Mr. High Tea snores. I laugh and then clap a hand to my mouth. But really, how could he hear me laughing over that noise? Since his desk sits by his window, his bed can’t, so imagine the kind of racket he’s making if I can hear it down here. Not very dignified are you right now, huh, Mr. High Tea?
Snoring’s the great equalizer. Who knew? Really, it’s kind of cute. I start to get out of bed. Then I freeze. Footsteps. My eyes follow them across the ceiling toward his bathroom. Woke himself up with the snoring, I guess. Imagine sleeping next to someone snoring like that. Imagine sleeping next to him. Imagine sleeping with him. Yeah, imagine that.
Crap. I’m going to be late to work.
*
Lucky for me there was no traffic, and I get to the deli two minutes before it’s time to clock in. But Austen, my shift mate today, came to work stoned and is no help. “Go sit down and stay out of my way,” I tell him. Because I’m working alone, I’ll have to double-time it on prep, but I can do it. By the time Barry gets here, we’ll be ready to go, and he’ll have no reason to complain.
It’s totally unprofessional to show up in Austen’s state, but I’m cutting him some slack because he covered the breakfast stragglers for me last Wednesday so I could run across the mall to Tilly’s and take advantage of a killer sale on jeans. I mean forty-five percent off on the new stuff, not the leftovers. Can you believe that?
Austen gets his act together and everything’s running smoothly when Barry arrives. He stays in his office most of the morning, but whenever he does come out, I get nervous because he isn’t talking much. He’s not avoiding me, though, and he’s even smiled at me a couple of times. Am I reading too much into that?
I have two party trays to put together by eleven, so I work on those in between the breakfast customers. I absolutely don’t screw up any counter orders or rush on the tray prep, so Barry damn well better take that into consideration when he decides who gets promoted. He leaves before the lunch rush hits a peak, so even though Austen and I are crazy busy, I’m breathing easier.
I’m not telling anyone about what happened when I woke up this morning, not even Gabi, because it was stupid. I mean, really. Anyone who knows me would laugh at the thought of me hiding in my bed from anything. I don’t do intimidation.
When you’re born late to parents with two sons already, you have to take charge immediately. Everywhere. I was reassigned to the new grade school that was built in our neighborhood the summer before I started sixth grade, and I knew I’d have to make new friends. The way Gabi tells it, I walked up to her during lunch recess that first day of school and said, “I’m your new best friend.”
What I remember is watching all the girls in the class that first morning and deciding that Gabi was obviously going to be popular, and making friends with her was my best option to make sure sixth grade didn’t suck. But, yeah; it sounds like me to tell, not ask. Why waste time? Take the direct route and get it done.
*
The tension is killing me. I’ve worked two more shifts, but Barry still hasn’t made his decision. Now I’m tired and sweaty and my clothes smell like onions and salami, so I’m in no mood for the sight that greets me when I swing my car into the parking lot at home. Gabi and Jeremy are standing outside our building. Together. Talking. And smiling.
He’s smiling at her.
Let me tell you about Gabi. She’s always been a sweet, caring friend to me, and I love her to death, but I’m also jealous. Gabi, short for Gabriella, inherited every bit of her mother’s tall, sultry, Italian gorgeousness. Men always notice her. In fairness, she’s never let that go to her head, but I’ve always felt a little invisible when I’m with her.
I pull into my assigned spot and turn off the engine. Through the rearview mirror, I watch them for a moment before I grab my purse and my Chelsea’s Special sandwich—one of the benefits of working at a deli—and get out of the car. The asphalt is so hot my flip-flops stick to it, making a tape-ripping sound instead of the one they’re named for. Each rip-flop step I take toward the smiley couple makes me crankier.
As usual, Gabi is fashionably dressed—the kind of benefit you get working in an exclusive boutique—and looks fantastic. I’m dressed in my work clothes: dumpy black pants and dorky lime-green tee emblazoned with the DEE·LISH logo. It could be worse. At least I ditched my clunky work shoes and visor as soon as I got in my car.
