“I come no more to make you laugh,” he booms, tapping his gold-tipped cane against the stage floor. “Things now, that bear a weighty and a serious brow … sad, high, and working … full of state and woe … such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow.”
Alan loves a dramatic pause, so it usually takes him forever to wander through this soliloquy. Surprisingly, no one ever leaves during his performance. Maybe they’re afraid he’ll throw them in the stocks.
“You go to West Seattle High?” Wesley asks.
“Yup.” I glance at him, my stomach suddenly tight. “Don’t tell me…”
He nods. “I’ll be there in the fall.”
Great. So not only do I have to work with Wesley, but he’ll be haunting my school hallways as well. This night just keeps getting better.
“It seriously sucks to have to start a new school in my senior year,” he says. “I kept in touch with a couple of guys from elementary school, though, so at least I’m not going in totally blind.” He nudges me with his elbow. “And you, of course. I know you.”
Is he for real?
Wesley James and I will never be friends.
Ever.
He takes in my crossed arms, the death-glare. And, finally, he gets it.
“Wait,” he says, his smile fading. “You aren’t still mad…”
When I don’t say anything, Wesley shakes his head. “Boy, Q. You can really hold a grudge.”
He has no idea.
“How can you still be mad? It was five years ago,” he says. “And, when you think about it, I didn’t even really do anything—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. The words come out louder than I expected them to, falling right into one of Alan’s dramatic pauses. I sink back into the shadows before he can identify me—I’m hoping the stage lights mean he can’t see the crowd clearly—and I don’t breathe again until he resumes his speech.
As soon as the lights come up, I leave Wesley to fend for himself.
* * *
By the time I get home, it’s nearly midnight. I text Erin—fortunately, she’s a night owl—and a few seconds later my phone rings.
“I hate my life,” I say, collapsing on my bed. I really should take a shower—I stink like turkey and grease and despair—but right now I need to talk to Erin more than I need to be clean. “You will not believe who I’m working with.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say his name. I’m too traumatized.” I throw my arm over my eyes.
“Jason Cutler?”
Jason and I had a brief thing last semester. He dumped me over text the day before my birthday, so I understand why his name is the first to pop into her head.
But while working with Jason would be heinous, it would still be preferable to working with Wesley.
“Worse,” I say.
“Who’s worse than Jason?”
“Wesley James.”
“No! I thought he lived in Oregon?”
I sigh deeply and turn over, burying my face in my pillow. “He moved back,” I mumble.
“What are you going to do?”
I picture Erin in her room. It’s twice the size of mine, with purple-striped walls and a canopy bed, like something out of a fairy tale.
“What can I do?” I say.
“I don’t know. Quit?”
“Not if I want to go to London. It’s way too late in the summer to try to find another job. Besides, why should I quit? I was there first.”
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” she says. “Maybe he’s changed.”
“No. He hasn’t.” I rub my eyes. I think I’m getting a migraine.
“Is he cute?”
“Erin.”
“What? He was a cute kid. I’m trying to get a mental picture of what he looks like now.”
“You don’t need a mental picture. You can see him in person when he starts school with us in September.”
“Seriously?”
“Why do you sound excited? This is the exact opposite of exciting news.”
She laughs. “I don’t know. Maybe because all you’ve talked about for years is what a jerk he is. How he ruined your life. I just think…”
“You just think what?” I prompt.
“Sixth grade was a long time ago, Quinn. People change,” she says. “Maybe it’s time to let go.”
Erin doesn’t get it. Wesley and his big mouth are the reason my parents are no longer together. That’s not something I will let go of. Ever.
In the background, I can hear her fingers clicking the keys on her saxophone. “You’re practicing?”
“I’m not actually playing. My mom would kill me if I woke her up. I’m working on my finger technique.”
Erin’s very serious about music. I glance guiltily at my clarinet case leaning against the wall in the corner of my room. I haven’t pulled it out since band practice last week. Mr. Aioki is forcing us to meet over the summer so we’ll be ready for the tour, but we’re also supposed to practice on our own, too. And I never seem to get around to it.
“So, how much did you make tonight?” Erin asks.
I dig in my pocket and pull out a few wrinkled bills and some coins, along with the stinky milk rag I forgot to dump in the restaurant’s laundry bin. “Thirteen bucks.” At this rate, I should get to London around my fortieth birthday.
I sit up and grab for the mason jar on my bedside table. It’s nearly full, which makes me feel a tiny bit better. I know without counting that there’s almost three hundred dollars inside. I like to wait until it’s completely full before depositing the money into my account.
“Every little bit, right?” Erin says.
I stuff the money into the jar and the coins make a satisfying clink against the glass. “Every little bit.”
three.
I find Caleb restocking the science fiction section. He’s crouched down, sliding a stack of paperbacks onto the wide wooden shelves.
“Hey.” I nudge him with my flip-flop, and my clarinet case bumps against my leg.
“Hey.” Caleb straightens the books so the spines are all perfectly lined up and then stands. He’s wearing a green polo shirt and khakis with knife-blade creases running down each leg. It’s not even a uniform; this is just the way Caleb dresses. Like a middle-aged man.
