The Mean Girl and the Bad Boy #3: Echo and Artist

by Reighan Storm

  “I don’t have any,” I tell her.

  “Hospitality? Oh, I know.”

  “No, bottled water. We use the free stuff that comes from here.” I tap the faucet to show her exactly what I meant. “Pretty sure you wouldn’t want the poor stuff.” She rolls her eyes as if I were way off base. “Seriously, what do you want?”

  “I wanted to take you out to breakfast as a thank you for picking me up.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you just say so?” A thank you would have been sufficient, but I’m guessing she didn’t want to be out in public eating alone. Free food is always fine with me.

  “Have you ever been here?” She asks me when she pulls into the parking lot of a quaint little diner not too far away.

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “They have the best homemade waffles.” Her eyes glisten when she says this. My eyes drop down to her lips, and for the first time, I notice she only has one dimple. Odd, but at the same time, it was kind of cute. I guess that’s because she rarely smiles. Her teeth are super straight and bright white. No doubt she’s had braces before. I’m guessing the hardly visible ones so no one could tell, or better yet, the ones you pop in and out of your mouth like those fake Halloween vampire fangs. With all the coffee products she drinks, she definitely has to have regular bleaching—. “Artist!”

  “What?” I feel like a weirdo because I don’t know how long I’d been staring at her.

  “Do you eat waffles?”

  “Sure, I guess,” I shrug. Mostly just the ones you pop in the toaster, but not too often.

  “You have to try these!”

  She gets out of the car, and I follow behind her. She walks up to the counter where the cash register is and waits for assistance.

  “Do you want to grab a booth?” I ask her.

  “Nah,” she shakes her head. “I always just order to go. We’ll just go to my house and eat.”

  “No.” I grab her by the arm and lead her to the booth section. “Let’s eat here. That way, the food will be nice and hot.” She must really love herself because she stands there and does the hugging thing again.

  “The food here is amazing,” she says and then leans over to whisper to me. “The eating area… not so much.” She shudders like she has the heebie-jeebies.

  I gaze around the area, and I didn’t see anything wrong. Sure, it wasn’t the fanciest of places she’d probably visit frequently. Like the restaurant, I’d picked her up from the other night. But she needed to get off her high horse if she was gonna hang with me. “You’re too good to eat in here, but not too good to consume the food?”

  “I didn’t say anything about being too good, Artist. It’s just… not exactly the cleanest.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle, hearing her reasoning. This place has definitely been around for quite some time. From the looks of everything, it was probably family owned too.

  “If you think this is bad, you probably should be glad you can’t see the kitchen where they actually cook the food.” I tease and have a seat at a nearby booth.

  “Why would you put that vision in my head?” Echo says, still standing in the same spot. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore. We should go.”

  “No way,” I tell her. “I hear they have the best waffles on this side of town.” I extend my hand in a gesture like way, telling her to have a seat opposite me. She frowns, still standing when the waitress walks over to us.

  “Are you folks ready to order?” The waitress says.

  “Yup!” I answer just as chipper as she had asked. I figured if we both came for the waffles, why waste time gawking at a menu.

  “No,” Echo says, arms still tightly folded across her chest. “The table isn’t clean.”

  The waitress and I both look at the table, at each other, and back at the table.

  “Oh, yes,” the waitress, Betty, says. Well, at least that’s what was on the name tag she wore. She pulls a kitchen towel from the pocket of her apron to wipe the table down, and I catch Echo cringe even more.

  “There,” Echo says, pointing to a spot I have to strain to see. “And here…” Everywhere Echo points, Betty wipes with patience. “Ugh!” Echo groans and immediately starts in on Betty. “Seriously! Who taught you how to clean? You’re not even cleaning… you’re just pushing germs and crumbs to another spot! That towel you’re using isn’t even sanitary—”

  “Echo!” I call out to her. She shuts up and faces me. “What the hell?”

  “You’ve ruined this place for me now! Thanks for that.”

  She storms out into the parking lot, and I follow after apologizing to waitress Betty for Echo’s bad manners.

