I bring everything up to the front. The lady behind the register puts down her copy of Hello! magazine and rings up my order. When I get back outside, Dad’s leaning against a streetlamp, hands wedged in his pockets. His hair is messy, sticking up in tufts, like he’s been working his fingers through it. I hand him the bag.
“You sure you don’t want to come with me? I know she’d love to see you,” he says, peeking inside.
“Some other time,” I say, backing away before he can give me a hug.
Right now, I really want to be alone.
seven.
Mr. Aioki’s at the podium, arms raised, when there’s a knock on the band room door. I lower my clarinet, glancing around the room to see if anyone is missing, but there are no empty chairs. Everyone is here.
He stalks to the door and opens it a crack. From where I’m sitting, I can’t tell who’s on the other side.
Caleb rests his clarinet across his knees. “I’m surprised he answered it,” he says.
So am I. As a rule, Mr. Aioki does not abide interruptions. We could be in the middle of an earthquake and he’d make us keep playing, that’s how seriously he takes concert band, so it is kind of odd that he wouldn’t just ignore whoever was at the door.
“Maybe he’s expecting someone,” I say.
A moment later the door swings fully open and Wesley James enters the room. Lugging a huge black tuba case.
This can’t be happening.
Mr. Aioki grabs an extra chair and tells Wesley to squeeze between Alisha and Jiao, our brass section. Wesley smiles apologetically as the second row shuffles their seats around to accommodate him.
I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack. I’m all sweaty and my chest feels tight. I’m clutching my clarinet so hard the keys leave indents on the pads of my fingers.
Mr. Aioki taps his baton on the podium. “Everyone,” he says. “You’ll notice we have a new addition. Normally, I wouldn’t accept new members into concert band this late in the year, especially this close to a tour, but Wesley James is a special case.”
Oh, he’s a special case all right.
I turn around to catch Erin’s eye. She shakes her head sympathetically.
“Mr. James is transferring to West Seattle High in September and, as luck would have it, he plays the tuba. And as you all know, our brass section could use a bit more support.”
Alisha and Jiao play the trumpet and the trombone, respectively, and they are very competitive. Like insanely so. No way will they be happy Wesley’s joining their ranks.
“Let’s take five to give Mr. James a chance to set up.” Murmurs break out around the room as Mr. Aioki starts to shuffle through a stack of sheet music.
“Hey, man,” Caleb says, turning around in his chair. Wesley plunks into the seat behind me, his tuba case knocking against the legs of my chair. “You passed the audition!”
“Yeah, I’m psyched.” Wesley flips the latches on his battered case. The hinges squeak as he opens the lid.
I give him a black stare. “Why are you here?”
Wesley pulls out his tuba, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You know, you ask me that a lot,” he says.
That’s because he’s always turning up where I least expect him. He’s like bedbugs: irritating and impossible to get rid of.
“You only joined because of the trip,” I snap.
“Well … yeah,” he says. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?”
My crazy must be showing because Caleb is giving me a strange look. Probably wondering why I’m being so hostile to his new best friend. I grab a felt cloth from my case and start furiously polishing my clarinet.
“You must be a stellar player,” Caleb says. “Aioki doesn’t let just anyone in.”
“I’m all right,” Wesley says.
I roll my eyes. Aioki wouldn’t have accepted Wesley if he wasn’t a better-than-all-right tuba player, no matter how much support our brass section needs. Ugh, his false modesty is gross.
Wesley tunes his instrument, his cheeks billowing as he blows a quick puff of air into the mouthpiece, oblivious to the fact that everyone in the room is sneaking looks at him. Especially the girls. Even Erin. I catch her eye and she mouths, “He is so hot.”
Her reaction irritates me, although I’m not sure why. Fine, Wesley’s hot. So what? Caleb’s hot, too. Sort of. And a much better match for me than Wesley James.