“You’re early.” He checks his watch. “Practice isn’t for another half an hour.”
Caleb is the other clarinet player in concert band. He’s better than me—by a mile—but that’s because he actually cares about playing the clarinet.
“I know. I thought I’d check out the travel section,” I say.
He smiles. “Again?”
“I think I’ll actually pull the trigger this time.” I’ve been eyeing an art book on England. I haven’t bought it though because it’s superexpensive and I’m trying to pinch every penny I can. But I’ve decided I need something to cheer me up after last night.
“You can use my employee discount,” he offers. “Twenty-five percent.”
“Thanks.”
Caleb tells me he’ll meet me at the register and I wander to the other side of the store, where the travel books are kept. It’s a small section tucked near the in-store café, so the whole area smells like roasting coffee and banana bread.
I set my case on the floor, grab England’s Greatest Attractions from the shelf, and flop into a squashy yellow chair. Once I’m settled, I open the book to page 67, the place I always start. Big Ben. Looking at the photo makes my heart beat a little bit faster. My grandfather proposed to my gran on Westminster Bridge, at the foot of that famous old clock, more than fifty years ago. It’s the first place I want to go when I finally get to London.
I’m so busy going over the long list of things I need to see and how I’m going to accomplish all of them in the small amount of free time Mr. Aioki is allotting us, that I don’t notice the black Converse sneakers at first. When I look up, it’s straight into a pair of dark gray eyes.
Wesley James
is standing in front of me in a rumpled T-shirt, his blond hair all mussed like he’s just come in from a windstorm. The sight of him unexpectedly sends a nervous jolt through me.
“Well, looky here,” he says. He’s holding a large takeout coffee cup.
“You’re not supposed to bring food or drinks into this part of the store,” I say.
The corner of Wesley’s mouth lifts up, a half smile. For some reason I can’t figure out, he seems to find me amusing. “Q, you are way too uptight. What are they going to do? Kick me out?” He takes a sip of his coffee, like he’s daring me to tell on him.
And you know what? I’m considering it.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I don’t like that he’s hovering over me—it’s like it gives him the upper hand, somehow—so I struggle out of the squashy chair. “Are you following me? Because I’m pretty sure stalking is a federal offense.”
“I’m not stalking you, crazy,” he says. “I’m here to see a friend. I happened to be over there”—he points at the café—“when I saw you over here. Thought I’d say hi.”
Oh.
“Okay, well. Hi.” I lean down to pick up my clarinet case. Wesley takes advantage of the fact that I’ve relaxed my guard and plucks the book from my hand.
“England’s Greatest Attractions.” He glances at me. I can’t read the expression on his face, but I immediately feel defensive.
“It’s research,” I say. “I’m going to London. With the school band.”
I have no idea why I’m telling him this. The less Wesley knows about me and my life, the better. He can’t be trusted. He proved that a long time ago.
“Really?” He sets his coffee on the narrow arm of the chair, where it will almost definitely tip and spill all over the pale leather, and flips the book open. He paws recklessly through the pages, flipping past photos of Buckingham Palace and Stonehenge. “Hm. Maybe I should join band. I’d love to go to England.”
“Sorry.” I snatch the book back, almost catching his fingers as I snap the cover closed. “Not possible. It’s concert band. You have to audition to get in.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he says. “I play the tuba.”
“You’re kidding, right?”’Cause it must be a joke. The Wesley I knew was way too cool to go near a tuba. He was more of a guitar or drums kind of guy.
He cocks his head. And there’s that half smile again. “Nope.”
I snort.
“Oh, you think that’s funny? Okay. So what do you play?”
Crap. I really should think before I snort.
“The clarinet,” I mumble.
Wesley makes a big deal of holding his hand up to his ear. “I’m sorry, what? I didn’t hear you.”
“The clarinet,” I snap. “I play the clarinet. Which, as everyone knows, is much cooler than the tuba.” I march away but he trails after me. He follows me all the way to the front register, where Caleb is waiting.
I set the book on the counter. Wesley’s right beside me, all up in my personal space, so I turn around and hiss, “Why are you still here?”
“I told you. I’m here to see a friend.” He extends his hand to Caleb and they do some weirdly complicated boy handshake that makes my heart sink.
Wesley did mention he’d kept in touch with some of the guys from elementary school.
“So what’s up, man? Did you get the job?” Caleb asks as he rings up my book.
I hand him my debit card, trying to keep my expression calm. Inside, though, I’m a tornado. Because I know what’s coming. I know exactly what Wesley will say next. And I can’t think of a way to stop him.
“Yup. In fact Q and I work together,” he says.
And there it is. Another secret spilled by Wesley James.
Caleb’s eyebrows fly up into his hairline. “You work at Tudor Tymes, Quinn? You never mentioned that.”
It’s not exactly something I go around broadcasting. Most of my friends don’t even know, with the exception of Erin. I was teased in middle school, so I’ve learned not to give anyone any ammunition. Working in a medieval restaurant is just asking for it.
“I loved that place when I was a kid,” Caleb says. “Which character are you?”
