Getting Over Garrett Delaney

by McDonald, Abby

  “This has fruit!” I say, holding up a blueberry as evidence.

  “You’ll get scurvy.”

  “Patronizing, much?” I retort.

  LuAnn shakes a carrot stick at me. “I think I liked it better when you were a scared li’l newbie, kid.”

  “Yeah, well, those days are gone.” I smile, getting up to go deal with some new customers. “Deal with it.”

  And they are. As I bustle around behind the counter — fixing teas, whacking the Beast into submission — I can’t help feeling a warm glow of contentment. The easy banter I have with LuAnn and the others isn’t something I can take for granted just yet, but I’m more relaxed with them now. I thought it would never happen, back when I was bumbling around doing everything wrong (and leaping three feet into the air every time Garrett texted me), but finally I feel like I’m really part of the group and not a scared newbie outsider.

  Imagine, me with actual (cool, stylish, awesome) friends! There I was thinking that missing out on lit camp was dooming me to a summer of depression and loneliness, when really, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Just think what I would have done if I’d been accepted: absolutely nothing at all. Nothing new, I mean — just the same mix of pining after Garrett and burying myself in thick old books, only this time, in some forest up in New Hampshire. No coffee shop, no hanging out with Kayla, and definitely no Bring It On (1, 2, 3, 4, and 5).

  “Hey, Sadie,” Josh calls from the kitchen. I poke my head around the corner and find him balancing four different plates on the tiny countertop, his hat askew. “Can you do me a huge favor?”

  “That depends. . . .”

  “Grab the trash for me? Pretty please? I’m nearing a disaster of epic proportions.”

  I look at the bins, piled high with gross remains. “What’re the magic words?”

  “Cinnamon rolls.” Josh grins at me. I laugh; his rolls are legendary. He bakes them from scratch, only on Mondays, and by nine a.m. every last one is sold out.

  “OK, OK.” I wrinkle my nose and reach for a garbage bag. “But I want two. Fresh from the oven!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He salutes me with a pair of tongs.

  I grab the rest of the bags and push out through the back door into the alley behind the building: a charming, narrow passage of trash cans and empty cardboard boxes. There’s a whiff of rotting food in the air and a smattering of cigarette butts in the corner, courtesy of Denton and Jules, who are always ducking out here to puff away. I grimace, edging farther down the alley toward the street to find space for the bags.

  “I was thinking maybe we could get away this weekend.” I hear a male voice ahead, and then Dominique’s unmistakable French accent. I stop. I didn’t know she was in today.

  “I told you, I have a test. I have to study.”

  “So study with me.” The guy’s voice is low, intimate.

  “Sure, and then get an F.” She laughs.

  Dominique. Laughing. With a guy?

  I edge forward. She’s not dating anyone, not as far as I know, but Dominique is nothing if not secretive. So has she been carrying on some illicit affair all this time, sneaking out for romantic rendezvous?

  I look around at the day-old coffee grounds and sandwich remainders. OK, so making out in broad daylight in the dirty back alley is hardly romantic. But the million-dollar question is, who’s the guy?

  I creep closer, spurred on by the prospect of genuine grade-A gossip, until I can see them both, nestled between two stacks of old boxes. I can’t see his face yet, but he must be something special for her to risk staining her perfect khaki pants in this mess.

  “Come on,” he urges, nuzzling her neck, his back still to me. “I promise I’ll quiz you for your test.”

  “I can’t. You know I want to, but . . .” She pulls him closer and kisses him softly. “Next time — I promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” The guy kisses her again, turning slightly, and suddenly I see who it is.

  Carlos!

  I gasp, dropping the trash bags. Dominique springs back and sees me.

  Silence.

  For a split second, we stare at each other across the rotting remains — of lunch and their attempts at privacy. Then Carlos turns around, too.

  “Um, sorry!” I cry quickly. “Just . . . putting the trash out. Carry on with . . . whatever!” I back away and scurry inside, slamming the door behind me.

