time is he coming?”

  “Six o’clock, party of twelve.”

  “Twelve!”

  Kyle nods.

  “Oh, joy.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he murmurs, momentarily abandoning his overly proper attitude. “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Are you . . . are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Kyle.”

  My first customers are “normal” ones—just there for dinner, not the promise of a spectacle. They’re also immediately distracting—a mom and dad with their adorable five- or six-year-old, who is bawling.

  Sometimes crying kids are annoying but this girl’s crying is the kind that pulls at my heartstrings. I rush over to the booth, greet the parents, then kneel down to be at eye level with the girl.

  “Hey,” I say, looking straight into her watery eyes, “I’m Libby.”

  She snuffles.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m . . . L-lottie.”

  “Cool name,” I say. “Good first letter especially. L—just like me!”

  Lottie’s sobs slow a little at this.

  “You want to look at our kids’ menu? You can color on it.” I hand her a packet of crayons from my pouch and she takes it and clutches it to her chest like someone might try to take it.

  “You can even keep them,” I say.

  She tries valiantly to smile.

  “Hard day?” I ask.

  Lottie nods, her fast-spilling tears wrenching.

  “Lottie had a social issue at school,” Lottie’s mom says, all the while rubbing her hand in circles over Lottie’s back.

  “Jackson told me I’m not in his club,” Lottie blurts out.

  “What club?”

  “His club. The Adam Club.”

  “We keep telling her she doesn’t want to be in that club!” Lottie’s mom says. “It’s probably a boring club anyway.”

  “It doesn’t matter if the club is boring,” Lottie insists. “If you’re not in it they get to be mean to you. Because then at recess Adam and Sidney threw sand in my eyes, and I said I didn’t care about their stupid club but they kept following me around, and telling
me they didn’t want to play with me, and then Adam stole my hat and I couldn’t run fast enough to catch them and then I tripped and”—she starts to hyperventilate—“look . . . at . . . my . . . knees!”

  I look. Her leggings are rolled up and she’s got large bandages, with substantial blood showing through, on both of her tiny knees.

  “Ow!” I say, wincing.

  She regards me gravely, her little chin quivering, then asks. “Why don’t they just leave me alone?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, pained.

  “They probably like you, sweetie,” Lottie’s dad says in a soothing tone.

  “No, Dad, they hate me,” she says with devastating clarity. “They told me. They laughed at me when I fell and called me a baby for crying.”

  “Boys are just dumb sometimes, honey,” the dad says, looking desperate for some way to make her feel better. “They’re not always good with communicating so they do stupid things to get your attention. I’m telling you, this Jackson fellow? He must like you.”

  “No,” Lottie insists again, this time with a ferocious frown. “Jackson said, ‘I don’t like you, nobody likes you, you’re not my friend, you’re not in the club, you can’t play with us’!”

  Lottie’s mom jumps in to support the dad’s hypothesis, and Lottie looks at both her parents like they’ve gone insane. Meanwhile, I stand there, rooted to the spot, déjà vu and “he must like you” running hot through my brain.

  My mom said the same thing to me in first grade when I told her Rod Catena and his friends—wretched cretins even back then—were spending recess throwing balls of ice at Emma and me.

  “He must like you,” she said, as she gently attended to the goose egg on the side of my head. “He probably has a crush on you.”

  I’ve never thought about it before, but WTF. Rod was scary. And even when my mom said he liked me, I knew he didn’t. But it’s hard, trying to understand someone just randomly deciding not to like you, and my mom was my mom, so I wanted to believe her.

  I watched Rod after that, looking for signs. Because if he liked me, he would eventually show it. Waiting for this to happen, I became like a puppy looking for scraps, and then trying to take those scraps and thread them together into something more solid.

  It got to the point that I’d be upset if he didn’t do anything bad to me, taking it as evidence that he didn’t like me anymore, didn’t care about me, and I so badly wanted it to be true that he liked me. Because otherwise maybe I just wasn’t likeable, which is so twisted, now that I think about it.

  And here is Lottie, being told the same thing by her well-meaning parents—that these boys are bullying her because they like her.

  I jump into a pause in the conversation and ask, “Why do you think Adam acts like that, Lottie?”

  “Because he’s mean,” she says with certainty.

  “I agree,” I say. “Is that what you do when you want to be friends with someone—hurt them and act like a jerk?”

  “No!”

  “Right. So hopefully you can get help from a grown-up when this happens, and you can find friends who are as nice as you are. And then all of you together can tell the Adam Club to get lost.”

  Lottie nods gravely, and I can see her parents pondering this. Hopefully I haven’t lost my tip by contradicting them.

  In my peripheral vision I can see Kyle has sat more of my tables. Ideally you need to greet new customers within thirty seconds of their sitting down, so I shift gears and get Lottie’s family’s order, then zoom over to my two new tables to say hello and get drink orders, punch everything into the computer, and then duck behind the service station.

  One of my tables is a group of women from the Inn—i.e., my mom’s coworkers, and a gossipy bunch. I’m sure it’s one of them who played the video for my mom last week, and they’re definitely here for the show, all nudges and knowing looks. Luckily the other table is a couple on a date, with no interest in me whatsoever.