  4/Echo

  Ew! Ew! Ew!

  When I make it to my car, I shake my body like crazy as if there were one million and one insects crawling all over me.

  Compose yourself, Echo!

  Get a grip!

  I tell myself.

  But it’s not helping. I keep envisioning the split wood in the tables, the ripped booth seats with cotton bursting out of it, and the crumbs!

  UGH!!!

  Those visions are going to haunt me for the rest of my life. And as always at the most inopportune times.

  I gag from the thoughts just now.

  “You are a real piece of work, you know that?” Artist’s voice comes from behind me.

  “Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “I pride myself on that.” I force a smile like there’s nothing wrong with me.

  He stands there with a disappointed look on his face.

  Like seriously, was that supposed to intimidate me or make me feel some sort of way?

  “Just when I think there’s about this much of decency inside of you…” Artist says, holding his thumb and pointer finger really close together. “You prove me wrong—” He stops speaking abruptly and gawks at me even weirder.

  “What?” My question is, snide as the corner of my top lip curls. He strides over to me and places his hands towards the nape of my neck. “What are you doing?” I jerk, and he hesitates, but only for a second. He doesn’t say anything either. He runs his fingers up my neck and between the strands of my hair on the back of my head. I let out a slight moan from Artist gingerly massaging those areas. My eyes spring open from embarrassment. I hadn’t realized I closed them at all. If he leans in and tries to kiss me…

  “Where the hell are they?” Artist says in such a way I knew we weren’t on the same page.

  “Where’s what?”

  “The wires.”

  “What wires?” I shove him away from me because I had a feeling he would say something really idiotic.

  “All AI’s have electrical wiring, right?” My eyebrows furrow together, trying to decipher his meaning. “Unless you’re a clone,” he taps the bottom of his chin. “It’s the only logical explanation I can come up with as to why you’re so heartless and void of emotions.”

  “Wow!” I was speechless. How dare he say that about me and act as if those things didn’t apply to himself as well. “You are exceptional at pointing the finger, but never at yourself.”

  “You know what?” He sighs as he runs a hand through the top of his hair. “This friendship or whatever it is…” he waves a finger between us to emphasize his point. “Is over… I can’t do this anymore with you.”

  “Do what?” I grab his arm to stop him from walking away. My heart sped up with thoughts of him really ending things. I mean, I didn’t know exactly how to classify our… whatevership either. But at this point, I knew I didn’t want him to end whatever it was either. “Please don’t.” I find myself begging. I barely knew this guy, and it’s not like his whatevership benefitted me in any way. Maybe I just couldn’t stomach the thought of someone else leaving me right now. First dad, then Jesse and Nicole… mom. Who else could possibly leave my life that could floor me?

  “Why not?” Artist says to me with squinted eyes. “You’re incorrigible. I get that you’re a bitch (after hearing about your parents, I might
even understand why). Still, I cannot do the high and mighty act like you’re better than others, and everyone is beneath you.”

  “That’s not true!” My eyes water, and I can feel a slight sting of tears begging to be released.

  “The hell it isn’t. The way you treated that waitress inside about micro crumbs—”

  “I have OCD,” I blurt out, wishing I could scoop my words back into my mouth. It’s way too early to share that type of personal information with a rude asshole.

  “Okay?” He shrugs. “What does excessive counting have to do with the way you behaved in there?”

  “Wow, you are a class ass idiot. OCD isn’t just about counting.” I find myself giving him a quick overview of what it was and how it applied to me. “So, as far as with me… I find things like crumbs gross. Not just like ew, a crumb… but way more internally disgusting that it pretty much cripples me. It’s like a phobia of crumbs and all things gross.”

  “Humph.” Artist bites his bottom lip as he continues to stare at the ground. It’s almost as if he didn’t believe a word I’d just said. As if I weren’t just pouring out a piece of me for him to understand. I don’t even know why I shared that with him anyway. No one but my family knows about my OCD. Not Jesse and definitely not Ashleigh or Nicole. I guess that’s why people think I’m just naturally bitchy.