Gabi’s musical laugh is followed by Jeremy’s deeper sonorous one. They’re just having a high old time, aren’t they? They’re so wrapped up in each other I’m sure they haven’t noticed me yet. After one more rip-flop, I pull off my noisy sandals and veer to the right. I’m probably blistering my feet, but I’ll stay in the parking lot until I’m past them, and then I can dash to the sidewalk and make it to my door without them seeing me. Though judging from the way their eyes are locked on each other they wouldn’t notice me if I jumped between them and yelled “Boo!”
Wrong. I’m not even parallel to them yet when Gabi spots me.
“Chelsea?”
I look up, feigning surprise. Mistake.
“You’re going to get mugged someday if you keep walking around lost in your dream world,” she says.
Great. Now Jeremy will think I’m as stupid as my clothes look. Even though my feet are screaming for me to get the hell off this blazing asphalt, I saunter over to where they’re standing before I step up on the curb. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“We just happened to meet as I was arriving and he was leaving,” Gabi explains.
“Ah, yes,” Jeremy says. “And it was nice to meet you, Gabi, but I should be on my way.” He nods to her and glances at me. “Ms. Cole.”
“Later, Jeremy,” I say, intending to prompt him to be on a first name basis, but from the way his right brow arches, I think he took it as mockery.
“Excuse me, Chelsea.” He glances at the DEE·LISH bag in my hand. “Enjoy your … lunch?”
Gabi and I watch him walk toward his car, a sleek black Mercedes that blows the image of pseudohippie … poet … whatever.
“I’m sorry I ended your obviously fascinating conversation with him, Gabi.” Crap. Did my sarcasm sound like jealousy? I head toward my apartment with the click of her designer heels sounding right behind me. “What are you doing here in the middle of the day? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“There was a gas leak in the restaurant two doors down from the boutique,” she says, “so we had to close for the rest of the day.”
Gabi follows me inside. I drop my flip-flops by the door and my sandwich on the coffee table as I pass it on the way to the bedroom. She leans against the doorjamb while I exchange my work clothes for shorts and a tank top.
“Are you mad at me for something?” she asks.
“Not at all.” I squeeze past her, stopping to nudge the thermostat down a couple of degrees on my way back to the living room. I can’t afford a higher electric bill, but I’m too irritable to sit in a hot apartment. “You should have called. I’d have brought you a sandwich. I’d offer you half of mine, but it has avocado and bacon on it.”
“No problem. I ate lunch an hour ago, but I’ll take a Coke.”
I get our drinks and we settle in our usual spots on the sofa. I’m starved. And I’m still pissed that she had a pleasant—a normal—conversation with Jeremy, but I’m not going to tell her that.
“He asked about you,” she says.
“He who?” I say through a mouthful. I know who, of course, but I want Gabi to think I’ve put him completely out of mind.
“Jeremy. He seems nice. I think we misjudged him. He told me about meeting you and your mom yesterday. He said he had to rush off.”
“Bull. He pretended someone was waiting for him, but I saw him walk away from the market alone. I mean, after my mother mauled him, I understand why he wanted to get away, but still he was kind of a jerk.”
“That’s what he asked me, if you felt he’d been a jerk. Actually, ‘behaved rudely’ is the phrase he
used.”
I keep chewing. How can I get Gabi to tell me every word Jeremy said yet pretend I’m not the least bit interested?
“I told him to ask you,” she adds.
Shocked, I suck the bite I was about to swallow too far back in my throat. I spend the next minute coughing. “You did what?” I ask when I can breathe again. Crap. So much for playing it cool. I work up a sneer. “Why would he care what I think of him?”
She shrugs. “Maybe he’s fallen for your mom.”
It’s a good thing I hadn’t taken another bite because I’d totally be choking to death right now.
“What a pity the world is missing out on your stand-up routine,” I tell her. “So did he speak to you first?”
“Yeah. He said, ‘You’re Chelsea’s friend, aren’t you?’ and then we started talking.”
“He called me Chelsea to you but Ms. Cole to my face?”
“I think he’s just teasing you when he does that.”