My cheeks flush. Why am I even thinking about Wesley in that way? Being with him is not something that’s ever going to happen—never, ever. The thought should make me feel sick, instead of warm all over. God, what’s wrong with me?
When Wesley’s finally done tuning up, Mr. Aioki steps back to the podium and we start with “America the Beautiful,” a little off-key at first. I play it automatically, running through the notes without thinking, my mind on how much my life is full of suck.
I haven’t told Mr. Aioki—or anyone else, for that matter—that I can’t go on the tour yet. For the past few days, I’ve been holding out hope that Dad would find another way out of his mess, that I wouldn’t need to help him, but no such luck. I gave him the money last night. So it’s official. I’m not going to London.
But Wesley James is.
It’s not fair.
What really gets me is that he’s not even sorry about what happened between us five years ago. He hasn’t even tried to apologize for ruining my life. It doesn’t even matter to him.
By the time we play the first notes of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5, I’m really fuming. Wesley needs to be taught a lesson. He has to take responsibility for what he did.
And then suddenly it comes to me.
I may not be able to do anything about Wesley going to my school or being a part of concert band or even having the same circle of friends, but there is one thing I might be able to do.
Get him fired.
* * *
My mind is still buzzing, working through my plan, while Erin and I wait in line for our after-practice caffeine fix.
“Quinn? You in there?” She snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Have you heard anything I’ve said in the past five minutes?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I was thinking.”
“About Wesley?”
My cheeks redden. “Yes, but not in the way that you mean.”
“Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” Erin places our order with the barista then hands him a ten-dollar bill. For once, I don’t protest when she pays. This afternoon I need the caffeine more than my pride. “He’s mad cute,” she says, dropping her change into the tip jar.
“Not my type.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Mad cute is not your type? Since when?”
The whir of the blender keeps me from giving her an answer. We collect our drinks from the counter—two iced mochas, heavy on the whipped cream—and make our way down to the beach. As we walk on the wide cement path that lines Alki Beach, back toward Erin’s house, I fill her in on my plan.
“Don’t you think getting him fired is a bit harsh?” Erin says, pushing a strand of her short dark hair out of her eyes. “I mean, this all happened a thousand years ago. It’s old news.”
“It doesn’t feel like old news to me.” I move aside to avoid being flattened by a shirtless guy on Rollerblades. “A reminder: My parents would still be together if it wasn’t for Wesley James. He needs to pay.”
“Quinn—”
“I’m serious. And every miserable thing that’s happened after they broke up is his fault, too.”
“Do you hear yourself? That’s insane. You can’t seriously hold Wesley responsible for your parents’ prob—”
“Yes I can,” I cut her off. “It all stems from what he did. All of it.”
Erin sighs. “Okay. But getting him fired is not going to bring your parents back together.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. It will not change anything and it won’t make up for all the hurt. But it will make me happy. And if I can make
Wesley’s life even a tiny bit miserable, then it’s time well spent.
“Quinn, I really think you should try to let go of this. For your own sake. It’s not good to hang on to all that negative energy.” She stops to dig a pebble out of her sandal. “You know what we should do? Cleanse your aura.”
“My aura is fine.”
“Hm. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to clean it up a bit,” she says. “It also wouldn’t hurt to focus on something else. Or someone else.”
“Like Caleb?”
“So you do like him.”
I hesitate. “I like him. I’m just not sure if I like him like him.”
“Well, we’ll be in London for a whole week, barely any parental supervision,” she says, dancing around me. “Perfect opportunity for some sweet band-geek love.”
My heart plummets. I usually tell Erin everything, but not being able to go on the trip? I can’t even put it into words. I feel bad that I’m hiding it from her, but I don’t think I can talk about it without crying yet, so I murmur, “Yeah, perfect,” and listen to her run through a list of what she needs to pack and what she can buy there, until we’re back at her house and she’s forgotten all about Wesley and my dirty aura.
eight.