Wesley chuckles. “She’s a wench.”
“I am not a wench,” I say, glaring at him. “I’m a royal servant.”
“Please.” Wesley drains his coffee. He shoots the empty cup over the counter and it sinks perfectly into the small metal garbage can behind Caleb. “She’s definitely a wench. She wears a corset.”
They both stare at me, like they’re picturing me in it right now, which is totally humiliating. I cross my arms over my chest to block their view. “Yeah, well, he’s a pirate magician.” I make a face like, isn’t-that-the-stupidest-thing-you’ve-ever-heard, but Caleb doesn’t catch it. He’s busy shoving my book into a recycled tote bag.
“You’re still doing magic, dude?” he says.
“Helps with the tips,” Wesley mutters.
“You mean it helps you steal tips.” I take the bag from Caleb. “We should probably get going. I don’t want to be late for practice.”
“Yeah.” Caleb takes off his name tag and slides it into his pocket. “You ready?” he says to Wesley.
Wait, what?
“Wes is coming with us. He’s thinking about buying my truck, so I told him to come for a test drive. You don’t mind, do you?”
Mind? Of course I mind. But I don’t know how I can tell Caleb that without seeming like a total freak.
And so that is how I end up wedged between them, Caleb on one side and Wesley on the other. I’m scrunched over on the bench seat as close to Caleb as possible, but Wesley’s knee still somehow keeps brushing against mine.
“How come you’re selling your truck?” I ask Caleb.
He grimaces. “The payments are killing me. And with London coming up…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Europe is not cheap. Sure, the band is holding fund-raisers to offset some of the cost, but each of us is still expected to kick in almost fifteen hundred dollars. Not all of our parents can afford it. Some of us have to sell our trucks or get jobs in medieval-themed restaurants.
We drive down California Avenue, past boutiques and coffee shops, bakeries and thrift stores, past a whole lifetime of memories. I let Wesley and Caleb carry the conversation—mostly about horsepower and gas mileage, eventually segueing into a debate about the Seattle Seahawks that I don’t even try to follow, until we reach West Seattle High. Caleb and I climb out and Caleb tells Wesley to pick us up after practice. So I guess I haven’t seen the last of him today.
Our footsteps echo in the halls. It’s so weird to be here in the summer, when the school is deserted. The walls are freshly painted, no flyers or posters to clutter them up. It even smells different. Cleaner.
We slip into the band room. Erin’s at the back with the other saxophones. She smiles until she notices I’m with Caleb then she shakes her head. She doesn’t think I should hang out with him so much, considering he likes me and I haven’t made up my mind about him yet.
On paper, Caleb is perfect for me. There are a million reasons why I should like him. He’s smart and responsible. He’s not bad to look at. He plays the clarinet. We’re a match made in band geek heaven.
But.
He does not make my knees weak. Or my heart race or give me butterflies or any of those other clichéd feelings you’re supposed to have when you like someone. But I’m hoping that will change.
I’m almost finished assembling my clarinet when Mr. Aioki pulls the door closed and steps up to the podium. He taps his baton against the metal and lifts his arms. As the rest of the band members raise their instruments, I quickly place my reed against the mouthpiece and slide the ligature over the top to keep the reed in place, trying to ignore the annoyed expression on my band teacher’s face.
The sound of Beethoven’s March in D Major floods the room, pushing Wesley and everything else out of my mind.
; four.
Dad’s already in line when I arrive at the crumpet place. We’ve been meeting here for breakfast every Saturday morning since the divorce.
“Hey, ladybug,” he says, giving me a hug. He smells like aftershave. A good sign. He must have won at the track last night. When he loses—which happens often—he reeks like beer. “There’s a free table over there.”
I hurry over and snag the table that overlooks the guy making the crumpets. While Dad places our order, I watch the guy behind the window squeeze thick yellow batter into the tiny, round metal pans and then place them on the griddle.
“So,” Dad says, setting a blackberry-jam-covered crumpet in front of me and sliding into his chair. “How’s your mother?”
“Good.” It’s the same answer I give him every time he asks, which is every time I see him. He still seems to think he has a chance of winning her back. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s never going to happen.
Dad dumps a packet of sugar into his mug and then stirs his coffee, his spoon clinking against the porcelain. “And how’s the job going?”
I shrug. I should probably tell him that the Jameses are back in town, but he’s between jobs again and it might make him feel bad. No need to remind him about the past. It’s bad enough I have to deal with it.
“I’m going to London in the fall with band,” I say. This is the first time I’ve mentioned the trip, even though I’ve known about it since last semester. There hasn’t been much point in talking about it with him until I was sure I’d have enough money to go.
“Really? That sounds fun.” His voice wavers. He’s already worrying about how he’s going to pay for it.
“I should have the full amount saved by the time school starts,” I say.
His face relaxes. “I didn’t realize you guys were so good.”
“Eh. We’re okay. It’s not a competition or anything. It’s just a tour.”
Dad leans back in his chair, a faraway look in his eyes. “Did I ever tell you about the time I went to Amsterdam with—”
Wesley James Ruined My Life Page 2