“Get real. Mr. High Tea doesn’t even know the meaning of tease.” Okay, now the sound of their laughter is coming back to me. Gabi’s laughed at me to my face over dumb things I’ve said or done, but she wouldn’t laugh—especially with him—behind my back, right? I’m dying to know everything they talked about, but I’d better drop it before she gets suspicious. “Want to watch a movie?”
Gabi shakes her head and opens her purse. “Matt will be home for dinner tonight. I just stopped by to show you something I found while I was visiting Mom. We went through her photo albums.” She pulls out an envelope. “I’d forgotten this.” She hands me a photo. “Greg … what was his last name?”
In this photo, snapped during a school field trip, Gabi stands on one side of Greg and I’m on the other. He’s smiling. We’re grimacing because as the camera clicked, we were trying to break each other’s fingers behind Greg’s back. That was seventh grade, and we were both in love with him. How could Gabi forget his last name? She wrote it a thousand times, just like I did: Greg Chambers, Gregory Alan Chambers, Chelsea Chambers, Mrs. Greg Chambers.
“Chambers,” I say. “Greg Chambers.”
“That’s right! Crazy how we almost let that rivalry ruin our friendship. And then he moved away during the summer, and we never saw him again. I wonder what happened to him.”
“Who knows?” Actually, I know. I looked him up on Facebook. Not that I’m going to admit that to her. It’s too pathetic.
For a long time after Gabi leaves, I sit staring at the door. I can’t compete with Gabi. That long ago rivalry for Greg was really no contest. I was just jealous that he had eyes only for her. And now she’s met Jeremy. My only advantage is that he lives eight feet above me. Well, that and the fact she has a fiancé. But even when Jeremy finds out about Matt, he’ll still want her. She gets everything.
And just like that I know I’m not going to get the assistant manager job. It was stupid to think I would.
CHAPTER 4
Okay. I’ve had two days to talk some sense into myself. It was just stress messing with my mind that made me doubt I’ll get the promotion. I’m absolutely the best person for the job. And it’s given me a boost of confidence that Barry’s scheduled me for the ten to six shift for the last week of this month. He has to make his promotion decision by the end of July, so taking me off openings must be a sign he’s making me the assistant manager, who works this shift permanently.
Smiling and excited, I arrive twenty minutes early. I breeze right in, greet Austen, and fix myself a fountain Coke. Just as that first icy gulp hits my stomach, I realize Austen didn’t respond when I said, “How’s it going?” Actually, he’s doing that hyper focus thing, like when you’re pretending not to notice someone.
What’s going on?
I set down the soda and look around the deli. Everything looks normal until some new guy steps out of the storage room—Carlos, according to his name tag. He’s not a teen like Austen. He’s at least five years older than I am. Worse, he also avoids looking me in the eye.
Barry opens his office door and beckons me. I walk toward him, my hands cold, my face flaming. His office is so small there’s barely room to step inside and shut the door, so I don’t bother. Obviously, what he’s going to say is no secret to any of us.
“I want you to know it wasn’t easy to make this decision, Chelsea. You’re a good worker. But I had other factors to consider and—”
“Why did you decide against me?”
“Basically, Carlos has been working for DEE·LISH longer than you.”
“And he’s a man.”
Barry shakes his head. “You know we can’t discriminate based on age, gender, race—”
“So he’s in, and I’m out.”
“You’re not out, Chelsea.”
Huh? Oh no you don’t, buddy.
“You can’t expect me to work with him, Barry.”
“No. Actually, you’ve been transferred to the Franklin Street store, effective—”
“Hell no! I’m not driving across town. I’ll quit before—”
“Chelsea.” Barry sighs. “Don’t make a decision like that in anger. Franklin’s not that far—”
“You know what? I’m quitting right now. I’m sick of this stupid job anyway.” I shut up for a few seconds because my voice is starting to quiver, but the pity in Barry’s eyes shows he knows I’m only lying to save face, and that makes me angry. I take a deep breath and straighten to my full five feet four inches. “It’s Friday. Is my check ready?”