Alan leans forward on his throne, casting his gaze around the restaurant. “Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot,” he says. “That it do singe yourself.”
Okay, if I believed in signs, I might take that as one. Especially when Alan’s eyes land on me and he slowly shakes his head, like he knows all about my evil/brilliant plan to get Wesley fired.
But I don’t believe in signs. And there’s no way Alan knows anything, not unless he’s a mind reader. Which does not seem likely.
Still, my hands shake a little as I set the basket of bread in the middle of table six.
Alan pushes himself off his throne and continues with his soliloquy—a single spotlight following him across the stage—while I recite the list of ingredients used in our roasted potatoes for the third time.
“Garlic, olive oil, and oregano,” I say. “That’s basically it.”
“Basically?” The woman raises her over-plucked eyebrows. “You don’t know for sure?”
My cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling at her. “No, I’m sure. That’s it. Three ingredients.”
She still doesn’t believe me, so I tell her I’ll double-check with the chef, but I don’t really plan to because I already know what he’ll say: garlic, olive oil, and oregano.
On my way to the kitchen, I veer behind a wide stone pillar. The perfect spot for spying on Wesley.
He’s serving a group of girls who look to be about our age. One of them—a redhead in a yellow dress—is laughing a little too hard at whatever he’s saying. I know from experience that nothing Wesley says is ever that funny, so I gather she must be into him. Or maybe she just has a pirate fetish.
Wesley pulls a chocolate coin from behind her ear—seriously, it’s such a lame trick, I don’t think it even deserves to be called a trick—and she squeals. He smiles, takes off his hat and places it over his heart, gives her a little bow. When he hands Red the coin, I catch the girl beside her rolling her eyes. This girl is the only one at the table not wearing a paper crown. What she is wearing, however, is a very surly expression. One that tells me she’d kill to be anywhere but here.
I know the feeling.
I used to love working at Tudor Tymes. Well, maybe love is a strong word, but I really liked it. Tudor Tymes was my thing—no one else from school worked here. No pressure to act cool—a good thing, since that’s hard to do in a medieval costume. But ever since Wesley was hired, it’s been stressful. And now he’s joined band and I have to share that with him as well. It’s infuriating.
The very idea that Wesley James, of all people, is going on my dream trip kills me. He’ll be in London, checking out Trafalgar Square, riding the London Eye, and watching the Changing the Guard at Buckingham Palace. And I will be stuck here. Forever.
The only thing that’s given me any pleasure lately is my plan. I’ve spent most of the past week dreaming up ways to get Wesley’s ass canned. As far as I can figure, my best strategy is to get customers to complain about him. As many as possible, as often as possible, until Joe has no choice but to get rid of him.
And I think Surly Girl can help me. I don’t think it will take much to push her over the edge. She looks like complaining is part of her DNA.
I peek back at my table to make sure they aren’t watching for me—the last thing I need is to make my own customers angry. But the woman is busy poking distrustfully at the basket of bread while her two kids duel it out with plastic straws.
I turn back as Wesley pulls his order pad from his back pocket. This is it. Showtime.
I grab a silver pitcher from the water station and hustle over to his table. The first thing he’s supposed to do is fill the guests’ water goblets but, as usual, rules don’t mean anything to Wesley. Something that is definitely going to work in my favor tonight.
“Need some help?” I smile, holding up the pitcher.
Wesley glances up from his order pad. He gives me a slow smile. An I-knew-you’d-come-around-eventually smile that makes me want to slap him. “That would be great,” he says. “Thanks, Q.”
I fill the girls’ goblets, planning my route around the table so I end up right behind Wesley as he’s taking Surly Girl’s order.
“Remind me why we couldn’t go for sushi?” she says to her friends.
“Aw, come on. You can have sushi anytime,” Wesley says. “But eating here … well, this is an experience.”