  Carlos! My mind reels at the impossibility of what I’ve just witnessed. But he’s, like, ancient. Thirty-five, or something like that. And sure, Dominique is twenty-two, but that’s still a whole person in age between them. Plus, she hates him! Loathes and despises him — anyone can see. When she’s not bitching at him, he’s threatening to fire her. Just last week they had an epic fight, so loud that LuAnn had to lock them in the office to keep them from scaring the customers.

  At least, that’s what we thought they were doing back there.

  I hurry back to the table, where Aiko and LuAnn are still lounging. “What’s up?” LuAnn asks, looking over. “You’re all flushed.”

  I open my mouth to spill the gossip, but something makes the words fade on my lips. Dominique looked so panicked when she saw me, as if this is a secret that really matters to her.

  “Nothing,” I lie, sliding into a seat. I don’t know why I should protect her, but some instinct makes me want to. “I guess it’s just hot out.”

  LuAnn turns back to her task at hand, upending her purse to spill bottles and packets all over the table. “I’ve got Advil, aspirin, Tylenol . . .” she tells Aiko.

  “And a serious problem?” I laugh, picking up one of the painkiller packages. “Is there something you want to tell us?”

  “Not me.” LuAnn giggles. “Her.”

  Aiko sighs. “Mama’s got a headache.”

  “And you just happened to knock over a CVS?” I ask.

  “Nope, I just stay prepared. I get the worst cramps,” LuAnn explains.

  “Cramps! Eww!” Jules joins us in time to hear that last part. He drags over a chair and sits on it backward. “Can’t you keep your lady talk down? You’ll freak out the customers.”

  We girls all roll our eyes in unison.

  “It’s called the wonder of the female body,” LuAnn tells him. “Deal with it.”

  “We have body hair, too,” Aiko adds. “And we burp, and fart, and —”

  “La, la, la, not listening!” Jules covers his ears. “Help me, man!”

  I turn. Josh has emerged from the kitchen. He stretches, yawning. “Don’t look at me. I have three sisters. Our bathroom is overflowing with tampons.”

  “Traitor.”

  “See? We’re harmless.” LuAnn waves Josh over. “Come. Sit.”

  “You do that a lot.” I press my fingertips onto the now-empty plate to claim the last few crumbs. “Order us around, like we’re dogs.”

  “Ruff!” she barks.

  Josh falls into the chair next to LuAnn as if he would curl up on the floor if there were nowhere else to sit. He reaches back to massage his shoulder, and without a word, LuAnn positions her chair behind him and begins giving him a neck rub.

  “Me next!” Jules cries. Aiko elbows him.

  “No, me, me!” The others clamor for the next spot in line, but I watch, curious. Josh has his eyes shut, blissed out, and suddenly, I wonder if there’s something going on between them. If they’re more than just friends. LuAnn is affectionate with everyone — even forcing hugs on Dominique — but she seems so relaxed with Josh. . . .

  But we all are. There’s something about him that puts me at ease. Josh is goofy, sure, but with this relaxed pace about him. We can be going crazy in the café, with orders stacked up, but he just works through them without a glimmer of panic. I like that.

  “So who’s in for Saturday?” Josh asks, looking around the table.

  “God, yes, one of you has to come,” Aiko adds quickly. “Please?”

  “For what?” I ask.

  �
�Only the greatest display of masculine aggression ever!” Josh grins at me.

  “Football?” I venture. “Monster trucks?”

  “Greco-Roman naked wrestling?” LuAnn suggests.

  “Nope!” Josh laughs. “Ice hockey!”

  “Oh.”

  “Exactly.” LuAnn echoes my tone.

  “Isn’t that a winter sport?” I ask, looking out at the seventy-degree summer’s day.

  “It’s some exhibition match thing. Come on,” Aiko begs. “Help me, please. I’m the only girl going. I’ll drown in testosterone.”

  “Sorry, hon,” LuAnn says, sounding anything but. “I’m all for sweaty men folk waving their big sticks around, but I draw the line at blood. Try Sadie.”

  Aiko turns to me.

  “I don’t know. . . .” I hedge. “I’ve never really been into sports. . . .”

  “But you’re trying new things!” Aiko exclaims. “That’s what you told us, right? And this is new. Go crazy — you might just like it!”

  “She’s right.” Josh grins. “You said you’d try anything.”