“Yes.” He looks at his hands folded on the desk. “I wish you would think about this for—”
“I have thought about it. I didn’t really want the promotion anyway. It’s time for me to move on.”
He looks at me for a moment, and then he glances toward the open door and lowers his voice. “I agree, Chelsea. You’re overqualified for this job. I’m sure you can and will do better.”
My eyes sting and I don’t trust my voice again, so I just nod.
He pulls my check out of his ledger and holds it out to me. “I’ll need your store keys.”
I step out of his office long enough to get my purse. I dig the keys out, drop them on his desk, and grab my check.
“Good luck,” he says.
“Thanks.”
Even though it’s closer to my car, I’m not slinking out the back door. I head toward the front of the store, my head up, eyes straight ahead. I’m four feet from my noble escape when Austen calls out to me.
“I’m sorry you’re leaving, Chelsea. I liked working with you.”
My eyes are wet, and I can’t budge the lump in my throat, but I manage to croak out a response. “Thanks. You’re a nice guy, Austen. Stay cool.”
I’m pretty sure the door shuts behind me before the first sob breaks loose. Everything’s a blur as I make my way to the parking lot. Why am I blubbering over a stupid deli job? I should have been embarrassed to be working there in the first place. I have a college degree for God’s sake.
Indignation clears my head enough to remember where I parked my car. Just as I’m about to put the keys in the ignition, it hits me. I. Quit. My. Job.
The keys drop from my hand. My tears turn off like magic. I quit. Now, I can’t even get unemployment. I’m screwed. My stupidity freezes me in place. I sit looking straight ahead but seeing nothing.
The horrifying thought that I might lose my apartment and have to move back to my mom’s house is what breaks my trance.
I have to get another job. Immediately.
*
By the time I get back to my apartment, I’ve calmed down. Actually, I’m so calm I can hardly pick up my feet to walk from my car to my door. Can depression set in that quickly? I don’t know the exact unemployment rate in this town, but as I thought about my job prospects during the drive home I realized just about every person I know is either looking for a job or looking for a better job. I might as well tell my mom to get my room ready now.
I kick off my shoes at the door, and continue
on to the kitchen, where I strip off my DEE·LISH tee and work pants and throw them in the trash. Then I refill my Nalgene bottle with cold water from the fridge and carry it to the bedroom. It’s hot in my room, but I don’t dare touch the thermostat. Using the ceiling fan is cheaper. I just want to crawl into bed and fall asleep so I don’t have to think about all the other things I’ll have to give up until I’m employed again.
No such luck. I slept in too late to nap now. Maybe it’s too quiet. I reach for my earbuds before I realize I don’t want to listen to music. Oh wow, I must be depressed.
Despite the heat, I open my bedroom window to see if I can hear Jeremy working. I can’t. If he’s writing, he’s sensible enough to have his window closed and the air-conditioner turned up full blast this afternoon.
So.
I lie on my back staring at the ceiling until I notice how the crack that used to be barely visible has widened, which makes me think about earthquakes, and that I’ve forgotten the safety rules for people like me who live in a ground floor apartment. During a quake, am I supposed to stay inside and risk getting pancaked or get the hell out of here?
Does Jeremy know about earthquake safety? I don’t have a clue how long he’s lived in California. Maybe he’s lived here for ages and just hasn’t lost his accent. And why would he want to?
I sigh and roll on my side, which is a mistake because now I’m facing my closet. The door is standing open—okay, it’s always open—but now I’m noticing what a horrid mess the closet is. I can’t even remember the last time I cleaned it out. Since the positive thing would be to keep busy until I figure out how to get myself out of the mess I’ve made by quitting my job, I get off the bed. Should I work top to bottom or vice versa? I stand in the closet doorway and take stock. Really, this is a huge job. I’ll just organize my shoes today.
I sit on the floor and start digging my way through the tumble of shoes and purses and clothes that fell from hangers. Hey, I forgot all about these violet sequined flip-flops. I wonder how many other things in here I’ve forgotten about. This could be fun, like going shopping.
High Tea & Flip-Flops Page 3