Surly’s laser-glare is a pretty strong indication of what she thinks about this experience. And of Wesley. It occurs to me that I may not have to do anything after all. I smile. He’s going to earn this complaint all by himself.
“There is nothing edible on this menu,” she says.
“I don’t know about that. The house special is pretty popular.” He taps his pencil against the cartoon drawing of a turkey leg. “Not exactly as shown, of course.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m a vegetarian.”
Oh, this is too easy. All I have to do is change her salad order to something that used to have a face and then watch the drama unfold.
I quickly fill all the goblets, sloshing water onto the plastic tablecloth in my haste to get to the kitchen. I need to beat Wesley back there in order for this to work.
I push through the swinging door. Fortunately, it’s a slow night. No one but Dean, the cook, is back here and he’s too busy plating orders to notice me loitering around the computer station, but I swipe my card and pretend to place an order just in case.
A minute later, Wesley saunters in. He tosses his order pad on the desk with a sigh. “Tough crowd,” he says.
“I don’t know. You seemed to be making friends just fine,” I say, thinking of the way the red-haired girl drooled over him.
Wesley smiles and my stomach does this weird swoopy drop.
“Jealous, Q?”
“Yes, terribly.” But my cheeks suddenly feel warm. Hopefully, he doesn’t notice. The last thing I need is for Wesley to think I like him. Because I don’t. Obviously.
I continue punching in my fake order, very aware of how close he is.
I hate that I’m aware of how close he is.
Wesley’s fiddling with his swipe card, waiting to key his own orders into the computer. I need him to turn around or talk to Dean or something so I can sneak his order pad off the desk. “I’ll just be a second,” I say, stalling.
“Take your time,” he says. “I’m not in a hurry.”
Of course not, I think irritably. Why would you be in a hurry? You only have a table full of hungry people waiting.
As do I. But I gave my table bread. The second thing we’re supposed to do when customers arrive, as clearly outlined in our staff orientation manual. Which Wesley probably hasn’t even read.
And, I realize, it’s the perfect way to ge
t him out of here so I can switch the orders.
“I noticed you haven’t given table one their bread yet,” I say.
“I’ll take it out there in a minute,” Wesley replies. “What’s the rush?”
“You’re supposed to give them their bread before they order,” I say. “It’s the rule. And do I need to remind you what happens when you break the rules?”
I let the threat of the stocks hang there. I can feel Wesley’s eyes on me, but I don’t look up. Finally, he sighs heavily and says, “All right, fine. Guess I’d better go and give the girls their bread before you turn me in.”
He clomps off. I wait until the door swings shut before grabbing his order pad off the desk, along with a tooth-marked pencil. I carefully erase Surly Girl’s order—a salad with ranch dressing on the side—then scribble “house special” in what I hope is a convincing forgery of Wesley’s chicken-scratch writing. I toss the order pad back on the desk and leave the kitchen, my palms sweating.
Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve taken my own table’s order, I’m back in the kitchen. Wesley grabs three plates from underneath the heat lamp and heads out to his table.
Bruce is behind me at the computer station. I peek through the porthole in the door, watching as Wesley sets the turkey leg in front of Surly. Her face immediately contorts, like he’s placed a severed head in front of her.
“Huh,” Bruce says.
Something in his voice makes me turn around. “What’s up?”
“Wesley left his swipe card here.” He shakes his head. “That’s the second time he’s just left it lying around.” Wesley is disorganized, so this doesn’t really surprise me. I’m thinking about how I can use this to my advantage when he shoves through the door, his face red and flustered.
Bruce hands him the swipe card and Wesley tucks it into his pocket without a second thought.
“Hey, Dean,” he calls to the chef. “I messed up. I need a salad, stat.” He tosses the rejected turkey leg on the counter, the platter clanking against the stainless steel.
Almost immediately, Dean slides a plate of iceberg lettuce with a few shaved carrots and two sad little tomatoes at him.
Wesley James Ruined My Life Page 5