  “Humph?” I repeat after Artist, but mine has a more sarcastic drawl to it.

  “I’m just saying if it’s as bad as you say…” he holds his hands out in front of him and does some type of dramatic shake with them. “… there are meds and doctors for that.”

  As bad as I say… Artist didn’t believe me! Why in the hell would I lie about something like that? What would the purpose and benefit be? “You know what? I’ll be sure to check all of my medication bottles at home and tell my therapist about your diagnosis, Dr. Asshole.” Shit! I did it again. If word gets out, I’ll know exactly who opened their big mouth. Besides, I’ll just deny the whole thing to my grave. No one will believe him anyway. I hike my bag securely onto my shoulder and take off, stomping through the parking lot.

  “Bailey!” Artist yells after a few failed attempts at calling my first name. I felt like a complete idiot after my first few steps when I’d heard and felt the jiggling of my car keys in my left hand, but I was already too far into my tantrum to turn back now. “Where the hell are you going?” There’s a sigh at the end of that like I’m completely and utterly annoying the shit out of him. Good.

  At the end of the parking lot, I make a hard left, hoping there would be a bench nearby I can sit on as if it was my intended destination all along. No such luck. Not only do I feel like an idiot… I look like one too.

  “Echo…” Artist’s voice makes me jerk, and I’m ready to bolt again. To where? I don’t know. “Stop running,” he demands. Little does he know, I’m not running. It’s more like power walking. “Seriously, stop!”

  My breath hitches when I realize his arms snake around me from the back to stop me from moving. “Let me go!” I wiggle a little to give off the appearance that being this close to him repulses me.

  “Not until you promise to stop running,” he says. That’s all I had to do for him to remove his arms from around my body?

  “Never,” I tell him. “You can’t make me promise anything. It’s a free country.” I squirm a bit more. The truth of the matter is this… I didn’t mind his arms being around me. If I’m 100% honest, I wanted to turn around and lay my head on his chest as he caresses my back tenderly as I let everything out. I needed an outlet, and my psychologist wasn’t helping at the moment. I had a lot of shit on my mind right now, and just a listening ear wasn’t good enough for what I was going through. I needed… I pull away from Artist, which wasn’t that hard by the way, and wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face into his chest.

  “Woah… erm.” His hands are suspended mid-air like he’s refusing to hug me back. Maybe this was a bad idea, but it’s too late. The dam had already broken, causing tears to rush to the surface, and I sniff. “Oh! Uh…” Artist grabs my shoulders, trying to lean me away from him to get a glimpse of my face. Probably wondering if my tear ducts produced real tears since he thinks I’m technically a robot. I lock my fingers around his waist, refusing to let him see my face. I think he gets it because he finally hugs me back.

  After hugging becomes awkward, I let him go. “Are you ready to get some waffles now?”

  Clearly, he doesn’t get it. “You’ve ruined it for me, Artist. I’ll probably never eat here again.” I’m really pissed about that.

  “If it’s as dramatic as you say, you’ll have to explain it to me one day.” He chuckles lightly and stops walking when he notices I’m not in step with him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why the hell would I have to lie to you?” My face scrunches in disbelief. “I’m not a habitual liar, and I don’t give a damn about you or your feelings to even care enough to put a lie together!”

  “And there she goes…” Artist faces me, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to do with you or how to take you. It’s like your hot and cold. You’re bitchy, and you're sweet… but mostly bitchy. I’m so fucking confused that I know you have to be even more confused inside here.” He lightly pokes my head, and I jerk away from him.

  “You don’t even know me to make that assumption.”

  “It’s not that hard to decipher—” I shoot him the bird, and he stops speaking immediately.

  “Can we go now?”

  “Absolutely,” he says coldly. “You can drop me off at home, please.”

  “Yeah, no… I don’t think so.” I toss him my car keys as we head to my car. “You’re driving, and we’re going to find a place to eat that doesn’t gross me out.”