  I slump lower. “I did, didn’t I?” I try to think of a way out, but that wouldn’t be in the spirit of new adventures. “Fine,” I tell them. “I’ll come. It could be fun.”

  “Famous last words.” LuAnn laughs.

  You used to have everything planned out, right down to your prom dress (blue, his favorite color), the route of your postgraduation road trip (eating your way through the barbecue of the South), and the song that will be playing when you guys finally kiss (Jeff Buckley’s “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over”). You’ve spent so long planning your blissful joint future that you can’t even begin to imagine what your life is going to look like without him.

  So stop trying.

  Let stuff simply unfold, for once in your life, without spinning all those hopeful romantic fantasies. The less time you spend dreaming up a world of happily ever after, the more time you’ll have to actually live — no evers or afters required.

  Despite LuAnn’s ominous words, I’m feeling pretty upbeat as we head to the game the next day, bundled up in sweaters against the chill of the stadium and armed with vast coolers of snacks. “It’s like a winter picnic,” I tell Aiko as we shuffle along the bleachers to our seats. “That’s fun, right?”

  “Just wait for the action,” Jules interrupts, a disturbing gleam in his eye. Denton is with us, an arm slung over Aiko’s shoulder; Josh has brought what looks like six bags of potato chips, and even Carlos has come along —“To keep an eye on you kids,” he says, cracking a beer and stashing the rest of them away out of Jules’s reach.

  Aiko snickers. “Like he’s not pretending he’s twenty-two all over again,” she whispers to me. I watch him, wondering what his deal is with Dominique. Is keeping it secret his idea or hers? And is it something real, or — eww — just a casual hookup thing?

  “Ooh, they’re starting!” Aiko leaps to her feet to get a better view. Hulking guys in fifty pounds of padding are skating around, getting ready for kickoff. Or hit-off. Or whatever it is they do to start this game. The stands are full, foam fingers waving everywhere, and the organ jingle climbs another level, pumping the crowd with rowdy enthusiasm.

  “This is so cool,” I say, beaming. Aiko laughs. “I don’t do sports!” I explain. “I’ve always been more into the stationary arts. Sitting. Reading. Napping.”

  There’s a foghorn blare, and then the players whip around on the ice, sticks at the ready, moving so fast I can barely keep track of the tiny black puck thing. It whooshes around, flicked back and forth at lightning speed.

  “I love it!” I exclaim happily. “It’s just like ice dancing, only —”

  SLAM! CRACK!

  Before I can finish my naive comment, a player smashes face-first into the Plexiglas barrier. Blood splatters. The crowd roars.

  “Are you going to take that?” Aiko screams, suddenly baying along with the rest of them. The player turns around and hurls himself straight into the guy who pushed him. They fall to the ice and throw punches blindly until their teammates come to split them up.

  “OK.” I breathe, battling a powerful wave of nausea. “It’s all over.”

  But then the teammates start brawling, too.

  “Oh, boy.” I crouch down in the parking lot, resting my forehead on my knees. I can still hear the yelling of the crowd, a thunder in the stadium behind me, but it’s nothing compared to the queasy storm in my stomach right now.

  “You OK?” Josh hovers beside me. He must have drawn the short straw on babysitting me.

  “Uh-huh,” I manage, trying to sound upbeat. “Fine. I just didn’t know his arm was going to . . . pop like that when that goalie dislocated it.”

  Josh laughs. “Don’t worry. That kind of thing, they can pop right back in.”

  “Oh,” I murmur, feeling another wave of nausea. “Great.”

  “Here.”

  I lift my head enough to see a soda cup in front of me.

  “It’s supposed to calm your stomach,” Josh tells me. “Or at least, that’s what they always say.”

  “Thanks.” I cautiously begin to slurp. Back inside, another roar goes up. I can only imagine what brutal fisticuffs are going down right now. “Sorry you’re missing it. I just wasn’t expecting it to be so . . . bloody.”

  “It’s cool. You’ve seen one broken nose, you’ve seen them all.”

  I nod slowly. “That’s . . . not at all comforting.”

  The old wives’ tale about soda must be true, because slowly, the nausea ebbs away until I feel stable enough to stand. Josh helps me to my feet. “Better?”