  “Hey.” Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to see Brianna standing there. “You all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, not quite hiding the tension in my voice. “Just need to get this night over with.”

  Kat comes around the corner and gives me a low high five.

  “She posted,” Brianna whispers.

  “Shhh,” Kat says.

  “Where?” I whisper.

  Kat does a head swivel to make sure no one’s listening, and then says, “On Martina’s blog. A few of us did. It’s not fair what happened to you with that video going around and nobody knowing he’s done it to literally every female who ever served him.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “No, thank you! When you iced him like that . . . ?” She grins, leans in closer, and hits her chest with her palm. “I felt it. I wish I’d done it.”

  “Every single one of us wishes we’d done it,” Brianna adds. “That was inspired.”

  “More insane than inspired,” I say.

  “Nah, inspired,” Kat says.

  “Heroic,” Brianna says.

  “And we gave you, like, a zillion points for Most Appreciated,” Kat adds. “So if nothing else, you’re getting dinner.”

  “And the prestige,” Brianna jokes. “We should put that shit on our résumés.”

  “Get ourselves a plaque,” Kat says. “Or maybe a trophy. Half of them look like dicks anyway. It’s fitting.”

  For a few moments the three of us are hands clapped over our mouths, cackling, and I’m so happy to be back, and so relieved. But then I sag.

  “What?” Brianna says.

  “Nobody’s going to think I’m heroic after tonight,” I admit. “And you’re not going to want to give me any trophies. Perry’s coming in and I have to apologize. I don’t want to, but I have to. I’m sorry.”

  “Uh-uh.” Kat shakes her head. “You gotta do what you gotta do. That doesn’t put you out of the running. That’s what the trophy is for.”

  “Sometimes a girl’s just going to have to bide her time, you know?” Brianna adds.

  “Thanks,” I say, thinking about my meeting with Kyle’s mom. “Biding my time is exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Okay then,” Kat says, starting to glance anxiously out toward her section while Brianna starts pouring waters. “We got you.”

  Kat gives me an encouraging whack on the back and Brianna squeezes my hand and heads out with the tray of waters.

  “Annd,” Kat says, standing on her toes to look over the barrier into the restaurant, “he’s here.”

  “Awesome,” I say, my insides gripping.

  “Chattin’ it up at the front with Kyle . . . movin’ on to Nita at the bar . . . paused there, of course . . .” Kat continues to report. “Looks like he’s in the middle of some big story, so you got a minute.”

  “Okay,” I say, and decide it’s better to get moving than hide here, getting more stressed by the second. I hustle out to check my section, make sure everyone has full beverages, and that Mom’s coworkers’ appetizers have arrived, and that Lottie and her family are okay.

  And then I notice another one of my booths has been sat, and stop short when I see who’s in it: Emma, Yaz, and Noah. No Boris.

  “What’s this?” I say as I approach.

  “Just dinner,” Yaz says.

  “If the waitress will ever take our order,” Emma says, tapping her menu.

  “And we thought you might want some friendly faces in your section,” Noah says. “Is that okay?”

  “We’re here for moral support—of you, and the restaurant,” Emma says with a meaningful look. “We’ll behave, we promise. And we can also give you our whole order now, if you want—that way you can focus on Mr. Harassy-pants.”

  I give a snort of laughter, then say, “Okay, sure. And thank you.”

  Out of th
e corner of my eye I see the salads for the couple arriving, and Lottie’s family’s entire meal. I get my friends’ order and place it, then grind pepper and sprinkle cheese on the salads, remove empty glasses, double-check that I’ve put in everything anyone has ordered and timed it right . . . and then Perry’s there, strutting onto the tile floor.

  Dev and Nita are flanking him, and his horde of friends trails just behind. Nita’s already got Ackerman beers for them all, and I’m grateful. It would be just like Perry to demand I make my apology while balancing a huge tray of drinks.

  I hang back, trying not to hyperventilate, while Dev gets everyone settled.

  Perry chooses a chair that has a command of the entire patio and both entrances, and pulls it back and a bit sideways so that there’s room in front of him.

  Room for me, presumably.

  In front of his manspread legs.

  Ugh.

  Still, I just have to get it done.

  I make two attempts at deep breaths, then put one foot in front of the other until I’m right back were it all started, in front of Perry.

  And smiling.

  What is with the smile? I hate how I can’t even stop it from appearing on my face.

  Perry smiles back at me, all crotch, teeth, and reptile charm.

  Dev stays close, as does Nita, and even though there’s music playing and people chatting and food being cooked and served, the restaurant has gone markedly quiet and I can feel people watching.

  “Hi there, Lib,” Perry says, faced flushed—from booze already or from being agitated about the situation, I can’t tell. “I guess you didn’t get my message.”

  “Hi . . . Perry,” I say, heart thudding, all of the things I can’t say combined with the things I have to say creating a logjam in my throat. “I did. And thank you, but I figured I’d just . . . see you tonight. Uh, how are you? You look . . .”

  evil and smug as hell

  “ . . . well.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “That is . . .” I clear my throat, wishing I’d written something out. Then another one of my automatic survival-with-males instincts kicks in, and I find myself cocking my head and saying, “You look a lot cleaner . . . than when I last saw you.”