  We decide on Subway sandwiches; that way, I could see exactly what they were doing to my food. I get a sub for Benny too because I knew he’d be starving when he got home.

  The father from hell reloaded my bank card for the month. I still don’t think it fair, but whatever. I only plan on using it this time for things I actually need because it was too damn hard trying to survive off of nothing. Or I could just save up, but that would take too long going without.

  “Is that your dad?”

  I hadn’t realized we were in my driveway. I guess I was too dazed into my own thoughts. I peer out of the window at Dad’s car, and immediately my eyes roll. “Yeah, that’s him.” Wonder what he wants? I hand the sandwich bags to Artist and tell him to go inside and wait for me.

  “Maybe I should just sit in the car until—”

  “I said, go inside!” My head whips his way as I snap at him. I storm up to my dad when I see Benny exit the house with his backpack and an overnight bag. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You still haven’t learned to control that mouth of yours, I see.”

  “Maybe that’s because there is no one here adult enough to teach me.” When I say that, the smirk he was wearing disappears from his face.

  “Where’s the issue?” He balls his fists and places them on the sides of his hips. “Is that not what you prefer? To defy discipline in the first place?”

  My arm jerks as I fight the urge to shoot my dad the bird. It wasn’t that I was in the habit of doing that to adults; it was more or less like a reflex when someone acts like a straight tool in my presence.

  “Ben?” I call out to him as he passes me and slings his bag into the back. “Benny?” I know he can hear me even with his AirPods in; he’s just ignoring me.

  “Leave him be,” my dad says after gripping my arm and stopping me from running over to the passenger’s side.

  “What time will you have him back?

  He lets out a hearty laugh and palms my left shoulder.

  “Sweetheart, you don’t have to worry about that. Benjamin is not your responsibility—”

  “It’s fine,” I tell him, practically begging. “He’s my brother so—” He cuts me off by shaking his head profusely. No way I wanted t
o be in this huge house alone. You have no idea the noises this thing makes when you’re by yourself. “Okay,” I say hesitantly. “I’ll grab some of my things and meet you guys in a bit.” Did I really want to do that? Uproot and downgrade at the same time?

  “No need, honey… I only have a two-bedroom. Enough room for just Ben and me.”

  “Oh, I see,” I say. “Basically, when you were house hunting, you thought to yourself, hey, I only have one kid, so let me just get another bedroom and make one super-cool boys only bachelor pad?” I’m sarcastic. I nod once and flatline my lips to finish it off.

  “I’m sure when your mom gets off her ‘high-horse’ (and I mean that in every sense of the word), she’ll be back, and the two of you will be together again in your Barbie dreamhouse.” He’s just as sarcastic as me. I see where he gets it; maybe when he grows up, he’ll want to be just like me.

  When I make it into the house, Artist stands there in the foyer and holds up the subway bag. “Why are you standing there?” It was kind of weird the way he stood there almost motionless as if he were a complete stranger to my house.

  “You said, come inside. You didn’t tell me to do anything else,” Artist says nervously.

  My mouth falls open as I let out a hearty laugh. “Awesome sauce! You’re housetrained. What a plus!” I ruffle his hair until he pushes my hand away.

  “Don’t ever do that again.” He has a hold of my wrist, and I frown because he is. He sure knows how to be a party-pooper.

  “I was just—”

  “JK,” he chuckles and ruffles my hair.

  “Can you not?”

  “It feels weird, doesn’t it?” Artist smirks.

  “More like annoying.” My arms fold across my chest as I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “Don’t worry. I won’t do it again.”

  “I know you won’t.” Artist gives me a wink, and I follow him into the kitchen.

  “Great,” I say, sliding my sub from the bag. “Disgusting. I just know my bread will be a huge soggy mess.”

  “Well, if you think that, then don’t touch it.” Artist snatches my sub from me before I have a chance to open and inspect it for myself. “Have a seat. I’ll deal with it and make sure it isn’t a huge soggy mess.” He smirks and points me in the direction to have a seat as if this isn’t my kitchen.