  “Uh-huh,” I murmur, not actually sure. “But, I, um, think I’ll give the rest of the game a pass. You go back,” I tell him quickly. “I can just hang out here until it’s over.”

  “No, I’m good,” Josh reassures me. “They’re not my teams, anyway.” He pauses, hands bunched in his front pockets. “I can give you a ride home if you want.”

  I brighten. I was resigned to loitering, alone in the parking lot, through another forty minutes of blood-filled hockey action. “Are you sure?” I double-check, still feeling guilty about dragging him away from all the fun. “You don’t have to. I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck looking after me or anything. . . .”

  “Who’s stuck?” He grins, jamming his baseball cap on so that tufts of hair stick out over his ears. “I just have to make a tiny detour first.”

  I follow Josh to his truck, a rusted red old pickup. He climbs easily into the driver’s seat and leans over to open the door for me. I clamber up, with decidedly less grace. “Sorry about the mess,” he says, sweeping some empty soda cups aside. He starts the engine and yanks it into gear.

  “It’s cool. I’m all about the mess.” I look around, disoriented to be so high off the road. “This is great,” I tell him as we head out of the parking lot. “It’s like you can crush everything in your path.”

  Josh laughs. “Almost. Although, I had a run-in with an SUV last year, and we barely made it out unscathed. Isn’t that right, Dolly?” He pats the steering wheel affectionately.

  “Dolly?” I laugh. “What kind of name is that?”

  “A great one!” he protests, but when I keep giggling, he explains, “When I got her, the radio was jammed. She would only play this classic country station. I fixed it in the end, but the name stuck.”

  “Dolly,” I repeat, amused. Such a feminine name for such a hulking great mass of metal — the total opposite of Garrett’s Vespa, Vera. “Why do guys do that?” I ask. “Name their vehicles.”

  “Ownership.” He grins. I reach over and punch him lightly. “What?” he protests. “It’s true! And it gives us something to swear when we break down out in the middle of nowhere.” He grabs a cable hanging from the old-fashioned cassette player and plugs it into his iPod. “Ready to rock?”

  “I don’t know about that.” I get comfortable, slipping off my sneakers and propping my bare fe
et on the dashboard. “But I could maybe manage a leisurely roll.”

  He hands me his iPod. “Go crazy.”

  I pick some old-school Springsteen, and we turn onto the highway, beginning to wind through the sprawling woodlands of the Pioneer Valley. I love this part of the country. Sure, western Massachusetts can be frustrating if you want entertainment — and live a painfully car-free existence — but when it comes to twilight filtering through the leafy canopy or dense, lush hillsides, we can’t be beat. Out past Sherman, the towns are farther apart: small, white clapboard hamlets buried in the woods, marked by church spires and town ponds, signs for homemade honey for sale along the side roads, and farm stands with fresh eggs and corn.

  “So, your first hockey game didn’t turn out too great.”

  It’s only when Josh speaks up that I realize I’ve zoned out, watching the world speed by in the soft evening light. “At least I tried it,” I say, trying to look on the bright side of bearing witness to three nosebleeds and one shattered cheekbone. “That was the point, right?”

  “I guess.” He glances over at me. “How’s it working out for you, this trying new things kick?”

  “Good,” I answer slowly, feeling self-conscious. He hasn’t been a part of my Getting Over Garrett squad, but he has to know what’s been going on. By now, even regular customers like Mr. Hartley must know what’s going on. “Do you think I’m crazy?” I suddenly ask. “It must seem weird, me running around with this plan of mine. . . .”

  Josh thinks about it, which isn’t really reassuring, but then he shakes his head. “No more crazy than the rest of us. I mean, at least you know what you want, and you’re trying to get there.” He shrugs, shoulders rolling beneath his faded blue T-shirt. “Most people just sit around complaining.”

  “Yeah, I did plenty of that.” I sigh at the thought. “A couple of years’ worth.”

  “So, don’t worry about what people think,” he says, easy and relaxed. “As long as it works for you.”

  “You’re right.” I smile back, relieved. “And it is working. Well, except for today,” I correct myself. “Note to self: no sports. Ever.”